Arts + Culture – The Conversation

Olives have been essential to life in Italy for at least 6,000 years – far longer than we thought

2026-02-03T19:09:11Z

How far back does the rich history of Italian olives and oil stretch? My new research, synthesising and reevaluating existing archaeological evidence, suggests olive trees have been exploited for more than 6,000 years. The first Italian olive oil was produced perhaps 4,000 years ago.

The olive was central to ancient life in Italy. Wild and domesticated olives provided edible fruit. By the mid-first millennium BCE into the Roman period, olive oil was used in cooking, medicine, ritual and hygiene.

Table olives are rich in calories, lipids, vitamins and minerals, and high in calcium. Olive wood is dense, and was used in crafting, construction and for fuel. The waste from pressing olives (pomace) was also a remarkably popular domestic and industrial fuel source in antiquity, burning at a higher temperature for longer and with less smoke than charcoal.

Uses of the olive tree and its fruit were diverse.

During the early Roman Empire (around the first century CE) it is possible Rome’s immediate hinterland produced 9.7 million litres of olive oil per year.

Today, Italy remains among the top olive producing regions in the Mediterranean.

A deep history of olive exploitation

Evidence from ancient pollen shows that olive trees were present in Italy during the Pleistocene, more than 11,000 years ago. These were likely wild olives.

In order to think about exploitation and cultivation, it is important to discern human interaction with the plant and its fruit.

Olive tree charcoal, suggestive of human exploitation, has been found in Mesolithic layers from the seventh and sixth millennia BCE (8,000 years ago) in Sicily and Apulia in the south of Italy.

In northern Italy, the Arene Candide cave in Liguria revealed olive charcoal along with quern stones and sickle blades, possibly used for rudimentary olive harvesting and processing. People at this time began to shape the landscape of wild olive trees by using wood for fuel, collecting wild fruit or pruning off branches for fodder.

The Arene Candide cave in Liguria, where olive charcoal and tools were found dating to the sixth millennium BCE. Capricornis crispus/Wikimedia Commons, CC BY-SA

An exponential increase in evidence occurs in the Neolithic (6000–3500 BCE), hinting at more intensive use of the olive tree.

But our earliest olive stones, which provide more convincing evidence of olive fruit consumption, are not found in an occupation context until the Middle Neolithic (around 5000–4000 BCE). Much of this early material comes from Calabria, Apulia and Sardinia, with only limited glimpses in central Italy and the Veneto.

Despite accumulating evidence, no conclusive signs yet exist for the Neolithic production of olive oil in Italy.

The earliest olive oil in Italy?

Organic residue analysis has detected plant oils, perhaps from olives, in an Early Bronze Age (2000 BCE) large clay storage jar (pithos) from Castelluccio, Sicily. But there remain challenges in our ability to discern between different types of oils using this technique, and preservation in the Mediterranean is rarely ideal.

Bronze Age ceramic storage jar (pithos) perhaps used to store olive oil, found at Castelluccio, Sicily. Fabrizio Garrisi/Wikimedia Commons

More potential indicators for olive oil have been found in ceramic storage jars from Broglio di Trebisacce, Calabria, and Roca Vecchia, Apulia, in the mid-second millennium BCE.

The Bronze Age also saw olive cultivation expand into marginal lands where the wild olive did not grow, for example at Tufariello, Campania, around 1700 BCE. There was clearly significant interest in the exploitation of olives in Bronze Age Italy, which likely included the production of oil at least on a small scale.

Iron Age developments

Italian regions experienced different trajectories around 1000 BCE. Parts of southern Italy show declines in olive cultivation, perhaps linked to changing economic and cultural events. Sites on the Ionian and Adriatic coast maintain olive charcoal, stones, oil residues and even imprints of olive leaves on ceramics.

Possibly the earliest stone rotary olive millstone in the Mediterranean was discovered at Incoronata, Basilicata, dating to the seventh century BCE.

The invention of rotary mills signalled an important change in processing power and efficiency. Mills crushed olives, separating skin from flesh before they were pressed for oil. Although they are generally thought to originate in the Aegean, where examples from the sixth and fifth centuries BCE exist, the find from Incoronata might instead suggest a central Mediterranean origin.

Reconstructed stone rotary olive mill (trapetum) originally from Boscoreale, now at Pompeii. Heinz-Josef Lücking/Wikimedia Commons, CC BY-SA

Recent research demonstrates external cultures, like Phoenicians or Greeks, were not solely responsible for the introduction of olive cultivation or oil production. This follows similar conclusions reached for viticulture and winemaking in Italy.

Cultural exchange through trade and colonisation brought different knowledge, technology and ideas of production around oleiculture and oil production, creating forums for local innovation.

These forces energised already-intensifying cultivation. By around 600–500 BCE, Etruscan communities began to play a key role in the systematic establishment of groves and the use of olives in central Italy.

Roman consolidation and scaling up

The Roman period saw olive cultivation pushed well past its natural bioclimatic limits. Olive trees were grown at higher altitudes, latitudes and in more arid regions.

Production occurred across much of the Italian peninsula, even in subalpine regions and marginal lands.

Archaeological and ancient environmental material illustrate a substantial oil-producing habit and emerging market in Roman Republican and Imperial Italy – perhaps on a larger scale than previously thought.

Some oil production facilities may have had four or more presses. This illustrates exceptional processing scale, such as the elite villa of Vacone in central Italy.

A facility in Apulia, used from the first century BCE onwards, had an oil cellar with perhaps 47 enormous clay jars (dolia), potentially storing 25,000–35,000 litres.

Oil production also occurred at a smaller-scale in urban centres and isolated rural locations. The discovery of a production site at Case Nuove, Tuscany, provides a rare glimpse into modest scale olive processing using rudimentary technologies.

As analytical and scientific techniques improve, the ancient history of olive oil in Italy will continue to evolve, pushing our knowledge further back in time and adding new detail and nuance.

Emlyn Dodd does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

From statement sleeves to the codpiece: 5 fashions which should come back from Tudor England

2026-02-02T19:06:05Z

Portrait of Elizabeth I of England, 1588. Woburn Abbey/Wikimedia Commons

There are few dynasties in history as well-known as the Tudors. From Henry VIII’s six wives to Elizabeth I’s defeat of the Spanish Armada, the Tudors continue to capture imaginations.

While sex, power and public execution provide endless entertainment, if you ask me, the enduring popularity of the Tudors is down to one factor – their magnificent fashion.

Dress was serious business in Tudor England. Clothing was its own language with each textile, colour and style carrying a different meaning. This allowed people to display their identity, status, and even send political messages.

From the Elizabethan Ruff to Henry VIII’s codpiece, here are five Tudor fashions which should make a comeback.

1. The linen shift

Sounds like a boring place to start, but the linen shift was a staple in every Tudor wardrobe.

Linen was inexpensive, breathable and could be laundered daily. Contrary to popular belief, the Tudors were obsessed with cleanliness and hygiene. Linen absorbs sweat, bodily fluids and was believed to protect the skin from diseases such as the plague. Wearing and changing your linen shift daily was the best way to stay clean and protected from infection.

The collar on this linen shift, from around 1540, was larger so it could be seen under the outer garments. ©Victoria and Albert Museum, London, CC BY-NC

A fashionable trend of the Tudor period saw the collar on the linen shift become larger so it could be seen under the outer garments. A clean collar demonstrated that you could afford to change your shift and therefore had good hygiene.

You know what they say, cleanliness is close to godliness.

2. The ruff

If there is a single item of clothing that is most redolent of the Tudors, it’s the ruff.

The ruff was a pleated collar made from linen or lace and given its iconic stiff shape with starch. During the reign of Elizabeth I, large lace ruffs became an elaborate status symbol because they were difficult to set and impractical to wear which meant you had to have a lot of servants helping you.

Large, impractical ruffs – like the one in this 1615 portrait of a woman, possibly Elizabeth Pope – were a status symbol in Tudor England. Yale Center for British Art

For Elizabeth I, the ruff was a significant source of power. The queen’s opulent ruffs commanded deference and situated her as the ultimate object in any room. In Elizabeth’s court, people came to her, not the other way around.

Dior gave the ruff a modern twist in their 2025 Fall–Winter collection, so it looks like they are already making a comeback.

3. Statement sleeves

In the Tudor period, sleeves were a separate garment that were attached while getting dressed in the morning. This allowed the wearer to pair them with different outfits and play around with fabrics, colours and styles.

The most popular style was the trumpet sleeve. This sleeve was narrow at the top of the arm and dramatically expanded in a cone shape over the elbow. A second sleeve would then appear underneath at the forearm.

This painting of Elizabeth I before her accession is dated between 1546 and 1547. The sleeves give the outfit a dramatic and voluminous appearance. Royal Collection/Wikimedia Commons

This gave any outfit a dramatic and voluminous appearance with layers of luxurious textiles. See how this beautiful design looked on a young Elizabeth I.

A modern take on statement sleeves would be a great way to spice up any outfit.

4. Decorative techniques

Tudor tailors used a range of decorative techniques when making clothes. Paning, pinking and cutwork were just some of the more elaborate modes of garment construction but the most common was slashing.

Slashing involved cutting small slits into outer garments of velvet to reveal an inner layer of white silk. The layering and contrast of different colours not only created a striking and vibrant image but showed off your ownership of expensive textiles.

In this portrait of Henry VIII from between 1540–1547, you can see slashing on his doublet and sleeves. Walker Art Gallery/Wikimedia Commons

You can see slashing on Henry VIII’s doublet (jacket) and sleeves in his famous portrait.

In 1991, this technique inspired Vivienne Westwood to produce the collection Cut and Slash, so it definitely has a place in the modern era.

5. The codpiece

Ok, this one is a bit of fun… but for Henry VIII the codpiece was no laughing matter. Starting out as a small triangular piece of material, by the early 16th century the codpiece had evolved into a padded, stiff and bejewelled item symbolic of virility and fertility.

Toxic masculinity was all the rage during the Tudor period, and Henry VIII was under immense pressure to maintain absolute control through his superior machismo.

As the king aged, his vigour waned and his failure to produce a male heir sent him into a crisis of masculinity. The display and exaggeration of his manhood through the codpiece was Henry’s only means of reasserting his masculine identity and fecundity.

Henry’s 1540 tournament armour gives a clear indication of just how exaggerated the codpiece became.

One thing is for sure, fashion in Tudor England was not a flippant pursuit. If the ever-enduring legacy of the Tudors can teach us anything, it’s that we should always dress to impress.

Grace Waye-Harris does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

Gay ice-hockey players, lesbian space princesses, and cute dogs: what to watch in February

2026-02-01T19:12:20Z

As summer has well and truly set in, we hope you’re able to while away some hours in the comfort of air-conditioning. And what better way to spend that time than with some new treats to stream?

This month, our experts are watching the smash-hit ice-hockey romance Heated Rivalry; getting familiar with Martin Scorsese and who he is behind the camera; and keeping the Australian Open vibes going with a new miniseries about Evonne Goolagong Cawley.

We hope you find your next great binge watch in this selection!

Goolagong

ABC iView

Evonne Goolagong Cawley was one of Australia’s greatest champions of all time.

Goolagong, a compelling and inspiring three-part mini-series honouring the Wiradjuri tennis legend, is a rags-to-riches story about a small-town girl with a ball and a piece of 2 x 4 who dreams of one day winning Wimbledon. A little Aussie battler.

Evonne is portrayed by the remarkable Whadjuk and Wardandi Noongar actor Lila McGuire, who delivers a sublime performance that compellingly showcases Goolagong’s vulnerability, resilience, grace and fighting spirit. The ensemble cast of Australian actors provides a rich, talented and authentic foundation for the story.

This series is not just for tennis fans, who will relish the big tournament moments and the portrayal of renowned players of the time, such as John Newcombe, Margaret Court, Billie Jean King, Martina Navratilova and Chris Evert. This is a story for all Australians.

Skilfully directed by Batjala, Mununjali and Wakka Wakka man Wayne Blair, the series offers an in-depth look at the complexities of athletes’ lives both on and off the field, and an intimate portrayal of an Indigenous family’s life in rural Australia during the 1970s.

The mini-series delves intimately into Goolagong’s personal life, the international tennis circuit and what it takes to be the world’s best.

– Liza-Mare Syron

Heated Rivalry

HBO Max (Australia), Neon (New Zealand)

Heated Rivalry, written and directed by Jacob Tierney, has become a massive hit. Rachel Reid’s romance novel was written for a mainly female readership, and it doesn’t quite capture all of the nuances of a gay male relationship. Tierney’s adaptation brings a whole new understanding to the intricacies of gay love.

Heated Rivalry follows the romantic relationship between two rising professional hockey players: the Canadian captain of the Montreal Metros, Shane Hollander (Hudson Williams), and the Russian captain of the Boston Raiders, Ilya Rozanov (Connor Storrie).

Tierney’s perspective makes the pair fully realised people who are each battling their own demons. He emphasises that queer men’s lives aren’t just full of spicy, sexy moments. Often, our sexuality can be a point of difference in how we are perceived in our careers, family lives, relationships and on the wider world stage.

Tierney’s adaptation honours both the women who will come to the show from the novel, and the show’s new male audience. He understood the show had to be spicy and honour the books, but also be authentically gay.

Tierney’s Shane and Ilya cry, have good sex, share their hurts and worries, and work through their vulnerabilities together. All while still being active, attractive and complicated queer men.

– Harry Stewart

Beyond the Bar

Netfilx

Beyond the Bar offers a fresh lens on gender, and society’s moral and ethical dilemmas, viewed through the prism of the law. This new 12-episode South Korean limited series is co-created by Kim Jae-hong, who also directs, and Park Mi-hyeon, who is a writer and former lawyer.

It stars two well-known actors who give outstanding performances: Jung Chae-yeon (The King’s Affection) as the young female lawyer, and Lee Jin-wook (Squid Game) as her boss. Creative choices – such as the camera lingering on their exchanged looks – create pauses that underscore their connection. In an unusual representation of a marriage of minds, it becomes clear they admire one another’s ethical judgement and professional success.

The series features female-centred storylines, relationships and legal dilemmas. The number three symbolises balance and harmony. This motif recurs: three women at different career stages, including the female head of the firm signal a shift in sexual politics in South Korea; three sisters struggling with poverty; three female housemates who vow enduring support wherever life takes them.

There are two types of men in the series: men who work supportively with women, and the lazy scheming male lawyers, who are villains derided as “salary thieves”. In contrast the women and their male collaborators strive for fairness and transparency, engaging ethically with arising problems.

I loved the women-led stories and the central relationship, where the expected sexual frisson is replaced by genuine intellectual chemistry.

– Lisa French

Dog Park

ABC iView

Raise a paw if your dog ever helped you to meet a new two-legged friend? The premise of Dog Park capitalises on the fact that pet ownership in Australia is increasing, with canines being the most popular choice.

Roland (Dog Park co-creator Leon Ford) is a middle aged recluse and all-round grump who has a hard time trusting or liking other humans. His sense of dissolution takes a further dip when his estranged wife Emma (Brooke Satchwell) departs for work in the United States, leaving the TAFE career counsellor in charge of his distant teenage daughter Mia (Florence Gladwin) and disdained dog Beattie.

The first turning point of this six-part series occurs when Beattie goes missing and boozehound Roland searches for her at the local park. This is where Roland meets the always sunny Samantha (Celia Pacquola) and a ragtag bunch of overly friendly folks and their fur babies (AKA the Dog Park Divas), all of whom are quite familiar with Beattie already.

The Dog Park Divas dole out life lessons, trying to help slow Roland’s downhill roll. Their interventions slowly begin to take effect – which gives hope that all humans are ultimately redeemable.

Dog Park is tender in a darkly bittersweet way with an underlying theme of connection and chosen family. Beattie (played by a poodle of unspecified breed named Indie in real life) is pretty cute – and proof that dogs really are the superior species.

– Phoebe Hart

Mr. Scorsese

Apple TV

Canonisation has an irritating habit of smoothing over the rough, interesting edges. I kept thinking about that while watching Mr. Scorsese. At its best, the series pushes back against that tendency. Chronologically structured, it opens with a rich, evocative portrait of Martin Scorsese’s Italian American childhood in New York, shaped by illness, Catholic ritual and an intense, almost unhealthy devotion to cinema.

The attention given to Scorsese’s student years and early experiments is especially welcome. We see a filmmaker borrowing styles, pushing form, overreaching, then pulling back – trying to invent a language before he fully understands its grammar. That groundwork matters when the series turns to his masterpieces Mean Streets, Taxi Driver, Raging Bull, Goodfellas and Casino.

Rebecca Miller’s documentary does an excellent job of cutting through decades of familiarity, reminding us just how abrasive, violent and volatile these films remain.

It is revealing to hear Scorsese and his collaborators reflect on the personal and professional peaks and troughs of his career, especially given how securely he now sits in the cultural landscape.

The only real criticism I have with the series is the relatively limited attention paid to the later films, with some receiving only a perfunctory mention and others missing altogether. In a sense, however, this speaks to the scale of Scorsese’s achievement. There is simply too much ground to cover, and the series flies by. Five episodes could easily have been ten.

– Alexander Howard

Lesbian Space Princess

Netflix, from February 6

In Lesbian Space Princess, outer space emerges as a new and inclusive habitat for a smart, funny story exploring the inner spaces of lesbian consciousness and self-affirmation.

The film pushes hard against the gendered conventions of the sci-fi genre, re-pointing them to unexpected ends.

Can introspective Princess Saira rescue her ex-girlfriend, Kiki, from the evil clutches of a rogue group of incels known as the Straight White Maliens?

Low on self-confidence and belittled by her royal lesbian mothers, Saira sustains an unshakeable attachment to Kiki, a soft-butch bounty hunter who is as attachment-avoidant as Saira is clingy.

Saira battles through the beautifully drawn pink-hued reaches of constellations and moonscapes in a spaceship (depressively voiced by Richard Roxburgh). As she reluctantly traverses outer space, she must step up to its greatest challenge: plumbing the messy depths of her inner world.

Rather than provide lesbian romantic satisfaction or ground its utopian energies in the bold new world of queer community, in the future imagined here the way desire is experienced by the self is more important than who or what it is directed toward.

– Lee Wallace

The Pitt, season two

HBO Max (Australia), Neon (New Zealand)

Last year the beloved, award-winning drama The Pitt reconceptualised medical storytelling post-COVID and post-network TV.

Set in a strained Pittsburgh emergency department, and featuring a terrific ensemble cast, the full 15-episode season covered an entire shift, each episode moving hour by hour. Patient and staff storylines, some ripped from the headlines, painted a powerful picture of care and humanity in the face of a broken health system and wider social crises.

Season two has been greatly anticipated. It’s the fourth of July, one of the worst days for accidents and injuries. Burnt-out ER boss Michael “Robby” Robinavitch (Noah Wyle) has one last shift before he goes on extended leave, ready to take his new motorbike (hello, midlife crisis) and get out of Dodge. Clearly things won’t go smoothly.

Just about the whole gang is back – everyone from nurses, cleaners and experienced physicians to student doctors and ER regulars, many still dealing with the tragic events and disclosures of season one. The fast-paced, well-shot show remains adept at balancing dense mental jargon and frank representations of medical trauma with sharp, compassionate characterisation and wry humour. A few episodes in and a new omnicrisis is brewing… It’s compelling stuff.

– Erin Harrington

Stranger Things, season five

Netflix

Beyond its monsters and 1980s nostalgia, Stranger Things resonates because it tells stories of struggles familiar to young people: trauma that lingers, identity that wavers, and friendships that buffer against fear.

And by turning inner struggles into visible monsters, Stranger Things can provide a lens to discuss trauma, identity and resilience. Adults can use the show to talk to teenagers about their own mental health.

The Upside Down is a dark mirror of the Hawkins township – a shadow world where threats feed on secrecy and avoidance. It works as a metaphor for “unseen” unprocessed experiences, shame and anxious avoidance. The young people at the heart of the show must face their fears to overcome their power.

Vecna’s attacks dramatise shame and self-criticism. His voice echoes characters’ darkest self-judgments: Max hears accusations about Billy’s death; Eleven relives failures to protect friends. You can help young people by reminding them the harsh voice in their head isn’t who they are. It’s just a thought, like a bully they can fight.

And at its heart, Stranger Things is a friendship story. The party’s loyalty and shared rituals provide a scaffold against isolation and fear. Rituals of D&D campaigns, walkie-talkie check-ins and bike rides create a safety net. Adults can point out how the characters in Stranger Things share burdens and protect one another.

– Stephen Goldsmith

The authors do not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and have disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

Funny, tender, goofy – Catherine O'Hara lit up the screen every time she showed up

2026-01-31T07:38:32Z

Catherine O’Hara, the beloved actor and comedian who has died aged 71, occupied that rare position in contemporary screen culture: a comic actor, a cult figure and a mainstream star.

Her work spanned more than 50 years, from improv sketch comedy to Hollywood features and off-beat TV classics.

She was celebrated for her unmatched comic timing and chameleon-like character work. Her roles were often absurdist and quirky, but they hid a razor-sharp humour.

Born and raised in Toronto in a close-knit Irish Catholic family, O’Hara was one of seven siblings. She once remarked humour was part of her everyday life; storytelling, impressions and lively conversation helped hone her comedic instincts.

After high school, she worked at Toronto’s Second City Theatre, a famed breeding ground for comedy talent, and sharpened her deadpan improvisational skills.

Big break

O’Hara’s break came with Second City Television (SCTV), a sketch comedy series that rivalled Saturday Night Live in creativity and influence. Alongside contemporaries Eugene Levy, John Candy, Rick Moranis and Martin Short, she defined her distinctly smart, absurdist comedic voice.

O’Hara was not merely a performer on SCTV; she was also a writer, winning an Emmy Award for her contributions. This dual role shaped her career-long sensitivity to rhythm, language and character construction.

Unlike sketch performers who rely on repetition or catchphrases, O’Hara’s humour emerged with a different comedic logic. Audiences laughed not because the character was “funny”, but because the character took herself so seriously.

Though briefly cast on Saturday Night Live in the early 1980s, O’Hara chose to stay with SCTV when it was renewed, a decision she later described as key in letting her creative career flourish where it belonged.

The transition to film

By the mid-1980s, O’Hara was establishing herself as a screen presence. She appeared in Martin Scorsese’s offbeat black comedy After Hours (1985), and showcased her comic range in Heartburn (1986).

In 1988, she landed what would become one of her most beloved film roles: Delia Deetz in Tim Burton’s left-field Beetlejuice (1988).

Delia – a pretentious, New York art-scene social climber – allowed O’Hara to combine physical comedy and imbecilic dialogue (“A little gasoline … blowtorch … no problem”).

Burton once noted

Catherine’s so good, maybe too good. She works on levels that people don’t even know. I think she scares people because she operates at such high levels.

She went on to play Kate McCallister, the beleaguered mother in the holiday blockbusters Home Alone (1990) and Home Alone 2: Lost in New York (1992). Audiences loved the fact that this rather thinly written role became the films’ beating heart.

Working with Christopher Guest

Another distinctive phase of O’Hara’s career was her work with writer-director Christopher Guest on a series of largely improvised mockumentaries that have become cult classics.

Three standouts were Waiting for Guffman (1996), where she plays a desperate local performer in a small-town theatre troupe, and A Mighty Wind (2003), where she teamed up with old pal Levy as an ageing folk duo.

Her best turn came in Best in Show (2000), in which she and Levy played a couple competing in a national dog show. Her character Cookie Fleck remains one of the finest examples of improvised comedy on film.

Her relentless monologues about former lovers are objectively inappropriate, yet O’Hara delivers them with such earnest enthusiasm that they become strangely compelling.

Her gift for improvisation glittered in these films: these eccentric characters were often laugh-out-loud funny – but O’Hara never mocked them.

Late success

She returned to TV in Six Feet Under (2001–05) and guest appearances on The Larry Sanders Show (1992–98) and Curb Your Enthusiasm (1999–2024). More recently, she appeared in prestige shows such as The Last of Us (2023–) and The Studio (2025–).

But it was the role of Moira Rose, the eccentric, ex-soap opera star in the Canadian sitcom Schitt’s Creek (2015–20), created by Eugene Levy and his son Dan, that would become O’Hara’s most significant late career move. And what a role it was!

Written for O’Hara’s unique talents, Moira was a larger-than-life character with a bizarre, unforgettable vocabulary, dramatic mood swings and a wardrobe that became nearly as famous as the character herself.

Feminist media scholars have noted the rarity of such complex roles for older women, particularly in comedy, making O’Hara’s performance culturally significant.

The show became a global streaming blockbuster during COVID lockdowns and O’Hara’s multi-award-winning performance became a social media phenomenon, spawning memes and viral clips.

There are so many standout moments – her drunken meltdown after losing her wigs, her audition for The Crows Have Eyes 3 and the show’s moving finale where she performs Danny Boy at Alexis’s graduation.

An enduring legacy

O’Hara had a remarkable ability to play flamboyant, self-absorbed characters who were often uproariously funny.

Many comedians and actors have cited O’Hara as an influence for her fearlessness, her ability to blend absurdity with emotional truth, and her steadfast commitment to character integrity. She influenced performers like Tina Fey, Maya Rudolph, Kate McKinnon and Phoebe Waller-Bridge.

O’Hara also refused to chase conventional stardom. Rather than choosing projects designed to flatten her eccentricities, O’Hara favoured collaborative environments that valued creativity over control.

For her, comedy was always an art of intelligence, empathy and generosity.

Ben McCann does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

Dog parks are an unexploited arena for a television dramedy – so now we have ABC’s Dog Park

2026-01-29T19:12:30Z

ABC

Raise a paw if your dog ever helped you to meet a new two-legged friend? The premise of ABC’s Dog Park capitalises on the fact pet ownership in Australia is increasing, with canines being the most popular choice.

This rise is sadly commensurate to the rate of social isolation and loneliness experienced in Australia, especially among men.

Enter Roland, played by Dog Park co-creator Leon Ford. Ford, who (according to the press notes on the series) says his own dog makes him nervous, came up with the concept with Matchbox Productions’ Amanda Higgs, best known for spawning the Australian drama series The Secret Life of Us (2001–05).

Roland is a middle aged recluse and all-round grump who has a hard time trusting and/or liking other humans. His sense of dissolution takes a further dip when his estranging wife Emma (Brooke Satchwell) departs for work in the United States, leaving the TAFE career counsellor in charge of his distant teenage daughter Mia (Florence Gladwin) and disdained dog Beattie.

From the outset, you can tell it is this diverse pack of dog lovers that are most likely to draw Roland out of his hard, turtle-like shell, and hopefully deliver a few laughs along the way too.

The ensemble cast features a few familiar faces, including Nick Boshier, Ash Flanders, Ras-Samuel, Grace Chow and Elizabeth Alexander.

The series also features a quirky visual style throughout thanks to the off-beat camerawork from director of photography Aaron Farrugia and his team. The rambling and percussive musical score by Bryony Marks is another highlight with some solid licensed music choices as well. I love the title track use of the 1991 indie anthem Don’t Go Now by Aussie rockers Ratcat, but maybe Reg Mombassa and Peter O’Doherty’s Dog Trumpet would be more appropriate?

Doling out life lessons

Dog parks are a relatively novel innovation in town planning. There are many proven benefits to exercising dogs communally, but not unsurprisingly dog parks can also be sites of conflict.

Therefore, I would argue they are an unexploited arena for a television dramedy, although Wilfred (2007–10) sticks out like you-know-whats as a rather surreal and anthropomorphic example of dogs teaching humans a thing or two.

Both Dog Park and Wilfred centre on a hero suffering depression: a tough sell for prime time telly. I struggled to form an attachment to Dog Park’s protagonist, a man who goes out of his way to alienate others and does not seem to know how nor want to help himself, but feel this is a topic worth exploring.

Roland is hard to like – but Beattie is very cute. ABC

The Dog Park Divas dole out life lessons, trying to help slow Roland’s downhill roll. Their interventions slowly begin to take effect – which gives hope that all humans are ultimately redeemable.

There is another bone to pick. Although much of the action in Dog Park, which was filmed in Melbourne, occurs in a city park, it appeared to me this location doesn’t look too fenced off. These outdoor areas are a hit in many urban centres and city councils around the world because dogs can be safely let off their leashes while the people socialise. Dog Park breaks slightly with reality in that way, but I guess the other 50% of the audience who don’t own a dog would never know.

All this said, Dog Park is tender in a darkly bittersweet way with an underlying thematic of connection and chosen family. The tone of grounded humour with a generous dollop of pathos aligns well with episode one director Matthew Seville’s previous work, which includes the painfully honest Please Like Me (2013–16).

Dog Park continues in this mode and could be a big hit as well; I predict a TV format adaptation overseas in the not too distant future. An American remake of Wilfred starring Elijah Wood lasted four seasons.

Newcomer director Nina Buxton, fresh from directing episodes of season three of Heartbreak High (2022–), sinks her teeth into three episodes of Dog Park. There is peppery dialogue throughout thanks to screenwriters Penelope Chai, Chloe Wong and Nick Coyle alongside Ford and Higgs. Beattie (played by an unspecified poodle breed named Indie in real life) is pretty cute – and proof dogs really are the superior species.

Dog Park is on ABC and ABC iView from Sunday.

Phoebe Hart does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

Monumental ambitions: the history behind Trump’s triumphal arch

2026-01-28T23:09:10Z

Getty Images

Donald Trump took time out this week from dramatic events at home and abroad to reveal three new design concepts for his proposed “Independence Arch” in Washington DC.

All three renderings resemble the famous Arc de Triomphe in Paris, although one features gilded livery not unlike Trump’s chosen adornments to the Oval Office in the White House.

Commissioned in preparation for the 250th anniversary of the signing of the Declaration of Independence on July 4, the triumphal arch draws on a long history of celebrating military conquest, from Roman emperors to Napoleon Bonaparte.

As such, it aligns seamlessly with Trump’s foreign policy and his stated mission for the United States to control the western hemisphere – as he has dubbed it, the “Donroe Doctrine”.

But as many have been asking, while the design is a copy of an iconic monument, is a personal tribute necessarily the best way to mark the anniversary of America’s break with absolute rule and the British monarchy?

The ‘Arc de Trump’

When Trump first displayed models of the proposed arch last October, a reporter asked him who it was for. Trump replied “Me. It’s going to be beautiful.”

In a December update, the president said the new arch “will be like the one in Paris, but to be honest with you, it blows it away. It blows it away in every way.”

There was one exception, he noted: “The only thing they have is history […] I always say [it’s] the one thing you can’t compete with, but eventually we’ll have that history too.”

The president clearly believes his arch will be part of creating that history. “It’s the only city in the world that’s of great importance that doesn’t have a triumphal arch,” he said of Washington DC.

Set to be located near Arlington National Cemetery and the Lincoln Memorial, the site would put the new structure in a visual conversation with many of the most famous landmarks in the national capital.

This also aligns with other projects that will leave Trump’s mark on the physical fabric of Washington: changes to the White House last year that included paving over the famous Rose Garden, decorating the Oval Office in rococo gold, and demolishing the East Wing for a US$400 million ballroom extension.

The “Arc de Trump” (as it has been branded) is now the “top priority” for Vince Haley, the director of the Domestic Policy Council for the White House.

Triumph and design

The Arc de Triomphe in Paris, located at the top of the Champs-Élysées, was commissioned by Napoleon Bonaparte in 1806 to honour the French imperial army following his victory at the Battle of Austerlitz. It was not finished until 1836, under the reign of King Louis Philippe I.

Architects for the project, Jean-François Thérèse Chalgrin and Jean-Arnaud Raymond, drew on classical arches for inspiration, with Rome’s Arch of Titus (circa 85 CE) as the main source. It was built by Emperor Domitian (51–96 CE), a cruel and ostentatious tyrant who was popular with the people but battled with the Senate and limited its power to make laws.

Domitian commissioned the arch to commemorate the deification of his brother Titus, and his military victory crushing the rebellion in Judea.

Given its inspiration, Trump’s proposed arch doesn’t reference any uniquely American design features. But the neoclassical style recalls earlier monuments that also reference antiquity.

The Washington Monument, for example, is built in the form of an Egyptian obelisk. A four-sided pillar, it tapers as it rises and is topped with a pyramid, a tribute to the sun god Ra.

But it also incorporated an element that was meant to symbolise American technological advancement and innovation – a pyramid cap made of aluminium.

When the obelisk was completed in 1884, aluminium was rare because the process for refining it had not been perfected. The top of the monument was the largest piece of cast aluminium on the planet at that time.

‘Truth and sanity’

Trump’s triumphal arch is likely destined to join a long debate about the merits of public monuments and what they represent.

During the Black Lives Matter movement, many statues of historical figures were removed from public display because they were seen as celebrations of racism and imperialism.

Trump has since restored at least one Confederate statue toppled during that time, and his desire to add a new monument to himself should come as little surprise.

During the Jim Crow era of racial segregation and throughout the civil rights movement, there was a sharp spike in the number of monuments erected to Confederate soldiers and generals.

Just as tearing down those statues was a statement, so is the creation of a new memorial to promote Trump’s positive interpretation of the nation’s past. It is also consistent with his administration’s declared mission of “restoring truth and sanity to American history”.

Maybe the more immediate question is whether the Independence Arch can even be built by Independence Day on July 4, a tall order even for this president. As for its reception, history will have to be the judge.

Garritt C. Van Dyk has received funding from the Getty Research Institute.

Antihero Marty Supreme is sociopathic in his pursuit of glory. Why do we want him to win?

2026-01-28T19:09:19Z

A24

Marty Supreme is a frenetic tale inspired by Marty Reisman, the charismatic American table tennis champion of the 1950s.

Charged by Timothée Chalamet’s electric lead performance – alongside a stellar supporting cast (including Gwyneth Paltrow), and director Josh Safdie’s signature, anxiety-inducing aesthetic – the film captures a young man’s all-or-nothing quest for greatness.

Marty Mauser is a morally ambiguous protagonist with a sociopathic, self-obsessed pursuit of glory. But Safdie invites the audience to champion his quest. In this, Marty emerges as a particularly compelling entry into Hollywood’s longstanding tradition of unlikable heroes.

Marty follows in the footsteps of other Safdie antiheroes – the reckless Howard Retnar (Adam Sandler) of Uncut Gems (2019) and the manipulative Connie Nikas (Robert Pattinson) of Good Time (2017). His do-or-die attitude stems from the ambition to escape his circumstances.

A Jewish kid from New York’s Lower East Side, he works at his uncle’s shoe store in order to fund his global table tennis ambitions. Refusing to listen to those around him, Marty seems aware that his self-delusion and performativity will ultimately propel him to success.

Marty compulsively lies, commits petty theft and willingly disregards the wellbeing of those close to him to fulfil what he believes to be his destiny.

Despite his problematic moral compass, Safdie’s protagonist ultimately wins over the audience’s support.

The Hollywood antihero

Hollywood is no stranger to popular antiheroes, from Travis Bickle in Taxi Driver (1976) to Arthur Fleck in Joker (2019). The Safdie brothers focus on recognisably ordinary characters caught in the chaos of their everyday existence.

Marty Supreme is Josh Safdie’s first solo directorial project since parting ways with his brother Benny. The pair have long been fascinated with figures who, despite their moral shortcomings, are inherently human.

The signature Safdie arc appeared in their indie film Daddy Longlegs (2009). Loosely based on Josh and Benny’s own experiences with their divorced father, the film crafts an honest, sympathetic portrait of a highly irresponsible (yet loving) parent trying to do his best.

In an emblematic action, Lenny (Ronald Bronstein) gives one of his sons a sleeping pill in order to allow him to return to his job at a local cinema. The misguided and neglectful act is still shown as a genuine attempt to keep his son safe and out of harm’s way.

Lenny’s traits of misdirected affection are observed throughout the Safdie protagonists.

Following an unsuccessful robbery, Good Time’s Connie frantically attempts to break his developmentally disabled brother, Nicky (Benny Safdie), out of prison and a psychiatric facility.

In Uncut Gems, Howard is driven by greed and lust but demonstrates a genuine care for his family, repeatedly insisting his ambitions are guided by the need to provide for them.

Like Lenny, Howard and Connie, Marty has the capacity to do what is right and care for those he loves. But his egotistical, self-absorbed quest to gain status ultimately clouds his ability to comprehend the consequences of his actions.

The universality of struggle

How does Josh Safdie succeed in creating a protagonist who – despite lying that his mother died during childbirth and neglecting his pregnant girlfriend – nonetheless wins the audience’s support?

Marty’s championing is undoubtedly in part due to Chalamet’s star-image and onscreen charisma. And his quest for greatness depicts the triumphant tale of a figure who, against all odds, continues to pursue his dreams with obsessive belief.

At its core, Marty Supreme is a stylised, high-octane reworking of the familiar “David versus Goliath” narrative.

Here, “Goliath” evokes both the American Dream and the Immigrant Dream, uphill battles where the odds are stacked against the individual.

This idea is prominent across other Safdie brothers films. In Good Time, “Goliath” is the criminal justice system, shown as a particularly dehumanising institutional structure for marginalised individuals. In Heaven Knows What (2014) – a gritty tale based on Arielle Holmes’s autobiography of addiction, love and struggle – substance dependency is presented as the ultimate obstacle.

Marty’s ambitions of table tennis stardom are neither recognised nor respected by those around him. This drives him to go to greater lengths in order to fund his career.

While his extreme measures may be unsympathetic – and perhaps unforgivable – Marty’s fundamental desire to transcend his circumstances remains relatable.

Marty’s ambitions of table tennis stardom are neither recognised nor respected by those around him. A24

Within the film’s spiralling chain of events, Marty Supreme captures the hardship of pursuing a dream only you recognise.

Marty is neither one-dimensional nor simplistic. Rather, the film allows his humanity to surface throughout his self-absorbed and destructive journey.

Marty’s unrelenting commitment to his dream catalyses his moral failing. But he is nonetheless a figure capable of tenderness. Far from a role model, Marty is a complex character. Despite being capable of caring for those he loves, he blindly priorities the fierce pursuit of his dreams.

Marty’s antihero persona reflects not only the lengths required to realise one’s aspirations, but also the consequences of pursuing those dreams at any cost.

While Marty Supreme dramatises the egotistical pursuit of its flawed protagonist, it ultimately explores the universal ambition to dream big – and questions what is worth sacrificing in order to achieve success.

Oscar Bloomfield does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

Rocket or arugula? How a salad vegetable mapped the Italian diaspora

2026-01-27T18:50:01Z

sheri silver/Unsplash

If you watch American cooking shows, you’ve likely experienced “salad confusion”. You see a chef preparing what looks like rocket, but they call it arugula.

It’s the same plant (Eruca sativa). It has the same peppery bite. So why do English speakers use two completely different names?

The answer isn’t just a quirk of translation. It is a linguistic fossil record revealing the history of Italian migration.

The name you use tells us less about the vegetable and more about who introduced you to it.

A Latin word with a double life

It all starts with the Latin word eruca.

Crucially, this term had a dual meaning. It referred to the vegetable, but also meant “caterpillar” – maybe because the plant’s hairy stems resembled the pests often found on brassicas.

As the Roman Empire faded and Vulgar Latin (the language of the vulgus, or the common people) evolved into the Romance languages, this single word split along two paths.

The Northern route: aristocratic ‘rocket’

As the word travelled north through Italy, it morphed from eruca into the Northern Italian diminutive ruchetta.

From there, it crossed the Alps into France, becoming roquette.

By the 16th century, French culinary influence was dominant in England. The first written record appears in 1530, in John Palsgrave’s text L'esclarcissement de la langue francoyse (Clarification of the French Language – said to be the first grammar of French for English speakers), translating roquette to “rocket”.

The 1597 version of John Gerard’s Herball, featuring rocket. Missouri Botanical Garden, Peter H. Raven Library

By 1597, English botanist John Gerard was describing “garden rocket” in his large illustrated Herball, or Generall Historie of Plantes, cementing it in the British lexicon.

This terminology travelled with the First Fleet. In Australia, “rocket” was a colonial staple, not a modern discovery. Planting guides in the Hobart Town Courier from 1836 list rocket alongside other brassicas, such as cress and mustard, as essential kitchen garden crops.

This is why people in Australia, the United Kingdom and New Zealand say “rocket”. For these speakers, the word followed an aristocratic, pre-industrial path.

Kitchen gardens at the Coree homestead, New South Wales, in the 1890s. Trove

The Southern route: migrant ‘arugula’

In the United States, the word “arugula” didn’t arrive in books; it arrived in pockets.

In the late 19th and early 20th centuries, millions of Italians emigrated to the US. This was a mass migration of the working class, predominantly from Southern regions like Calabria and Sicily.

These migrants spoke regional languages, erroneously called dialects, rather than Standard Italian.

In the South, eruca had evolved differently. We can trace this in historical dictionaries: Gerhard Rohlfs’ monumental Dictionary of the Three Calabrias (1932–39) records the local word as arùculu.

Similarly, Antonino Traina’s Sicilian-Italian dictionary (1868) lists the variant aruca.

When Italian immigrants established market gardens in New York, they sold the produce using their dialect forms. They weren’t selling the French roquette; they were selling the Calabrian arùculu.

The markets on Mulberry Street in New York City’s Little Italy, circa 1900. Detroit Publishing Co/Library of Congress

Over many years, this solidified into the American English “arugula”.

For decades, arugula was an “ethnic” ingredient in the US, underscoring its origins as “an unruly weed that was foraged from the fields by the poor”. It wasn’t until a New York Times article on May 24 1960 that food editor Craig Claiborne introduced it to a wider audience.

Noting it “has more names than Joseph’s coat had colors”, he used the New York market term “arugula” alongside rocket in his recipes, inadvertently codifying it as the standard American name.

There is perhaps a sense that “arugula” might come from Spanish, given the influence of words like cilantro in American culinary terminology.

In Spanish, Latin eruca evolved into oruga which is uncannily similar to “arugula”. But, linguistically things are a little more complex.

While the Spanish word maintains the reference to the plant it also retains the Latin term’s double meaning: a salad vegetable and a caterpillar.

According to Bréal’s Law of Differentiation, named for the linguist Michel Bréal, languages detest absolute synonyms. If a word has two meanings, the language will intervene somehow. Indeed, today’s Spanish speakers prefer to call the plant rúcula. If you were to ask for an ensalada de oruga in Spain today, you’d probably get odd looks and, maybe, a caterpillar salad.

What about ‘rucola’?

So where does the word rucola – seen on menus in Rome today – fit in?

While the Anglosphere was splitting into rocket and arugula, Italy was undergoing its own linguistic unification. Standard Italian rucola is another diminutive which gradually won out over other regional variants.

Philologically, rucola represents a middle ground. Its rise in usage in Italy in the second half of the 20th Century eclipsed competing terms like rughetta, ruchetta or ruca.

Rucola now has international reverberations. The preferred term in Spanish is modelled on it, it appears in many other European languages and it is making inroads in the English lexicon.

From peasant weed to political symbol

By the 1990s in the US, the “peasant weed” had completed a remarkable social climb. It became a political shibboleth for the American “liberal elite” (most famously during Obama’s Arugula-gate in the 2008 presidential election campaign).

Meanwhile, in Australia, rocket popped up as the ubiquitous garnish of the cafe culture boom found on everything from pizza to smashed avo.

The divide is a reminder that language is rarely accidental. When an Australian orders “rocket,” they echo a 16th-century exchange with France. When an American orders “arugula”, they echo the voices of Southern Italian migrants in 1920s New York. And when someone uses “rucola” perhaps it’s a way of evoking Italy’s mythical, UNESCO-awarded gastronomy.

Matt Absalom does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

In ancient Mesopotamia, what was a ziggurat?

2026-01-26T18:54:51Z

The ziggurat of Ur is in modern-day Iraq. حسن/Unsplash

A ziggurat (also spelled ziqqurat) was a raised platform with four sloping sides that looked like a tiered pyramid.

Ziggurats were common in ancient Mesopotamia (roughly modern Iraq) from around 4,000 to 500 BCE.

Unlike the Egyptian pyramids, they were not places of royal burials, but temples dedicated to the patron deity of a city.

How were they made?

Stone was relatively rare in Mesopotamia, so ziggurats were mainly made of sun-dried mudbricks coated with limestone and bitumen (a sticky, tar-like substance).

Their sides were decorated with grooved stripes and were often plastered with lime mortar or gypsum and glazed in various colours.

Unlike the pyramids, they had no internal chambers. The actual shrine was at the top of the structure where the god resided. It was accessible by steps and was believed to be a meeting point between heaven and earth.

Ziggurats towered over the centre of ancient Mesopotamian cities; as archaeological evidence indicates, they were typically built next to the palace or the temple of a city’s patron god to stress the role of the god in supporting the king.

How the Anu ziggurat became the White Temple

The Anu ziggurat, the oldest known, was built at Uruk (modern-day Warka, about 250 kilometres south of Baghdad) by the Sumerians around 4,000 BCE. (The Sumerians were an ancient people, among the first known to have established cities, who lived roughly in the area of modern Iraq, between the Tigris and Euphrates rivers.)

This ziggurat was dedicated to Anu, their sky god. Sometime between 3,500 and 3,000 BCE, the so-called White Temple was built on top of it.

The White Temple, approximately 12 metres high, was so named because it was entirely whitewashed inside and out. It must have shone dazzlingly in the sun.
The Sumerian culture was eventually taken over by the Akkadian Empire, followed by the Babylonian and Assyrian Empires. Throughout the rise and fall of empires, ziggurats continued to be built in the Ancient Near East.

In fact, the word ziggurat comes from the Akkadian verb zaqâru, meaning “to build high”.

Other famous ziggurats

Assyrian kings built an impressive ziggurat in their capital, Nimrud (about 30 kilometres south of Mosul). This ziggurat was dedicated to Ninurta, a Sumerian and Akkadian god of war and victory.

Ninurta’s father, the god Enlil, was worshipped at the ziggurat of the sacred city Nippur, in modern-day Iraq.

The Babylonian king Nebuchadnezzar II dedicated the ziggurat Etemenanki to the Babylonian king of gods, Marduk. The name Etemenanki means the Temple of the Foundation of Heaven and Earth.

Etemenanki was located north of a different temple called the Esagil, which was Marduk’s main temple in Babylon.

Etemenanki likely inspired the story of the Tower of Babel in the Old Testament. Genesis 11 refers to a “tower” built of mud bricks instead of stone, which was intended to reach the heavens.

The building, perceived as an act of human pride, angered God, who caused the people to speak different languages and scattered them across the Earth.

According to the Greek historian Herodotus, Marduk often chose a woman to spend the night with him in the top-most shrine of his ziggurat.

The text has been often understood to refer to a “sacred marriage” rite involving the sexual union of a woman with the god.

However, it seems more likely to have been an incubation rite, when the god’s will is revealed to someone sleeping in a sacred place.

Constant preservation

Because of the relative lack of durability of mud bricks, ziggurats required constant preservation.

Etemenanki in Babylon had to be rebuilt several times until Alexander the Great ordered his soldiers to destroy it in 323 BCE so as to rebuild it from scratch.

However, Alexander’s premature death (historians continue to debate what he died of) meant the task had to be completed by his successors. But whether the rebuilding task was ever completed is uncertain.

Better preserved ziggurats include the Ziggurat of Ur (in the region of modern-day Tell el-Muqayyar in Iraq). The powerful king, Ur-Nammu, dedicated this ziggurat to the moon god, Nanna or Sîn, around 2100 BCE.

Another example is the ziggurat of Chogha Zanbil in modern Iran, which was built around 1250 BCE. It now stands only 24.5 metres tall, instead of the original estimated 53 metres.

Another example of a famous ziggurat is the one of Chogha Zanbil in Iran. Sam Moghadam Khamseh/Unsplash

A lasting influence on architecture

Ziggurats influenced architecture long after their demise, including the new tiered “skyscrapers” of the art deco era in the 20th century.

Modern ziggurats ended up dotting the New York skyline.

The Empire State Building is quite ziggurat-like. Kit Suman/Unsplash

And, if you look closely, you’ll see that there’s a fair amount of ziggurat about the Empire State Building.

These modern examples serve as a fascinating reminder of a design and construction language that goes back to the Middle East over six millennia ago.

Eva Anagnostou-Laoutides receives funding from the Gerda Henkel Foundation.

Michael B. Charles does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

Curious Kids: in ancient Egypt, what was the Sphinx all about?

2026-01-25T18:44:50Z

Photo by KHALED DESOUKI/AFP via Getty Images

In ancient Egypt, what was the Sphinx all about? – Effie, age 8, New Plymouth, New Zealand.

One of the most mysterious and iconic monuments of ancient Egypt is the Great Sphinx of Giza.

You’ve probably seen pictures of it — a huge statue with a lion’s body and a human head, sitting proudly near the Great Pyramids.

But what is the Sphinx? Why was it built? And what does it mean?

What is the Sphinx?

The Great Sphinx is a giant stone statue carved from the limestone bedrock.

It lies on the Giza plateau, on the west bank of the Nile River, near Cairo in Egypt.

The Sphinx is enormous — about 73 metres long (that’s longer than a football field!) and 20 metres tall, roughly the height of a five-story building.

It was carved around 4,500 years ago during the time of the Old Kingdom, the earliest days of ancient Egyptian civilisation.

The word “sphinx” itself comes from ancient Greek, but the Egyptians had another name for it.

They called it “shesep-ankh”, which means “living image”.

This name gives us a clue to what the statue meant to the people who built it. They saw the Sphinx as a living symbol of something powerful and divine.

The face of a pharaoh

If you look closely at the Sphinx, you’ll notice its face looks human.

Most Egyptian experts believe the face was carved to look like a real person — a pharaoh named Khafre. But there is some strong evidence to suggest it might have been started by his father, Khufu.

Pharaohs were the rulers of Egypt, considered half-human and half-god. They built great monuments to show their power and to help their souls live forever in the afterlife.

Pharaoh Khafre built the second of the three pyramids at Giza.

The Sphinx sits right next to his pyramid complex, which makes many historians think it was built to watch over his tomb.

The Sphinx, then, may show the pharaoh as a guardian — strong like a lion, but wise and godlike like a human.

The body of a lion

The body of the Sphinx is that of a lion, an animal the Egyptians admired for its strength and courage.

Lions were seen as protectors and symbols of power. They watched over sacred places, palaces, and tombs. So, when the ancient sculptors shaped the Sphinx from bedrock, they combined the mind of a pharaoh with the strength and power of a lion.

This mixture created a super powerful guardian creature — one that could protect Egypt and its kings for eternity.

The Sphinx may show the pharaoh as a guardian — strong like a lion, but wise and godlike like a human. Photo by KHALED DESOUKI/AFP via Getty Images

Guardian of the horizon

Some ancient texts call the Sphinx “Hor-em-akhet”, which means “Horus of the Horizon”.

Horus was one of the most important gods in Egypt, often shown as a falcon who ruled the sky. Calling the Sphinx “Horus of the Horizon” suggests it was seen as an image of the rising sun — a divine protector connected to light, kingship, and rebirth.

If you stand in front of the Sphinx at sunrise, you can see how it faces directly east, toward the rising sun. This was likely no accident.

Ancient Egyptians carefully aligned their temples and monuments with the stars and the sun because they believed these heavenly bodies connected their world to the gods.

The Sphinx was part of a sacred plan linking earth, sky, and eternity.

The changing Sphinx

Over thousands of years, wind and sand have changed the way the Sphinx looks.

Its nose and beard are missing, parts of its headdress are damaged, and its body has been worn down by the desert.

But pieces of the Sphinx’s beard have been found and are now in museums. Some even say the statue was once brightly painted — red on the face, blue and yellow on the headdress.

Many Egyptians and travellers continued to visit and protect the Sphinx long after it was built. Pharaohs and priests repaired it many times.

One famous story tells how a young prince named Thutmose IV took a nap in front of the buried Sphinx, which had been buried up to the neck by drifting desert sands. In a dream, the Sphinx spoke to him, promising that if he cleared away the sand and restored the statue, he would one day be king.

The prince did as he was told — and he did become pharaoh! To honour the Sphinx, he placed a large stone tablet, or “stela”, between its paws. That inscription still stands there today.

A symbol of mystery

Even after all this time, the Sphinx keeps many secrets. We still don’t know exactly how long it took to carve, why its features were chosen, or if we have interpreted the symbolism correctly.

Some legends say the Sphinx guards a hidden chamber or treasures buried beneath it. Archaeologists haven’t found a treasure room, but modern scans have revealed small cavities and tunnels inside the bedrock — proof that the Sphinx still has more stories to tell.

Today, people travel from all over the world to see the Sphinx. It teaches a powerful lesson: even thousands of years ago, people were dreamers, builders, and artists. They asked big questions about life, death, and eternity — just like we do today.

Serena Love does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

From grand harbour spectacular to intimate perfection: the varied dance at Sydney Festival 2026

2026-01-22T06:06:57Z

Stephen Wilson Barker/Sydney Festival

Of all the arts, dance has a special capacity to create worlds. Centred around the moving body, these worlds draw on other art forms – music, visual art, design, projection – to fill-out visions in time-space.

Dance at this year’s Sydney Festival ranged from a 20 minute, salon-style performance for two dancers, to an outdoor, multimedia, participatory sunset event with Sydney Harbour as a backdrop.

Garrigarrang Badu

Jannawi Dance Clan’s premiere of Garrigarrang Badu by Peta Strachan is the perfect work to orient audiences to the Dharug Country at the heart of Sydney Festival.

Jannawi is an all-female group with members from across the country who work collaboratively with artistic director Strachan, a Dharug woman of the Boorooberongal clan. Strachan’s role as a Dharug Knowledge Holder informs the language-revitalisation-in-action that grounds and filters through this work.

In this full-length dance work in local language, lyrics to a song-cycle by Matthew Doyle are linked to places, materials, costumes and objects that fill each dance in a series that flows.

In Dharug, garrigarrang means salt water and badu fresh water. The title speaks to where the two meet in our water systems at Sydney Harbour where we gather on the sweltering night of the performance.

The work is shaped around women’s knowledge, artisanship, music and movement. They present to us an intergenerational connection to land, water, sky and all that they hold.

Garrigarrang badu is shaped around women’s knowledge, artisanship, music and movement. Stephen Wilson Barker/Sydney Festival

To see this all female performance, intimately and proudly connected to Country, is a moving occasion. Dancers Dubs Yunupingu and Buia David are stand-outs as the central protagonists of the loose narrative.

Digging sticks, eel traps and Nawi (canoes) focus our attention on a skilful, ethical and balanced collaboration with resources. Alongside the ephemeral cultural materials of music and dance, the whole presents as a living archive of the Dharug people.

Strachan’s choreography, with co-credits for the cast, Albert David and Beau Dean Riley Smith, reflects influences from her time at NAISDA (Australia’s National Indigenous Dance College) and with Bangarra (2000–04), and as a cultural performer and teacher.

Low shuffling walks, softly curved spines and mimetic hand gestures are combined with contemporary elements such as barrel jumps and high-leg extensions, reminiscent of the Bangarra vocabulary.

Garabari

We later moved outside for Melbourne-based, Wiradjuri choreographer Joel Bray’s Garabari, one of Bray’s first full-length, ensemble works, following his earlier solo pieces.

He describes himself as a gay Indigenous man raised in a white Pentecostal home, training at both NAISDA and the West Australian Academy of Performing Arts, and with an international career as a dancer prior to his first solo choreographies.

Garabari was developed across multiple cultural and artistic encounters. Time as a performer and artist-in-resident with Chunky Move may have supported the lean into popular culture in his work. The movement language draws on traditional, contemporary and popular vocabularies with a formal or shaped-based quality that perhaps reflects ten years Bray spent dancing in Israel, where a certain modern aesthetic associated with Ohad Naharin’s Gaga technique dominates.

In Joel Bray’s work, gradually we all become part of a whirling human garabari. Stephen Wilson Barker/Sydney Festival

At a language workshop I attended, led Bray and his father Christopher Kirkbright, Bray explained how this work came about. Consultation with the Wiradjuri community in Wagga Wagga led to conversations with local Elder, the late Uncle James Ingram.

Ingram shared the story of the birth of the Murrumbidgee River with Bray, the greedy Goanna men thwarted by a heroine, Ballina, which forms the core narrative of the work.

Garabari begins with some words of welcome from Bray, explaining that the title of the show is an Anglicised Wiradjuri word for corrobboree.

As the sky darkens, we are led to the furthest boardwalk of the Opera House where the Harbour Bridge looms large. We move through a smoking ceremony and wander among quiet dancers in white on multiple open-air stages. We hear recounted stories and watch danced dramas.

Gradually we become part of a whirling human garabari, with music by Byron Scullin and projections by Katie Sfetkidis coming into their own. The crowd swarms and pulses under the dancers’ instructions.

Featuring excellent dancers such as Luke Currie-Richardson and Zoe Brown Holten, this is a work with an inclusive, celebratory and contemporary spirit.

Exxy

A few days later I am back at the house to enter another world – Dan Daw Creative Project’s Exxy.

Based in the United Kingdom, this disabled-led company’s model of “theatre, dance and activism” is connected to Australia’s Restless Dance company in Adelaide through Daw, an ex-performer in the company.

The suburban, slightly grimy and claustrophobic scenography becomes a platform for vibrant truth-telling and venting. Emotional charge and physical excess go head-to-head in this relentless work that ends with both performers and audience crying to The Power of Love.

Dan Daw Creative Project’s Exxy is a work of vibrant truth-telling and venting. Neil Bennett/Sydney Festival

In the opening scenes, Daw takes time to care for his audience and introduce his collaborators Tiiu Mortley, Sofia Valdiri and Joe Brown. This introduction gives little indication of what is to come.

Like Garabari, this work grows in complexity and mood as each artist on stage shares autobiographical snippets through word and action.

The performers tell stories of lying about sports injuries and offensive sexual encounters. They perform drooling, running under duress and shaking. These stories and actions are connected by a repeated skipping or tripping movement to create a circle of unity. Interspersed are solo dances of delicate devastation.

Daw dances high and light on his feet with arms reaching above and around him. Mortley maps dramatic shapes with her arms and torso. Brown repeats actions punishingly in response to commands from off-stage and Valdiri stims violently on the floor.

Saltbush – a plant that can thrive in the harshest environments – becomes a central metaphor in this work about being not only unapologetic about disability, but expressing it with relish, abandon and anger.

Save the Last Dance for Me

Two shows at Sydney Town Hall in the Vestibule Room top off the dance program with lessons in refinement.

Italian choreographer Alessandro Sciarroni’s Save the Last Dance for Me is a 20 minute piece of perfection.

Dancers Gianmaria Borzillo and Giovanfrancesco Giannini, simply with a sound score and stylish outfits, perform a dance from the early 20th century Bologna called Polka Chinata.

Save the Last Dance for Me is a 20 minute piece of perfection. Stephen Wilson Barker/Sydney Festival

Recently rediscovered by Italian dance historians, like the Argentinian tango Polka Chinata is a male social dance form created to seduce a female audience.

Sciarroni simply adds a contemporary frame and the dance does the rest. It is intense, virtuosic and sexy.

Echo Mapping

Azzam Mohammed has emerged from the hip hop community in Sydney, winning competitive events and performing in Nick Power’s contemporary-street dance works.

A recent Sydney Festival staple, his new collaboration with composer and artist Jack Prest is Echo Mapping.

Echo Mapping is mesmerising. Victor Frankowski/Sydney Festival

This pared-back duet is mesmerising. Mohammed, trance-like, summons movement and vocalisations that shift across Africanist angular static forms, percussive geometric patterning and echoes of the most recent iteration of this deep lineage in the popping and locking that Mohammed excels in.

The music-dance dialogue between the two artists matches yearning trumpet calls to melodic cries and drum beats to looping running steps.

The perfect venue for this intimate spectacle.

Erin Brannigan does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

Shakespeare reinvented: how Chloé Zhao blends East and West philosophies in Hamnet

2026-01-21T19:12:40Z

In Hamnet, Agnes Hathaway (Jessie Buckley) asks William Shakespeare (Paul Mescal) to introduce himself by telling her a story. It is her way of seeing who this man really is.

Here, storytelling becomes a mirror held up to the heart. Are we, as human beings, moved by the same things? Are our hearts shaped from the same material?

Chloé Zhao knows how to make people feel. Hamnet sees a new phrase in her artistry, turning a Western literary classic into a quiet meditation on grief, love and the enduring power of art.

From Beijing to the world

Born in Beijing in 1982, as a child Chloé Zhao (赵婷, Zhào Tíng) loved manga, drawn to Japanese Shinto ideas, where every object carries a spirit.

She wrote fan fiction, went to movies and fell in love with Wong Kar-wai’s Happy Together (1997), a life-changing film she still rewatches.

At 14, she was sent to a boarding school in England, speaking almost no English. The isolation forced her to look beyond language. “A smile is a smile, a touch is a touch,” she later told the BBC. That attentiveness to gesture and silence became a signature of her filmmaking.

Allured by Hollywood, Zhao moved to Los Angeles for high school, then studied political science at college. She eventually found her way to cinema at New York University, where Spike Lee encouraged her to trust her own voice.

Open landscapes to inner lives

In 2015, Zhao started directing small-scale, slow-burn features set in the American heartland.

Songs My Brothers Taught Me (2015) and The Rider (2017) capture the vast, lunar beauty of South Dakota’s badlands and the dignity of the people who live there. She often used non-professional actors, achieving a documentary-like naturalism.

Nomadland (2020), her third film, brought this style to a global audience. The story is about a stoic, hard-working widow in her early 60s who loses everything in the Great Recession and finds a new life on the road.

Receiving the Oscar for best director, she quoted a classic Chinese text teaching Confucian morality, history and basic knowledge: “people at birth are inherently good (人之初，性本善)”.

By focusing on nomads, cowboys and Indigenous communities, her first three films make space for those who are rarely seen.

“I’ve spent my whole life telling stories about people who feel separated, who feel they don’t belong,” she said, linking that to her own experience as “an outsider”.

With Hamnet, that sensibility turns inward. The immense skies and wide-open landscapes are replaced by forests, quiet rooms and the raw inner world of parental grief.

Through East and West

That Shakespeare, the wellspring of Britain’s national mythology, is being reinvented by an Asian director is striking.

Zhao initially turned down adapting and directing Hamnet, as she neither grow up with Western reverence for Shakespeare nor felt a cultural connection to his grief-filled family life. But after reading Maggie O’Farrell’s book, she felt something intimate and universal that drew her in.

Her approach to demystifying that feeling reflects a sensibility shaped equally by Eastern and Western philosophy.

From the Chinese practice of qi (气, life force), Zhao shows life flowing through wind, breath and Agnes’s bond with the forest, where she gives birth to her first child.

From the Hindu Tantra, she blurs the line between the actors and their surroundings, showing the world as an extension of the self.

From the ideas of Carl Jung, she explores opposing forces within the self, guiding the actors to reveal both masculine and feminine qualities in Agnes and William.

All three of these philosophies talk of accessing deeper wisdom within the self and the symbolic nature of creation.

Zhao also assigns chakra colours to Hamnet’s protagonists. In Hindu and Buddhist traditions, chakras are energy centres in the body, each linked to a colour and connected to physical, emotional and spiritual wellbeing.

In Zhao’s telling, Shakespeare often appears in blue, echoing the colour of throat and third-eye chakras, which symbolises openness, clarity and intuition. Agnes appears in red, reflecting the root chakra: the beating heart of the earth. This visual language also draws from Taoist philosophy, which understands humans as existing within nature.

Like Ang Lee, Zhao brings an East Asian sensitivity to interiority and emotional restraint. Both filmmakers have bridged art-house cinema and mainstream Hollywood, achieving rare critical recognition while remaining deeply focused on human experience.

The deeply human

Hamnet imagines the world surrounding Shakespeare and his wild-hearted wife, Agnes, and the tragic death of their 11-year-old son from the plague.

In the final sequence of the film, we watch the first performance of Hamlet. Their son returns on stage as the prince, speaking lines Shakespeare has written out of loss.

As Hamlet is poisoned, the audience inside the theatre – nobles and labourers alike – break into tears. They do not know the child behind the character, but they feel loss all the same.

In a crowded audience, only Agnes sees the boy onstage as her son. Focus Features

Among them stands Agnes. Through her eyes, we see how art turns personal sorrow into something others can share. She alone recognises that the story being told is a memory. The woman history remembers merely as “Shakespeare’s wife” becomes the very soul of Hamnet.

Hamnet, in Zhao’s retelling, is not an escape from pain but a way of living with it. Buckley’s stirring performance feels not only Oscar-worthy, but emblematic of Zhao’s humanist cinema.

Her cinema reminds us of what cannot be automated: the deeply human capacity to feel, to grieve and to love.

Yanyan Hong does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

Rob Hirst was not the figurehead of Midnight Oil – but he was its backbone

2026-01-21T00:47:23Z

The death of Rob Hirst from pancreatic cancer at the age of 70 is the close of a long and, in many ways, surprising career.

Hirst was the drummer and songwriter who, though far from the figurehead of Midnight Oil, was nonetheless an integral part – perhaps the backbone – of one of the most consistently adventurous and principled groups of the last half-century.

For most, Midnight Oil means Peter Garrett. But it was Garrett who answered an ad to join Farm, Hirst’s band with Jim Moginie and Andrew James, in 1972. Were it not for his arrival, the group might not have gone far beyond the northern beaches of Sydney: Garrett was striking as a performer and his singing was distinctive (though, like Jimmy Barnes, he did not sing all the great songs his band was famous for).

While Midnight Oil’s members recognised a common purpose and achieved an extraordinary amount on a range of fronts, Hirst’s memoir of their early 21st century United States tour shows there was always some measure of tension between them.

In 1980, Hirst told Toby Creswell of Rolling Stone he didn’t like Garrett’s taste, “and he doesn’t like mine […] You’re really putting together people who don’t get on socially or musically.”

Not there to compromise

Midnight Oil’s records were exceptionally high quality from the outset.

Their self-titled first album was what you’d expect from a group which took pleasure in Australian surfing “head” music bands like Tully and Kahvas Jute.

Their second, Head Injuries, was brash and stark: they had emerged, for better or worse, at the time of punk/new wave but fitted as uneasily with X or The Saints as with blunter, more traditional rock groups like AC/DC.

Their 12" EP Bird Noises was as fine a summation of their approach as could be imagined. The Hirst/Garrett cowrite No Time for Games has a social message, a distinctive vocal from Garrett and of course, extraordinary drums, restrained when they had to be but ever servicing the song’s dynamics.

From the very beginning, they made it clear that they were not available to undertake the usual compromises the record industry expected for career furtherance.

Famously, they refused to play Countdown. In hindsight, they would have been severely out of place there.

Nevertheless, they gave the major groups of the 70s their due; Hirst praised Skyhooks’ Greg Macainsh, for instance, for his use of Australian places and scenes, making it “possible for you to write about, in his case, Carlton and Balwyn […] [now] we’ve got this whole palette of Australian places we can use without a cringe factor.”

On their own terms

Sales and impact of subsequent Midnight Oil albums trace the rise of a group attaining international prominence on its own terms through hard work and consistent attention to detail.

The commercial peak came with the 1987 single Beds are Burning (a cowrite between Garrett, Hirst and Moginie): top ten in France, the US, the Netherlands, Australia and Belgium – and number one in Canada, New Zealand and South Africa.

That it was a song on the world stage highlighting Australian Aboriginal dispossession was perhaps an even greater achievement.

Hirst’s memoir Willie’s Bar and Grill gives a good sense of a group finding the very common way down from the top: the trajectory of the one-hit wonder, in this case experienced while touring post-9/11 US.

They disbanded soon afterwards, not for this reason but because Garrett had been picked by Mark Latham to stand as Labor candidate for Kingsford-Smith in the 2004 federal election. They reunited 13 years later.

A varied career

Hirst had other irons in the fire as early as 1991 when he formed Ghostwriters with Rick Grossman. Perhaps the band’s name signalled a frisson of bitterness about the concentration of attention Garrett garnered in Midnight Oil, but paradoxically its first album was essentially an anonymous release.

Two others followed, and Hirst was also involved in the Backsliders and the Angry Tradesmen.

In 2020 he recorded an album with his daughter, Jay O'Shea, who he had put up for adoption in 1974. In 2025 he released the second of two albums recorded with noted songwriter Sean Sennett.

A 50-year career is almost impossible to sum up briefly, but one song speaks volumes about Hirst. Power and the Passion, the 1983 Midnight Oil hit, features a simple (if infectious) drum machine and what might almost pass for a rap from Garrett, listing a host of demons besetting the citizen at the end of the 20th century, not least from Americanisation and corporatisation.

Hirst plays along with the beat then engages it in an epic battle, executing a remarkable solo which enhances the song while making a statement about working with and against the pernicious machine.

In a career of great work, it’s one highlight that speaks louder than words.

David Nichols does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

What Evil Influencer: The Jodi Hildebrandt Story tells us about Mormonism

2026-01-20T19:15:52Z

Netflix

The new Netflix documentary Evil Influencer: The Jodi Hildebrandt Story, directed by Skye Borgman, seeks to understand the shocking crimes of both Hildebrandt and business partner Ruby Franke.

In 2023, Hildebrandt and Franke became internationally known when they were arrested and plead guilty for aggravated child abuse. They were accused of the forceful restraint, torture and malnourishment of two of Franke’s children, aged 12 and 9 at the time.

Hildebrandt and Franke collaborated on various Mormon-focused self-improvement businesses, including the podcast Moms of Truth and workshop ConneXions.

The abuse became known when Franke’s son escaped Hildebrandt’s home in south-west Utah and sought assistance from neighbours. However, as the documentary makes clear, signs of abuse are evident in earlier 8 Passengers videos. For example, the oldest Franke son, 15 at the time, was forced to sleep on a bean bag for seven months as a form of discipline.

The documentary, including those who are interviewed, articulate that these crimes are Mormon-centric. This is a story of religious fanaticism.

The positioning of Mormonism within this documentary is essential to the documentary’s framing. Those who are the strongest to condemn Hildebrandt in the film – including therapists, police and legal professionals, as well as victims of Hildebrandt – are adamant to profess their more mainstream “Mormonness” in comparison to Hildenbrandt and Franke’s extremism.

What Evil Influencer does well

The Franke–Hildebrandt case captured international attention for several reasons explored during the documentary.

First, the abuse happened at the hands of Franke, the children’s mother, and Hildebrandt, a trusted businesswoman in the Mormon mental health community.

Before founding her business ConneXions, Hildebrandt was a licensed therapist, though her license had been put on probation for violating patient confidentiality.

Ruby Franke, with her husband Kevin, was an immensely popular family vlogger. Their 8 Passengers YouTube channel had millions of subscribers and over a billion views.

Second, the documentary explores the ever-present pressure on families, in particular mothers, within Mormon culture. Mothers are responsible for teaching children correct gospel principles, which ensures their salvation.

Mormon doctrine emphasises the role of both parents. But this responsibility usually rests on the mothers, who are encouraged to not work.

This pressure to perform a certain way under the constraints of a high-control, patriarchal religion is similarly expressed by the participants of The Secret Lives of Mormon Wives.

Third, the documentary places Hildebrandt’s actions in the context of Mormon sexual purity culture. The film claims she was part of an “approved” list of therapists Church leaders would contact when members of their congregation struggled with “sexual deviancy”.

Hilderbrandt’s aggressive tactics towards clients are discussed in detail by former victims. These included the removal of parents from children and separations.

Hildebrandt’s actions towards victims is spliced with footage of Church leaders denouncing pornography as of the devil, more addictive than cocaine, and as able to corrupt souls to lose their salvation.

Hildebrandt’s “life-coaching” was the reason Ruby Franke and her children were living with Hildebrandt. According to the documentary, Kevin had been instructed by Jodi to not be in contact with his family for over a year.

What Evil Influencer misses

As with other documentaries that have examined Mormon women who have abused their children – including another documentary on Ruby Franke, and one on Lori Vallow, who in 2019 murdered her children in rural Idaho – the filmmaker’s grounding in Mormon cosmology could be improved.

Crucial to both the Franke and Vallow cases is the belief demons can possess individuals, including children. This is a part of the foundational Mormon narrative, the “First Vision”, in which a 14-year-old Joseph Smith was “seized upon by some power which entirely overcame” him. In his words, Smith is only saved by the literal appearance of God and Jesus Christ.

In Mormon cosmology, children are free from sin until the age of eight, after which they are baptised. Ecclesiastical leaders interview children about their faith and understanding of gospel principles, and whether they are willing to uphold baptismal and confirmation “covenants”.

When the documentary quotes from Franke’s diary, in which she refers to her son “or rather his demon”, this is likely not metaphorical. Similarly, Hildebrandt states to police the boy should not be allowed near other children.

In Mormon thought, the closer to God a person becomes – as Hildebrandt claimed to be due to her visions – the harder Satan will attempt to destroy a person through temptation and/or possession, as in the case of Joseph Smith.

Towards the end of the documentary, Hildebrandt, through recorded prison phone calls, quotes scripture, claiming Jesus Christ had warned his followers they would be persecuted and imprisoned. Hilderbrandt sees her imprisonment as a mirror of the Church’s founder, who was repeatedly arrested.

Smith similarly saw mirrors of his treatment in that of Jesus Christ’s experience. This idea of religious persecution sits at the heart of Hildebrandt’s denial.

Evil Influencer does very well to ground Hildebrandt and Franke’s crimes in Mormon culture, especially in regards to sexuality, motherhood and family. However, more cosmological context, especially surrounding the way in which Mormonism views demonic possession, is just as crucial for understanding these crimes.

Evil Influencer: The Jodi Hildebrandt Story is on Netflix now.

Brenton Griffin was raised as a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, but is no longer a practising member of the church. His research is focused on the religion's place in Australian and New Zealand popular culture, politics, and society from the 19th century to present.

Valentino shaped the runway – and the red carpet – for 60 years

2026-01-20T05:35:34Z

Valentino, who died on Monday at 93, leaves a lasting legacy full of celebrities, glamour and, in his words, knowing what women want: “to be beautiful”.

The Italian fashion powerhouse has secured his dream of making a lasting impact, outliving Karl Lagerfeld and Yves Saint Laurent.

Valentino was known for his unique blend between the bold and colourful Italian fashion and the elegant French haute couture – the highest level of craftsmanship in fashion, with exceptional detail and strict professional dressmaking standards.

The blending of these styles to create the signature Valentino silhouette made his style distinctive. Valentino’s style was reserved, and over his career he built upon the haute couture skills he had developed, maintaining his signature style while he led his fashion house for five decades.

But he was certainly not without his own controversial views on beauty for women.

Becoming the designer

Born in Voghera, Italy, in 1932, Valentino Clemente Ludovico began his career early, knowing from a young age he would pursue fashion.

He drew from a young age and studied fashion drawing at Santa Marta Institute of Fashion Drawing in Milan before honing his technical design skills at École de la Chambre Syndicale de la Couture Parisienne, the fashion trade association, in Paris.

He started his fashion career at two prominent Parisian haute couture houses, first at Jean Dessès before moving to Guy Laroche.

He opened his own fashion house in Italy in 1959.

His early work had a heavy French influence with simple, clean designs and complex silhouettes and construction. His early work had blocked colour and more of a minimalist approach, before his Italian culture really came through later in his collections.

He achieved early success through his connections to the Italian film industry, including dressing Elizabeth Taylor fresh off her appearance in Cleopatra (1963).

Elizabeth Taylor wearing Valentino while dancing with Kirk Douglas at the party in Rome for the film Spartacus. Keystone/Getty Images

Valentino joined the world stage on his first showing at the Pritti Palace in Florence in 1962.

His most notable collection during that era was in 1968 with The White Collection, a series of A-line dresses and classic suit jackets. The collection was striking: all in white, while Italy was all about colour.

He quickly grew in international popularity. He was beloved by European celebrities, and an elite group of women who were willing to spend the money – the dresses ran into the thousands of dollars.

In 1963, he travelled to the United States to attract Hollywood stars.

The Valentino woman

Valentino’s wish was to make women beautiful. He certainly attracted the A-list celebrities to do so. The Valentino woman was one who would hold themselves with confidence and a lady-like elegance.

Valentino wanted to see women attract attention with his classic silhouettes and balanced proportions. Valentino dressed women such as Jackie Kennedy, Audrey Hepburn, Julia Roberts, Gwyneth Paltrow and Anne Hathaway.

His aristocratic taste inherited ideas of beauty and old European style, rather than innovating with new trends. His signature style was formal designs that had the ability to quietly intimidate – including the insatiable Valentino red.

Red was a signature colour of his collections. The colour provided confidence and romance, while not distracting away from the beauty of the woman.

French influence

Being French-trained, Valentino was well acquainted with the rules of couture.

With this expertise, he was one of the first Italian designers to be successful in France as an outsider with the launch of his first Paris collection in 1975. This Paris collection showcased more relaxed silhouettes with many layers, playing towards the casual nature of fashion.

A model in the Valentino Spring 1976 ready to wear collection walks the runway in Paris in 1975. Guy Marineau/WWD/Penske Media via Getty Images

While his design base was in Rome, many of his collections were shown in Paris over the next four decades. His Italian culture mixed with the technicality of Parisian haute couture made Valentino the designer he was.

Throughout his career, his designs often maintained a classic silhouette bust, matched with a bold Italian colour or texture.

Unlike some designers today, Valentino’s collections didn’t change too dramatically each season. Instead, they continued to maintain the craftsmanship and high couture standards.

“Quintessentially beautiful” is often the description of Valentino’s work – however this devotion to high beauty standards has seen criticism of the industry. In 2007, Valentino defended the trend of very skinny women on runways, saying when “girls are skinny, the dresses are more attractive”.

Critics said his designs reinforce exclusion, gatekeeping fashion from those who don’t conform to traditional beauty standards.

The Valentino runways only recently have started to feature more average sized bodies and expand their definition of beauty.

The $300 million sale of Valentino

The Valentino fashion brand sold for US$300 million in 1998 to Holding di Partecipazioni Industriali, with Valentino still designing until his retirement in 2007.

Valentino sold to increase the size of his brand: he knew without the support of a larger corporation surviving alone would be impossible. Since Valentino’s retirement, the fashion house has continued under other creative directors.

Valentino will leave a lasting legacy as the Italian designer who managed to break through the noise of the French haute couture elite and make a name for himself.

The iconic Valentino red will forever be remembered for its glamour, and will live on with his legacy. A true Roman visionary with unmatched craftsmanship.

Jye Marshall does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

Uncanny, curious and awesome: an expert in psychology breaks down what we feel in the face of Ron Mueck’s sculptures

2026-01-19T17:13:25Z

Ron Mueck Woman with Sticks 2009 (detail), mixed media, 170 × 183 × 120 cm, Collection Fondation Cartier pour l’art contemporain, Paris, acquired 2013 © Ron Mueck, photo: museum Voorlinden, Wassenaar, the Netherlands, Antoine van Kaam

I recently experienced Ron Mueck: Encounter at the Art Gallery of New South Wales. I have no training in art appreciation or history, and I went with minimal prior knowledge about Mueck’s work or the pieces in the exhibit.

I had, however, heard his works are psychologically evocative. So I approached the experience with an open mind, and a social psychologist’s inquisitiveness.

If I had to choose three words to capture my naive experience, they would be uncanny, curious and awesome. I’ll explain.

Uncanny

The most dominant feature of my experience was a deep sense of uncanniness.

The uncanny valley is the point where the normally positive linear relationship between how human-like a robot is, and how familiar and likable it is, dissolves. Robots in the uncanny valley are perceived as creepy and eerie, and elicit repulsion instead of attraction.

Ron Mueck, Woman with Shopping, 2013 (detail), mixed media, 113 x 46 x 30 cm, Collection Thaddaeus Ropac. © Ron Mueck, photo: Hauser & Wirth

The concept also applies to art. Many of Mueck’s works are uncanny. His sculptures are superbly realistic. The wrinkles at an elbow. The whites of the toenails. The curve of a nose.

But Mueck also plays with features that undermine realism, tipping into hyperrealism. Many pieces are too large, or too small, to actually be human. The viewer’s mind is trapped: how can the sculpture seem so real but also be so obviously not real?

Installation view of the Ron Mueck: Encounter exhibition, featuring Dark Place 2018, ZAMU, Amsterdam. © Ron Mueck, photo © Art Gallery of New South Wales, Felicity Jenkins

My visceral reaction to Dark Place, a large 1.4 metre face of a man with a menacing expression, epitomises the uncanny valley. Just as soon as I stepped into the darkened viewing area, I backed away quickly, saying “nope!” (hopefully quietly) to myself. Yes, I knew he wasn’t real. But he felt so real. I was, he was, we were in the uncanny valley.

One explanation for the uncanny valley is “violated expectations” where a human replica seems real – but the realisation it’s not brings about a sense of unease.

At first glimpse, it wouldn’t be implausible that Ghost, a woman in a swimsuit leaning against a wall, would turn her head, push off the wall and walk away. But of course she can’t – she’s not real. Uncanny.

Ron Mueck Ghost 1998/2014, mixed media, 202 × 65 × 99 cm, YAGEO Foundation Collection, Taipei. © Ron Mueck, photo: Alex Delfanne

Other explanations of the uncanny valley call on mind perception, whereby human mental capacities are attributed or denied to entities in the world. Human replicas such as artworks don’t have the capacity to think and feel as humans do – but are often depicted as being able to do so.

Mueck’s faces invite the viewer to contemplate what’s being thought or felt. A poignant example of this is Spooning Couple, featuring a couple in bed. The pair’s body positions are telling – including the man’s arm tucked at his chest rather than over his partner’s body, and the slight gap between them. But their contemplative faces present a depth of thought that is – without a better word – uncanny.

Ron Mueck, Spooning Couple 2005, edition 1/1, mixed media, 14 x 65 x 35 cm. Collection Glenn and Amanda Fuhrman NY, image courtesy the FLAG Art Foundation

Based on all of this, you might surmise I didn’t enjoy the exhibit. But, esthetic experience is multidimensional. It wasn’t all eerie, aversive uncanniness.

Curious

Most notably, I experienced moments of acute curiosity, the emotional experience of wanting to fill a gap of the unknown.

Mueck’s work drives the audience to wonder why he made the decisions he did. This is perhaps most pronounced in Young Couple, which depicts a pair of adolescents standing next to one another. Intriguing even from the front, my curiosity was spiked on walking around the back and seeing the acute angle and tightness of their held hands.

Installation view of the Ron Mueck: Encounter exhibition, featuring Young Couple 2013, YAGEO Foundation Collection, Taipei. © Ron Mueck, photo © Art Gallery of New South Wales, Felicity Jenkins

My reaction was instant: what is happening here? A moment of reproach? Conflict? Possession? There’s no way to know.

Other curious choices peppered the exhibit. The consistent flat-footedness of Mueck’s figures. The odd selection of non-humans included a chicken, dogs, a pig. The juxtaposition of solo statues and pairs of people with a large group of oversize growling dogs.

Installation view of the Ron Mueck: Encounter exhibition, featuring Havoc 2025, courtesy the artist and Thaddeus Ropac, London – Paris – Salzburg – Seoul – Milan. © Ron Mueck, photo © Art Gallery of New South Wales, Anna Kucera

Unfulfilled curiosity can sometimes be frustrating. At the exhibit, though, sitting with the questions was satisfying. One point of art, it seems, is to raise more questions than answer them. In this, Mueck has succeeded.

Awesome

Rounding out the trio of characteristics of my experience is awe: the emotion experienced when we witness something outside our understanding, often vast or complex. The experience is wonder and amazement.

Mueck’s works dance in the space between possible and impossible, just beyond the line of comprehension. I lost count of how many times I thought in wonder, “How did he do that?”

It’s unfathomable to me that someone can create something so very lifelike and evocative. To consider the skill required to produce his pieces was a process of expanding my own mind.

Installation view of the Ron Mueck: Encounter exhibition, featuring Couple Under an Umbrella 2013, Giverny Capital Collection. © Ron Mueck, photo © Art Gallery of New South Wales, Felicity Jenkins

Speaking now as a positive emotion researcher, I think the key to the impact of Encounter rests in what we know about the outcomes of experiencing awe.

This unique emotion shifts the way we think about the world, creating what’s been coined the “small self effect”. In awe, we feel smaller in relation to the world around us. This change in perspective is powerful. It prompts curiosity and critical thinking. Awe also drives a desire for social connection, a sense of satisfaction with life and generosity.

By evoking awe, Mueck is shifting the way people see and interact with their worlds. That is powerful indeed.

Ron Mueck: Encounter is at the Art Gallery of New South Wales until April 12.

Lisa A Williams has received funding from the Australian government (Australian Research Council; Department of Industry, Science, and Resources).

Tracing the long history of Aboriginal-Chinese people in Australia, through archives and art

2026-01-18T23:56:34Z

Coming to Australia, 2012, Lloyd Gawura Hornsby, acrylic on canvas, 76 x 102 cm. Photo courtesy of the artist.

Metaphors of cooking and eating are a firm favourite among writers on multiculturalism. No comment on cultural contact seems complete without the proverbial “melting pot”. This metaphor tends to imply a balanced mix of diverse ingredients, each adding its own flavour but merging with the whole.

We now associate this image with visions of broth, stew, maybe a fondue. In the early 20th century, however, the phrase more often suggested an alchemical blending of base metals in a crucible. The turning of lead into gold stood in for the conversion of the foreign into the familiar.

The later move into the kitchen can tell us something about changing attitudes toward cultures other than our own.

Our Story: Aboriginal Chinese People in Australia suggests another metaphor. The National Museum of Australia exhibition brings together works of contemporary art, personal reflections on cultural inheritance and a rich selection of archival photographs.

While the melting pot isn’t entirely absent, a richer analogy arises here in the equally time-honoured image of the market garden.

House of Gold, Christian Thompson, photograph, 90 x 60 cm. Photo courtesy of the artist

Preserving the seeds of future growth

It’s a short walk from the garden to the kitchen. But as metaphors for cultural contact, the two are miles apart.

The kitchen implies a one-way process of selection, preparation, combination, cooking and consumption.

The garden is a place for setting down roots, grafting and pruning, nurturing and cultivating. A place for preserving the seeds of future growth after the fruits of the present have been harvested and enjoyed.

The analogy is clearest in the pairing of Zhou Xiaoping’s Chinese Cabbage Leaves with his handwritten mapping of the A’hang family tree, which face each other on opposite walls.

Zhou has traced eight generations of this family from “Johnny” A'hang. Johnny arrived in South Australia in 1851 and there met a Nauo woman, “Topsy”. Zhou then takes us through hundreds of their descendants to the present.

Chinese Cabbage Leaves, 2024, Zhou Xiaoping, coloured glass, variable dimensions. National Museum of Australia

Zhou’s glass cabbage leaves, in shades of jade and ochre, call to mind a comparably sweeping installation of glass coolamons created at the Canberra Glassworks by Ngambri-Ngunnawal artist Paul Girrawah House and glass artist Tom Rowney. Both works cast a humble and familiar object in a spectacular form with an elegant grafting of cultural experiences.

This metaphor of grafting is also powerfully conveyed in the A’hang family tree. The genealogy provides a conceptual anchor for the exhibition overall.

Our Story is a deeply committed exploration of generational experience as a counter-current to the mainstream of Australian history.

An emphasis on the personal

Stories of Aboriginal people and Chinese-Australians are usually told apart. Here, they come together in a range of well-known scenes: the harvesting of trepang (sea cucumbers) for Chinese consumers, the allure of the Victorian goldfields, the scars of White Australia, the trauma of the Stolen Generations.

These more familiar moments are cited as a contextual background for the real focus of the exhibition.

Our Story is the culmination of a larger research project dedicated to uncovering the long history of individual and familial Aboriginal-Chinese relations.

In the gallery hang portraits of some of the many individuals of combined Aboriginal and Chinese heritage who participated in this project. This ensures an emphasis on the personal.

An 8-year-old Michael Laing stands between his Aboriginal grandfather Gordon Charles Naley and his Chinese grandfather Leung Kee. Photos courtesy Michael Laing

Their words are reproduced on the gallery wall and in the substantial exhibition text. Their voices, recorded for the documentary footage playing throughout the space, narrate a “history from below”. This phrase has recently gained use among historians to describe projects that seek to highlight previously overlooked or marginalised experiences and perspectives.

Or, to extend the garden metaphor, a history from the grassroots. A history that is very much alive, continually in process of discovery and rediscovery, animated by family ties and tales affording protection and solidarity.

Dragonserpent, 2024, Gordon Hookey, oil on linen canvas, 179 x 237 cm. Photo courtesy of the artist

The works of contemporary art shown among this wealth of archival and testimonial material offer points of focus crystallising core themes.

Koori artist Lloyd Gawura Hornsby’s paintings in acrylic on canvas New Beginnings and Coming to Australia combine images of gold and opal mining, tuna fishing, Uluru and the Great Wall. These are joined by affectionate portraits of his great-grandfather James Ahoy and the infamous anti-immigration caricature of “The Mongolian Octopus”, united in a shimmering field of dots.

New bonds and older connections, long denied or erased in official accounts, are here established.

The complex layering of culture

Our Story seems designed to inspire such reparatory unions. Its location in the museum’s First Australians Gallery is marked by a conspicuous fringe of red paper lanterns punctuated with woven grass dillybags.

This variation on a Chinatown theme is taken up again by Gulumerridjin (Larrakia), Wardaman and Karrajarri artist Jenna Lee. Dillybag lanterns are recreated in rice paper and woven silk for her To Light Up installation and photographs.

To light up stories, 2024, Jenna Lee, assorted rice papers, powder-coated steel, rice paste glue, inks, light cord, lead bulb, 15 x 15 x 45 x 10 cm. National Museum of Australia

The Chinatowns found in cities across Australia are one of the most cherished landmarks of our multicultural identity. They are a magnet for “melting pot” rhetoric. In contrast to the vision of that identity as a succulent meal of exotic dishes, however, Our Story celebrates the complex layering of culture as a lived experience of multiple connections.

Chinese and Aboriginal Australian heritage are presented here not as calculated percentages or assigned labels. Instead, they are celebrated as dimensions of family history and personal meaning to be tended, nurtured and, above all, to be shared.

Our Story: Aboriginal Chinese People in Australia is at the National Museum of Australia, Canberra, until January 27.

Alex Burchmore does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

In a new production of Turandot, Opera Australia has found a star vehicle for Young Woo Kim

2026-01-16T03:46:26Z

Were operas to be identified like episodes of Friends, Turandot would be “the one with Nessun Dorma”.

This beloved tenor aria has achieved a life of its own away from its parent opera. Consequently, it is often front and centre in the marketing for performances of Puccini’s final work. Even Ann Yee, the director of the new Opera Australia production of Turandot, claims in her program note not to have known anything else from the opera before 2022.

We have to wait until act three for the killer number, even though Puccini provides a kind of teaser for it late in act two – as if to reassure patrons it’s worth coming back after the interval.

Given all this build-up, it is a relief to report on opening night, Young Woo Kim absolutely nailed it, bringing a heady mixture of power and sensitivity to his portrayal of the character of Calaf.

A tale of trauma

Nothing else in the production quite comes up to this level, although there are other good things about both staging and singing.

Yee’s intriguing take on the opera focusses on the notion of intergenerational trauma. In Turandot’s big number, In questa reggia (In this kingdom) we learn of the rape and murder of her ancestor, Lou-Ling. The memory of Lou-Ling has determined Turandot’s cruel practice of executing would-be suitors who cannot answer her riddles.

Unusually, here this ancestor is turned into an actual character on stage, danced by Hoyori Maruo. Before a note is heard, we see Maruo mime the attack on the ancient princess, writhing, hurling herself acrobatically around the stage, and finally sinking into Turandot’s arms, blood pouring from her mouth. Thereafter she returns periodically, visible only to Turandot, her succesor.

Perhaps to avoid initiating another round of trauma in the audience, this production dispenses with the torture of Liù, the young slave girl. Instead, the principals stand far apart from each other in this scene.

Thematically, this renders Turandot less of a monster than in other productions. Dramatically, it makes Liù’s anguished cries and suicide seem unmotivated and faintly ridiculous.

Understated design and performances

Set design by Elizabeth Gadsby is somewhat bare, even drab – at least when compared to the likes of Franco Zeffirelli’s sumptuous visual feast, still being revived at the Met nearly 40 years after it premiered.

Most striking is the enormous stylised mask of Turandot herself, projected onto the back wall (video designer Andrew Thomas Huang). This changes colour, dissolves and reappears as necessary, before symbolically breaking into pieces after Calaf correctly guesses the answer to the third riddle.

Costumes (David Fleischer) are again deliberately understated. Turandot is in black almost throughout; the Emperor looked like Chevy Chase cosplaying as Mao Zedong; the crowds were factory workers in two-tone garb.

The presence of dancers clad in sparkly blue seaweed during the riddle season is a puzzle. The persistent use of choreographed gesture from these and other non-singers during solo numbers becomes a little tedious after a while, speaking to a lack of confidence in the power of the music and acting to retain the audience’s interest.

In the title role, Rebecca Nash conveys well the sense of historical pain that guides her actions and her transition in the final scene from despairing tyrant to newly awakened lover is convincing. Vocally she came through well, although up top things were a little vague courtesy of a generous vibrato.

Maria Teresa Leva as Liù really comes into her own in act three after a less-than-stellar Signore, ascolta in act one.

Richard Anderson is secure and pathetic as the blind Timur; Shane Lowrencev a solid Speaker; and Gregory Brown an underpowered Emperor – perhaps a deliberate choice, given the character’s heart attack during the closing seconds of act two. The chorus and orchestra under new conductor Henrik Nánási were solid all night, with the children’s chorus worthy of special commendation.

A reinterpretation

When Turandot was put on at the Sydney Opera House in 2022, it aroused some controversy for its alleged use of “yellow face”. That production, a revival of Graeme Murphy’s classic from the 1990s, has now been replaced by this new, firmly de-orientalised version.

The trigger point four years ago was the costuming of Ping, Pang and Pong (the grand chancellor, general purveyor and chief cook, respectively), a largely indistinguishable trio providing comic relief.

There are no obvious changes in the sung text, but here their names are rendered in the surtitles as P1, P2 and P3. Instead of flowing robes and exaggerated facial hair, they are tech assistants sporting fanny packs and walkie talkies.

As these characters, Luke Gabbedy, John Longmuir and Michael Petruccelli provide chuckles and sound ensemble singing, particularly at the start of act two, where they are positioned high up on a wall of circuitry and screens.

But the tenor Kim is the undoubted star of the show, with his powerful, burnished notes soaring effortlessly across the orchestra all evening. “Vincerò!” (I will be victorious) he sings at the end of Nessun Dorma: the applause which followed told him he had already won.

Turandot is at the Sydney Opera House for Opera Australia until March 27.

David Larkin does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

How adults can use Stranger Things to talk to young people about their mental health

2026-01-15T18:42:56Z

Netflix

And by turning inner struggles into visible monsters, Stranger Things can provide a lens to discuss trauma, identity and resilience.

Here are some of Stranger Things’ insights into adolescent development and mental health – and how adults can use the show to talk to teenagers about their own mental health.

Facing our fears

In the series, the Upside Down is a dark mirror of the Hawkins township – a shadow world where threats feed on secrecy and avoidance. It works as a metaphor for “unseen” unprocessed experiences, shame and anxious avoidance.

Avoidance often reduces fear in the short term, but it can maintain post traumatic stress symptoms over time and interfere with recovery. Avoidance and thought suppression have been shown to increase severity of post traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) symptoms.

One of the most effective ways to reduce trauma symptoms is exposure to feared memories, sensations or situations in safe, planned ways. Exposure-based treatment, including trauma-focused cognitive behaviour therapy (TF-CBT) and prolonged exposure produce meaningful reductions in PTSD symptoms for adolescents and adults.

Stranger Things dramatises this principle: the young people at the heart of the show must face their fears to overcome their power.

Teens can experience what we might call “Upside Down moments”: times when they feel overwhelmed, ashamed or tempted to withdraw. Adults can validate their feelings and then gently pivot toward exposure. This could be small, supported steps to face what’s difficult (a conversation, a memory, a classroom presentation), rather than escape.

Facing shame

Vecna’s attacks dramatise shame and self-criticism. His voice echoes characters’ darkest self-judgments: Max hears accusations about Billy’s death; Eleven relives failures to protect friends.

Shame and self criticism are strongly linked with adolescent distress and risk behaviours. Skills like reappraisal (rethinking a situation) and self-compassion reduce shame-proneness and improve emotion regulation.

The show externalises inner battles, making coping strategies visible. Netflix

The show externalises these inner battles, making coping strategies visible.

You can help young people by reminding them the harsh voice in their head isn’t who they are. It’s just a thought, like a bully they can fight. Ask, “What would you say to a friend in your shoes?” or “What’s one small step to feel more in control?”

Turn shame into something they can face, not something they are.

Grounding yourself

Max’s use of Kate Bush’s Running Up That Hill to break Vecna’s trance is a vivid example of sensory grounding. Teens can replicate this coping tool with music, movement or other sensory anchors during distress.

Music-based activities can support emotion regulation and grounding techniques are practical ways to reduce flashbacks and anxiety.

Adults can help teenagers “ground” by asking them to notice and name things around them, by counting down from five. This might look like naming five things they can see, four things they can touch, three things they can hear, two things they can smell, and one thing they can taste.

You might also like to work with young people to create a “Vecna playlist” as a sensory anchor – sounds, textures or scents a young person can use when anxiety spikes.

Impinging on daily life

Will experiences flashbacks and panic long after he escapes the Upside Down. In the show, these are dramatised as him vomiting slugs, sensing the Mind Flayer, and freezing during school events.

Will’s trauma persists beyond his reaching physical safety, mirroring post-traumatic symptoms.

Max embodies complicated grief and survivor guilt after her brother’s death. Her withdrawn demeanour, risk taking and fight-or-flight responses echo patterns seen in adolescents grappling with bereavement and trauma, where avoidance and rumination can amplify distress.

Max, played by Sadie Sink, embodies complicated grief and survivor guilt after her brother’s death. Netflix

After Billy’s death, Max pulls away from her friends and starts taking risks, like skating alone at night. Her fight-or-flight response surges when Vecna targets her, showing how grief can spiral into something more complicated.

When grief becomes tangled like this, people often cope by avoiding reminders of their loss or getting stuck in painful, repetitive thoughts. Both patterns can make the hurt even harder to bear.

Like Will and Max, some teens experience persistent flashbacks, panic, avoidance or guilt. If symptoms impair daily life, adults should consider professional support. Trauma-focused CBT and exposure based therapies are evidence-based treatments for adolescent PTSD.

Friendship as a buffer

At its heart, Stranger Things is a friendship story.

The party’s loyalty and shared rituals provide a scaffold against isolation and fear. Rituals of D&D campaigns, walkie-talkie check-ins and bike rides create a safety net.

When Eleven loses her powers, friends rally to protect her. When Max is cursed, they mobilise with music and shared problem-solving.

At its heart, Stranger Things is a story of friendship. Netflix

Supportive peer relationships in early adolescence are linked with better mental and physical health. Peer support can improve coping, happiness and self-esteem and reduce loneliness and depressive symptoms among young adults.

Adults can point out how the characters in Stranger Things share burdens and protect one another.

Teachers and parents can help teens build belonging by supporting activities like clubs, group hobbies and gaming nights, alongside creating family rituals. Connection reduces perceived threat and buffers stress. In schools, interventions that strengthen positive interactions among students and staff can enhance belonging and wellbeing.

Stephen Goldsmith does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

This TikTok star sharing Australian animal stories doesn’t exist – it’s AI Blakface

2026-01-14T18:38:26Z

Bush Legend/The Conversation

The self-described “Bush Legend” on TikTok, Facebook and Instagram is growing in popularity.

These short and sharp videos feature an Aboriginal man – sometimes painted up in ochre, other times in an all khaki outfit – as he introduces different native animals and facts about them. These videos are paired with miscellaneous yidaki (didgeridoo) tunes, including techno mixes.

Comments on the videos often mention his bubbly persona, with some comments saying he needs his own TV show.

But the Bush Legend isn’t real. He is generated by artificial intelligence (AI).

This is a part of a growing influx of AI being utilised to represent Indigenous peoples, knowledges and cultures with no community accountability or relationships with Indigenous peoples. It forms a new type of cultural appropriation, one that Indigenous peoples are increasingly concerned about.

Do they know it’s AI?

In the user description, the Bush Legend pages say the visuals are AI. But does the average user scrolling through videos on their social media click onto a profile to read these details?

Some of the videos do feature AI watermarks, or mention they are AI in the caption. But many in the audience will be completely unaware this person is not real, and the entire video is artificially generated.

These videos “bait” the audience in through a spectrum of cute and cuddly to extremely dangerous creatures. Comments left on the videos query how close the man is to the animals, alongside their words of encouragement.

One commenter on Facebook writes “You have the same wonderful energy Steve Irwin had and your voice is great to listen to.”

The voice and energy they are referring to is fabricated.

A lack of respect

With any Indigenous content on the internet (authentic or AI), there remains racist commentary. As Indigenous people, we often say don’t read the comments, when it comes to social media and Indigenous content.

While the Bush Legend is not real nor culturally grounded, it too is not immune to online racism. I have read comments on his videos which uplift this AI persona while denigrating all other Indigenous people.

While this does not impact the creator, it does impact Indigenous peoples who are reading the comments.

The only information available on Bush Legend, other than the fact it is AI, is the creator is based in Aotearoa New Zealand. This suggests there is likely no connection to the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander communities that this likeness is being taken from.

Recently, Bush Legend addressed some of this critique in a video.

He said:

I’m not here to represent any culture or group […] If this isn’t your thing, mate, no worries at all, just scroll and move on.

This does not sufficiently address the very real concerns. If the videos are “simply about animal stories”, why does the creator insist on using the likeness of an Aboriginal man?

Accountability to the communities this involves is not considered in this scenario.

The ethics of AI

Generative AI represents a new platform in which Indigenous Cultural and Intellectual Property (ICIP) rights are breached.

Concerns for AI and Indigenous peoples lie across many areas, including education, and the lack of Indigenous involvement in AI creation and governance. Of course, there is also the cost to Country with considerable environmental impacts.

The recently released national AI plan offers little in terms of regulation.

Indigenous peoples have long fought to tell our own stories. AI poses another way in which our self determination is diminished or removed completely. It also serves as a way for non-Indigenous people to distance themselves from actual Indigenous peoples by allowing them to engage with content which is fabricated and, often, more palatable.

Bush Legend reflects a slippery slope when it comes to AI generated content of Indigenous peoples, as people can remove themselves further and further from engaging with Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people directly.

A new era of AI Blakface

We are seeing the rise of an AI Blakface that is utilised with ease thanks to the availability and prevalence of AI.

Non-Indigenous people and entities are able to create Indigenous personas through AI, often grounded in stereotypical representations that both amalgamate and appropriate cultures.

Bush Legend is often seen wearing cultural jewellery and with ochre painted on his skin. As these are generated, they are shallow misappropriations and lack the necessary cultural underpinnings of these practices.

This forms a new type of appropriation, that extends on the violence that Indigenous peoples already experience in the digital realm, particularly on social media. The theft of Indigenous knowledge for generative AI forms a new type of algorithmic settler colonialism, impacting Indigenous self-determination.

Most concerningly, these AI Blakfaces can be monetised and lead to financial gain for the creator. This financial benefit should go to the communities the content is taking from.

What is needed?

It is concerning to be living in a time where we do not know if the things we are consuming online are real. Increasing our AI and media literacy levels is integral.

Seeing AI content shared online as truth? Let the person sharing this content know – conversations with our communities serve as an opportunity to learn together.

Support actual Indigenous people sharing knowledge online, such as @Indigigrow, @littleredwrites or @meissa. Or check out all the Indigenous Ranger videos on TikTok.

When engaging online, take a moment to consider the source. Is this AI generated? Is this where my support should be?

Tamika Worrell does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

Jewelled eels, beards of gold and unfathomable cruelty: 5 of ancient Rome’s most eccentric leaders

2026-01-14T01:21:16Z

Ancient Roman political leaders could be violent and cruel. Some had odd tastes and were out of touch. Others had wildly eccentric habits that might seem amusing today.

But eccentric behaviour combined with almost unlimited power, made some Roman leaders dangerous and unpredictable.

Hortensius

One oddball was the orator and politician Hortensius (114–50 BCE) of the late Roman republic.

He loved the plane trees on his estate so much he watered them with wine. Receiving news that one of them was dying, Hortensius hastily adjourned a legal case to be by its side.

Crassus

Marcus Licinius Crassus, a contemporary of Hortensius, was a powerful Roman general and politician who kept pet eels in an expensive fishpond.

He adorned his favourite eel with jewellery. When the eel died, Crassus held a funeral and mourned it for three days.

Ancient accounts of eccentric behaviour weren’t just for entertainment. Crassus’ intense devotion to his favourite eel satirised his aristocratic vanity.

Crassus later died in Mesopotamia (southern Turkey) in a disastrous battle against the Parthians (rulers of ancient Iran) in 53 BCE. The Parthian generals lured Crassus into a hot and waterless plain where they destroyed his army. Due to Crassus’ impetuosity, 20,000 men died along with him and his son.

The orator and statesman, Cicero, lampooned the piscanarii (fishpond lovers), of whom Hortensius was also one, for their obscure indulgences. They should have focused more on affairs of state, he believed.

Caligula

The eccentricities of Roman leaders continued under the emperors, after the era of the republic ended. Now, however, almost unlimited power meant eccentricities could easily devolve into violence and cruelty.

The notorious emperor Caligula (ruled 37–41 CE) toyed with appointing his horse as consul. The horse, named Incitatus, was lavished with splendidly appointed stables and its own slaves.

Caligula was known for other unique tastes. He often dressed in the garb of four different divinities, including Venus. Sometimes he wore a beard of gold and held a thunderbolt in his hand to emulate Jupiter.

Increasingly paranoid, perhaps after a breakdown, Caligula held treason trials. Senators and at least one potential imperial rival were executed on trumped up charges. Some claimed he even sexually abused his sisters.

But reports of Caligula’s personal excesses were probably exaggerated. His strong disagreements with the senate got him offside with the class that often wrote the histories.

Caligula’s reputation for eccentric leadership and paranoia saw his assassination in 41 CE.

Nero

Nero is perhaps the most (in)famous Roman politician of all. The nephew of Caligula, Nero’s reign (54–68 CE) was known for brutality, excess and indulgence.

The legend of Nero singing and playing the fiddle (probably a stringed instrument called a cithara) while Rome burned in 64 CE remains strong.

The nephew of Caligula, Nero was known for brutality, excess and indulgence. The Met, Bequest of Phyllis Massar, 2011

Many doubt this actually happened but what we do know is that after the fire Nero built a 300-room palace – the Golden House (Domus Aurea) – on land cleared of buildings by the fire.

Nero’s penchant for singing and playing the cithara on stage was mocked during and after his reign. He even established a festival called the Neronia and competed on stage as a singer.

In 59 CE, Nero hatched a plan to murder his mother, Agrippina. At first he sent her to sea on a pleasure cruise in a collapsible boat. She survived and swam ashore but was killed soon after by one of Nero’s agents.

For these reasons, and many more, Nero was declared a public enemy in 68 CE and took his own life. He discovered there was a limit to what political elites and the public would accept.

Commodus

Over a century later, emperor Commodus expressed some wildly eccentric behaviour. Known to many of us from the Gladiator movies, Commodus actually did appear in the Colosseum. One (likely exaggerated) ancient source claimed he appeared in the arena 735 times.

Commodus liked to dress up as Hercules, his favourite mythological hero. A famous sculpture in Rome depicts him as such.

Commodus’ reputation for cruelty and erratic behaviour was widespread. The murder of his sister Lucilla in 182 CE on suspicion of involvement in a coup struck fear into many. Commodus was eventually strangled in the bath after all his allies abandoned him.

Elagabalus

Perhaps the most eccentric of all Roman emperors came to power a few decades later. Elagabalus, only 14 on becoming emperor in 218 CE, scandalised Rome with his religious and personal life.

Elagabalus broke time-honoured Roman customs. He married one of the Vestal Virgins, traditionally sacred in Roman religious traditions.

He built a temple in Rome to the god Elagabal whom he was named after. A black stone (probably a meteorite) was central to the god’s worship. Elagabalus brought the stone to Rome from Emesa (modern Homs), his family’s home town in Syria.

The historian Cassius Dio claimed Elagabalus’ fifth spouse was a man named Hierocles – an ex-slave and charioteer – and that Elagabalus liked to be called “wife, mistress, and queen.”

The emperor reportedly played some of the traditional roles of women in this marriage, including spinning wool. It is possible that Elagabalus was transgender but the bias of ancient sources makes this difficult to judge.

Ultimate power

Depictions of the eccentricities of Roman leaders were (and remain) interesting. But such leaders were often also dangerous, unpredictable and out of touch.

With the power of life and death often in their hands, a reign of terror was possible. In some cases, it was a frightening reality.

Peter Edwell receives funding from the Australian Research Council.

Why the Heated Rivalry TV series understands gay men better than the book

2026-01-13T19:06:58Z

HBO

Heated Rivalry, written and directed by Jacob Tierney, has become a massive hit, going viral among gay romance fans and gathering millions of likes on the show’s official TikTok page.

Tierney’s adaptation of Rachel Reid’s 2019 novel turns Reid’s words into a beautiful exploration of queer male love and sex.

Reid’s romance novel was written for a mainly female readership, and it doesn’t quite capture all of the nuances of a gay male relationship. Under a gay male director, the TV series brings a whole new understanding to the intricacies of gay love.

Not just a pretty face

Reids’ original novel boxes the characters into their corners. Shane is the “pretty” boy who is “like a doll”, naturally “smooth” and “like a swimmer”. Ilya is “masculine” and “big” and has a “muscular chest”, “muscular arms” and “thick, muscular thighs”.

Based on these physical descriptions it comes as no surprise that Shane is the “bottom” in this pairing, depicted as softer in appearance and more emotional. Ilya is the “top” – a more masculine, imposing figure.

Tierney doesn’t change these roles, but instead doesn’t draw attention to how Ilya’s traits are more “manly” and Shane’s more “feminine”. Rather, Tierney focuses on how Shane and Ilya’s personal lives make them who they are – in and out of the bedroom.

As Ilya, Connor Storrie gives us a bisexual man who is muscular and masculine – but he is also vulnerable. HBO

Ilya’s dominance and masculinity in the books isn’t a focal point in the show. Instead, we see more of him as a vulnerable bisexual man who fights against his emotions and his family, but just wants to be held in the arms of a person that he loves.

Shane isn’t just a pretty face for the audience either, with his Asian-Canadian heritage expanded upon. We get the pressures of his identity as a representative figure in the media, and softer moments that he shares with his mother after coming out.

Tierney’s perspective makes the pair fully realised people. HBO

Consent is sexy

One of the biggest changes is how Tierney handles consent. Shane and Ilya have a lot of sex both in the book and in the show. In a famous scene from the book, Shane receives a call from his teammate. Ilya takes it as a chance to perform oral sex on Shane. Reid writes Shane “was soft, so maybe he really didn’t want Ilya to be doing this”, and Shane describes it as “fucking creepy”.

The show adjusts this dubious consent and silent protest. Instead – after slight push back – Shane physically moves into a position that enables Ilya better access to his groin and gives facial clues that imply consent is clear.

Tierney has said adding explicit consent to this scene “makes it hotter”. The line between what is acceptable is far clearer in Tierney’s show than Reid’s book because of these changes.

By foregrounding consent, Heated Rivalry makes the sex scenes ‘even hotter’. HBO

Consent is prevalent and very much an expectation in the gay community. Tierney’s lens adds these conversations about consent to the show, and makes it clear that Shane and Ilya are so in-tune with each other that there are boundaries, and that’s still sexy.

Tierney lets Ilya and Shane feel less like tough athletes, and more like two people learning to be vulnerable with each other. Ilya’s character is softened, and portrayed as a kinder masculinity.

In the book, when they both say “I love you”, Ilya is stoic and “scared”. In the show he cries, happily.

In the sex scenes, Tierney peels back layers of tough, male energy and instead focuses on showing a tenderness and emotional depth more aligned with real life gay male relationships. Tierney understands the need for emotion in this scene, and his addition shows an awareness of his gay male viewership’s need for vulnerable, fulfilling queer men on screen.

Finding an audience

In adapting the sex to the screen, Tierney spoke about how he wanted to “script the fuck out of these sex scenes” because he knew fans of the book “love this stuff”. He also wanted to emphasise “horny good sex for gay people on TV”, sex that “is not going to end in misery or AIDS or punishment”.

In this, Tierney follows in the footsteps of other amazing queer male directors and writers, such as Greg Berlanti’s Love, Simon (2018) and Peter Paige’s The Thing About Harry (2020).

Tierney’s Shane and Ilya cry, have good sex, share their hurts and worries, and work through their vulnerabilities together. All while still being active, attractive and complicated queer men.

Harry Stewart does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

The Pout-Pout Fish visually exemplifies contemporary animation – but something is lost in translation

2026-01-13T00:24:31Z

Like a Photon Creative

Adapting the much beloved and best-selling picture book series The Pout-Pout Fish is no easy feat.

Staying core to the source material, the new Australian animated movie follows surly Mr Fish (Nick Offerman) as he goes on a journey with youthful and bombastic leafy sea dragon Pip (Nina Oyama) to have a wish granted by the mysterious Shimmer (Jordan Sparks).

The film is one of emotional self-discovery. It uses a classic narrative structure that introduces obstacles, a wide variety of side characters, and moments of doubt before arriving at an optimistic outcome for the whole reef.

Expanding this slim narrative into a feature-length animated film is an ambitious undertaking that reveals both the strengths and limitations of the film’s approach to storytelling, design and emotional landscape.

World-class Aussie-mation

This production marks a significant outcome for Australian animation, with a theatrical release to over 2,000 cinemas in the United States.

The film is produced by woman-run Like a Photon Creative, the studio behind The Lost Tiger (2025), The Sloth Lane (2024) and Scarygirl (2023). Founded in Brisbane in 2014, the studio focuses on family-oriented feature films and original intellectual property, combining technically sophisticated computer-generated pipelines with narrative and character design.

The studio recently opened an office in Ireland to strengthen its international offerings. This will enable international co-production, larger-scale workflows and round-the-clock production capacity.

Since 2018, the studio has produced eight animated theatrical feature films sold in over 179 territories; two television series; 75 digital picture books; and five apps. They have pumped over A$52 million through the screen economy in Queensland.

A simple tale

The Pout-Pout Fish is a classic tale of curmudgeon meets youthful eternal optimist.

The story allows for emotional literacy into how individuals have different temperaments. It frames emotional change as something that occurs through connection, empathy and self-recognition. The supporting characters play a key role in this expansion.

From the well-meaning but misguided sea creatures who encourage Mr. Fish to “cheer up” to those who simply accept him as he is, the film subtly critiques the ways adults and peers often respond to visible sadness.

But plot and core message gets a little lost with so many different characters and multiple plot lines on the go. Conflict remains minimal, stakes are low, and the film is content to move steadily toward reassurance rather than tension.

The Pout-Pout Fish is a classic tale of curmudgeon meets youthful eternal optimist. Like a Photon Creative

It relies heavily on dialogue to move the plot along. This may lose some younger viewers. In a landscape increasingly interested in representing complex inner lives, The Pout Pout Fish feels conservative in its ambitions.

Older viewers will notice the film’s reluctance to push beyond familiar structures or to trust young audiences with emotional uncertainty.

Animation polish

Visually, The Pout-Pout Fish exemplifies contemporary mainstream animation polish. The underwater world is rendered in bright, saturated colours, with rounded coral formations and softly glowing environments.

Computer-generated animation has increasingly developed a particular look and feel. This identifiable visual language is shaped by shared tools, pipelines and commercial pressures.

This look prioritises surface polish, volumetric lighting, cinematic depth of field and recognisable character design – often at the expense of diversity in style.

Characters have oversized and expressive eyes that prioritise children being able to read emotions quickly. Although highly effective and commercially successful, this approach can flatten stylistic diversity, encouraging homogeneity across studios.

Characters have oversized and expressive eyes that prioritise children being able to read emotions quickly. Like a Photon Creative

Cultural expectations have emerged to further establish this homogeneous look, with audiences and children perhaps used to a particular feel.

The film borrows an aesthetic from a number of Disney and Pixar titles, leaning into the the underwater legacy established by Finding Nemo (2003) and Shark Tale (2004), created over 20 years ago.

Aussie accents on the silver Screen

The film uses both Australian actors and world-class voice talent.

The film includes elements of “Australian-ness”, similar to the “British-ness” on both individual and national identity permeating Aardman Studio’s stop-motion Wallace & Grommit and Shaun the Sheep.

The creators attempted to internationalise the film with side characters who have French and Latin American accents, but the general accent mish-mash becomes a little confusing with an American lead.

It feels the film is trying to bridge the gap between the domestic and international markets. Choices seem to prioritise international legibility and commercial circulation over local specificity.

This reflects a broader tendency in Australian animation to sometimes smooth out national markers to pursue exports.

From an industry perspective, the strategy can be effective. American accents reduce the perceived cultural distance for international audiences and align the film with familiar modes of US children’s animation familiar to the Disney, Pixar and Sony Animation audiences.

Like A Photon Creative is consolidating its position as a leading force in contemporary 3D animation, capable of competing confidently on the global stage while retaining creative authorship and independence.

The Pout Pout Fish is in Australian cinemas now.

Ari Chand does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

Could Heated Rivalry bring a whole new fanbase to ice hockey – and can the sport embrace them?

2026-01-12T19:07:33Z

HBO

Heated Rivalry has taken the world by a storm. The series tells the story of rivals-to-lovers hockey players Japanese-Canadian Shane Hollander (Hudson Williams) and Russian Ilya Rozanov (Connor Storrie), and their yearslong relationship navigating falling in love while playing professional sport.

Based on the Game Changers ice hockey romance novels by Rachel Reid, the series has garnered significant attention. The sports romance genre is experiencing a boom, and studios – and sports – are starting to take notice of these new audiences.

Can sporting bodies learn from this phenomenon to make sport more inclusive?

Queer players in men’s sports

Sport romance stories such as Heated Rivalry depict sporting worlds where queer joy, acceptance and belonging is not only possible, but is enthusiastically embraced.

While queerness in women’s sports is relatively accepted, it isn’t in men’s sport.

In Australia, there are very few out male professional athletes, with the exceptions of the A-League Men’s Josh Cavallo and National Basketball League’s Isaac Humphries.

Former AFL player Mitch Brown recently came out as bisexual, but has acknowledged he only felt comfortable doing so after retiring.

While there are now approximately 30 out players in the North American Professional Women’s Hockey League, there are currently no out players in the men’s National Hockey League.

The absence of out players in the NHL may be related to the impacts of the league’s past actions. The league infamously mishandled its pride round in 2023, when rainbow pride tape – which wraps around the hockey sticks – was banned from use. If sporting pride colours was an issue, being queer in and around the league most definitely was too.

The league is now having to grapple with the influx of Heated Rivalry fans seeking out content complementary to the show. In this, Heated Rivalry might inspire some social change in sport with new fans attending the game.

Melbourne’s Southern Lights, Australia’s first LGBT+ ice hockey club, are even promoting come-and-try opportunities off the back of Heated Rivalry’s success.

The series has also attracted straight men in sports media and content creation spaces – spaces that have not always been kind to or cognisant of diverse communities.

The popular ice hockey podcast Empty Netters is actively engaging with the series while learning about queer culture through the entry point of a sport the hosts know and love.

They are bringing along an audience unlikely to engage with queer storytelling, imbuing allyship rarely seen in sports media.

Heated Rivalry gets queer love right

Heated Rivalry is not just a hockey show about queer players. The show centres diverse, compelling human stories seldom depicted in men’s professional sport. Ice hockey might provide the setting – but falling in love, finding community and feeling seen is universal.

The show progressively recognises and affirms diversity within the queer community. Shane expresses he’s only attracted to men; he notes Ilya can potentially find “socially acceptable” love by dating women. The two may be in love, but their experiences are not the same.

Importantly, Ilya’s bisexuality is never erased.

Allyship is actively portrayed through strong supporting characters. Women, in particular, provide friendship, emotional support, home truths and moral compasses for the queer characters. They demonstrate ways those outside the queer community can be allies, advocates and offer an access point for non-queer audiences.

Even straight women are self-professed superfans. For some straight women, the distance from being immersed in straight storytelling can offer some relief from problematic stereotypes such as gendered power dynamics and body image – while also providing escapism and eye candy.

Importantly, Heated Rivalry conforms to the romance genre rule of giving the audience a happily ever after.

This is especially significant in queer storytelling. Queer love and coming out stories are often portrayed as traumatic and tragic, giving into the “bury your gays” trope.

Teaching professional sports a diversity lesson

NHL team the Seattle Kraken attempted to embrace romance readers back in 2023, encouraging social media posting by fans that embraced the voyeurism of sports romance and sexualised the real professional athletes.

But the team did not establish boundaries to protect their brand and their athletes.

This misguided approach also lead to the romance community being perceived by traditional sports fans as inappropriate women who could not distinguish reality from fiction.

Sports love a pop culture silver bullet that brings in new fans. The American National Football League is experiencing this with the Taylor Swift effect, with Swift frequently attending her fiance’s games.

But to meaningfully engage new and diverse fans, cultural change is needed. Sports organisations need to further understand these audiences to serve them and keep them connected.

Hopefully this sports romance trend and the popularity of Heated Rivalry will also shine a light on women’s sport where queer stories are plentiful and prime for storytelling. The Professional Women’s Hockey League even features a real-life equivalent of Shane’s and Ilya’s tale in Julie Chu and Caroline Ouellette.

The market is there, it’s not what you’d expect, and it’s finally being catered to. Sports organisations should be paying attention.

Kasey Symons has received funding from the Victorian Government, and national and state sport governing bodies, including the Australian Football League and the National Rugby League. She is also one of the co-founders of Siren: A Women in Sport Collective.

Fiona Crawford has worked in and around football for more than a decade. Her research focuses primarily on the use of sport for social change.

Beauty in ordinary things: why this Japanese folk craft movement still matters 100 years on

2026-01-11T22:40:25Z

A thrown tea bowl made by Hamada Shōji. Wikimedia, CC BY-SA

On January 10 1926, Yanagi Sōetsu and the potters Hamada Shōji and Kawai Kanjirō sat talking excitedly late into the night at a temple on Mt Kōya, in Japan’s Wakayama Prefecture.

They were debating how best to honour the beauty of simple, everyday Japanese crafts. Out of that conversation came a new word, mingei, and a plan to found The Japan Folk Crafts Museum in Tokyo. Later, Yanagi would describe what emerged that night as “a new standard of beauty”.

The Japan Folk Crafts Museum in Meguro Ward, Tokyo, is dedicated to collecting, preserving, researching, and exhibiting the hand-crafted works of the Mingei movement. Wikimedia, CC BY-SA

A century on, Yanagi’s ideas feel strikingly relevant. His message was simple: beautiful things need not be rare or expensive – they can be well-designed objects that we use every day.

In an age of fast fashion, disposable products and growing concerns about waste, his approach offers an important reminder to think about the objects we choose to have around us.

How mingei was born

Yanagi (1889–1961) was an art critic and collector who believed beauty was not solely the preserve of famous artists or rare treasures. He and his friends were drawn, instead, to well-made and functional objects: bowls, baskets, fabrics and tools created for daily use, rather than to display.

Yanagi was an art critic, philosopher and founder of the Mingei movement. Wikimedia

To Yanagi, these simple things shaped the rhythm of daily life – yet had gone unnoticed in a world rushing toward modern mass production.

The attraction came from looking closely. Yanagi described it as “seeing with one’s own eyes before dissecting with the intellect”. He admired the work of anonymous craftspeople who repeated familiar forms, refining them through long periods of practice.

These makers did not seek fame; their goal was to create objects that balanced beauty and function so completely that they were inseparable.

Japan in the 1920s was changing fast. Mass-produced goods were replacing handmade ones, and many local craft traditions were in decline. Yanagi worried this shift would erase skills and weaken the bond between beauty and everyday life. Mingei aimed to bring this connection back into view.

Yanagi, Hamada and Kawai agreed they needed a new word for the kind of objects they wanted to celebrate. From minshuteki kōgei, meaning “craft of the people”, they coined the shorter term mingei. It describes objects made for use rather than prestige, and by hand rather than by machine. Yanagi believed these objects formed the true heart of Japanese craft.

A year after their Mount Kōya conversation, the group held their first folk craft exhibition in Ginza. None of the works carried signatures. The exhibition aimed to encourage a new way of looking at humble objects, suggesting that everyday things held artistic value when viewed with care.

A thrown bowl by Bernard Leach. Wikimedia, CC BY

How mingei shaped Japanese design

Yanagi’s ideas went on to shape Japanese craft and design throughout the 20th century, influencing not only craftspeople but also designers.

His son, Yanagi Sōri, adopted mingei principles in his famous 1954 Butterfly Stool, made from two curved pieces of plywood that meet like wings. Simple, balanced and light, the stool is now an icon of modern design, showing how mingei could take form in new materials and contexts.

The maple veneer Butterfly stool designed by Yanagi Sōri. David Wong/South China Morning Post via Getty Images

The movement also shaped the work of Hamada and Kawai, and many other makers including Tomimoto Kenkichi, Serizawa Keisuke, Munakata Shikō and the Englishman Bernard Leach. They showed how traditional craft practised with care and humility could remain vital in a rapidly changing world.

Another branch of Yanagi’s legacy emerged with the rise of seikatsu kōgei, or “lifestyle crafts”, in the 1990s. These makers turned to simple, functional objects to reconsider how we live. After Japan’s economic bubble burst in the 1980s, many began to question the habit of buying and discarding.

Why Yanagi’s ideas matter today

The influence of mingei continues in contemporary design. Fukasawa Naoto – one of Japan’s most influential designers and the current director of The Japan Folk Crafts Museum – aims to create objects which work so naturally that they seem to disappear into daily life.

He describes this as “without thought” design: things that feel right in the hand, fit their purpose and do not demand attention. His long collaboration with MUJI, known for its pared-back products, shows how closely his work follows the mingei spirit.

This way of thinking sits in sharp contrast to how many goods are made today. A culture of fast buying and quick disposal has left people feeling disconnected from the act of making, from materials and from the things they own.

Former Japanese Emperor Akihito and Empress Michiko visiting The Japan Folk Crafts Museum, during a 2017 exhibition commemorating the 80th anniversary of the museum. Yomiuri Shimbun/AP

Mingei offers an alternative way of thinking. It invites us to look closely at the objects we use each day – to notice their shape, feel and purpose. It suggests beauty should be part of everyday life, not an escape from it.

Yanagi believed if we change how we see and choose ordinary things, we might also change how we live. A century later, his call to value simple and well-made objects offers a steady guide through our profit-driven, disposable world.

Penny Bailey does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.