Picture this. It’s 1599 in London. You’re at the new Globe Theatre. Or perhaps at the Curtain Theatre. Historians can’t decide. Let’s say you’re a groundling – it’s more fun that way. You’ve got a bag of peanuts in hand, or the early modern equivalent. It probably smells. Then, the chorus shuffle onto the stage. They’re met with expectant hushes. Out of silence, they emerge into steady verse. The lofty iambs you hear invoke “a Muse of fire”, yet they also ask a crucial question: “Can this cockpit hold the vasty fields of France?” Absorbed, the chap next to you whispers ‘Yes, yes it can’. But you can’t help but think, well no. Not really.

I am aware this is the wrong answer. Shakespeare’s false modesty (“this unworthy scaffold” – come off it!) demands that you think, oh, of course it can. This wooden “O” can in fact cram the very casques that did affright the air at Agincourt. Yes, I will make imaginary puissance so that when you talk of horses, I’ll see their proud hoofs. And generations of lit crit sycophants have given their nodding assent.

But let’s be honest for a moment. Even the most ardent enjoyers of the stage must acknowledge that theatre is, to an extent, always a little dire.

I’m reminded of this in the opening of The Tempest. I always smile to myself as I wonder how theatre-makers will construct a storm onstage. How an actor has to stumble across stage, yell ‘Boatswaaiiiin!’ and stumble back off to the wings, only to hold his head in his hands knowing all too well that this in no way resembles a storm. I love those little arm-flailing dances and staggering sidesteps meant to show the rising and falling of the deck. There’s something of the primary school nativity play. It’s pathetic and tragic, and neither in the literary sense.

Of course I’m being facetious here. Some theatre is remarkably skilful, and some lopsided limb-lurching is more impressive than others. Splendid set pieces and cutting-edge special effects of sound, rain, and wind can create real spectacle. Yet it often remains woefully unconvincing. We can only imagine the Emperor’s new clothes for so long before the public indecency gets a little off-putting. So at times we may wonder: it’s the 21st century. Film can faithfully represent the stories we wish to tell. What need have we for theatre?

If the thought often attributed to Ovid is correct, that art est celare artem (true art is to conceal art), then theatre is pretty poor art. You ain’t fooling me into thinking that’s a storm. A friend of mine makes this point, although strangely never to our director when he’s casting the plays. Yet I have to remind myself that this is a silly question. I have to imagine that a century ago I’ve come out of a particularly awful exhibition at a gallery. What, I ask myself, is the point of painting when we’ve a camera that’s a far more faithful representation?

Perhaps cinema is to theatre what photography was to painting. Whilst more photorealistic forms may tend to conceal their own art – as Ovid would praise – this surely doesn’t entail their superiority. Faithfulness cannot be the metric of good art. A high-definition photograph of flowers is not by definition greater than a Van Gogh. Likewise, a believable cinematic storm is not automatically better than some wacky wobbling and foot-floundering onstage.

There’s a paradox in that the artifice of art is all the more compelling if we have a glimpse of it. This is part of the tantalising appeal of behind-the-scenes footage, and why it’s always so thrilling to glimpse actors’ true personalities and relationships as they take their bows. Think how we’re so captivated by the possibility of Paul Mescal and Daisy Edgar-Jones or Emma Stone and Andrew Garfield.

Two film representations of the prologue to Henry V are particularly delightful in this respect: they tease us with the illusion of theatre. Laurence Olivier’s Technicolour 1944 version begins with an aerial shot of Elizabethan London, which pans across from the Tower to the Globe Theatre, and into a deliciously evocative scene of crammed-in groundlings and the atmospheric accoutrements of a lady selling apples, before trumpets sound and our play begins within the theatre. At the opening of Act II, we shift our scene to Southampton, as the illustrated ocean vista on the theatre’s curtain dissolves into the real thing. The play ends with a zoom in from the opulent palace onto the newlywed royals taking their thrones, and a zoom out onto the Globe itself. Cue riotous applause. Kenneth Branagh’s 1989 take is wonderfully meta too, as Derek Jacobi speaks the prologue whilst wandering through a film set, and the epilogue straight down the lens. Both embrace their medium’s very artifice

We never return to painting and theatre for their nonchalance. The joy is the artifice. In painting, each brushstroke tangibly intimates the brush, the hand that held it, the mind that led it, and the heart behind it. In theatre, it’s to look into a man’s eyes and try to discern where man ends, and Hamlet begins. It’s to see those horse’s proud hoofs when that actor’s feet are firmly planted onstage. It’s to watch the curtain’s waves melt into that furrowed sea itself.

So theatre must draw attention to its own artifice. Hence the perverse appeal of Bertolt Brecht’s desire that the actor “must not go so far as to be wholly transformed” into a character; we’ve got to resist the full ‘method’. This is essential for an art form that’s ironically real, immediate in the physical distance between actor and audience, and immediate in its emotions. The messiness, the unpredictable, the implausible – all happening this very moment – are why we return to the stage. In the age of digital smoothness, we return to the awkward artifice of live performance.

It must be said that embracing grittiness is not unique to theatre. Of course, the Henry V productions above are themselves films, and Richard Ayoade delightfully talks of doubling down on the unreality of cinema, using a handheld camera to draw our attention more to the cameraman. But theatre can’t hide its seams as cinema can. The theatre is unrepeatable and live: we can’t ignore its bizarre unreality. Wood must transmorph into fields, actor into king, and wobbled arm-jerks into a ship in storm.

This is why I ultimately can forgive Shakespeare for the prologue to Henry V (I’m sure he’s relieved by my approval). It’s annoyingly brilliant. It walks a fine line between downplaying and exaggerating the power of theatre. It veers neither into self-indulgence nor disillusionment. I know the stage isn’t much, he seems to say, but join me.

So fine, William. I’ll happily indulge you. If you my humble patience pray, I shall gently hear, kindly judge, your play. Although if you’re doing a storm onstage, tell me now. I might need to grab some mead at the interval.

Did society collectively decide to stop wearing 18^th-century ball gowns, or 1920s flapper dresses? I doubt it. We love to dress up for Halloween and enjoy how we look and act in outfits that are no longer deemed socially acceptable. Yet fashion trends and societal norms keep us from wearing ‘costumes’ on other occasions. These outfits, such as a ballgown, a flapper dress, or medieval armour, represent a bygone era. By acting as costumes, there are fashion trends that we imitate without fully acknowledging how essential these were in their respective times. The question, therefore, remains: are these only trends that we imitate on specific occasions – Halloween or bops – instead of an everyday outfit? I find it quite hard to believe that there was a categorical shift in ‘personal style’ throughout the ages. Instead, our fashion choices emphasise how our individual styles are limited by the available market, and what fashion magazines and brands declare as ‘in style’.

Clothes declared ‘trendy’ are pushed on society, particularly on women. Although it may not have always been described in these terms, this expectation to wear these ‘trendy’ clothes is certainly something that has always existed, and undoubtedly continues to thrive today. Living in an age in which (Western) women have more choice on a social, political, and economic level, it is clear that this does not equate to total freedom in any regard. Despite being overshadowed by the range of women’s clothing in the modern market, this is also true for fashion. Is it really possible to create your own personal style?

If you have ever seen The Devil Wears Prada, you’ll know the scene where antagonist Miranda Priestly explains to protagonist Andy Sachs the process of how her ‘throwing on an old sweater’ went through so many branches within the fashion industry. This is because everything we wear, even casually, goes through an extensive process before it is available to the public. In the film, she describes the trickle-down effect within the clothing industry, in which a runway design influences brands, which then produce similarly styled garments. She then details how these styles travel from high-end brands into department stores and local shops, where they are picked up by us. This perfectly demonstrates the illusion of choice, as what we choose to wear passes through a long line of executive decisions that are not our own. In buying a new pair of jeans, for example, you make many choices: the choice of shop or brand, then the choice of the jeans themselves, among many more. However, these are likely the shops close to you, or that deliver to your area (and within a certain price range). These jeans have gone through this process in the industry, and their style is pushed in magazines and social media as ‘cool’ or ‘trendy’. They are designed to succeed in the market, not to be bought by an individual as a single expression of personal style.

The reliance on trends has only been enhanced by the growth of social media, particularly TikTok and Instagram. I have seen dozens of people expressing their ‘likes’ and ‘dislikes’ in regard to clothing items, and, on the whole, they are largely the same. That said, there are many different algorithms and aesthetics, and yet, even within these, there is a standard type of dress. The ‘clean girl’ aesthetic, grunge, and indie styles all contain their own distinctions, but we can still understand which is which based on appearance. Fashion trends often fit within a style category, often one that exists on some side of social media, from which people derive inspiration. Nevertheless, on these different ‘sides’ of social media, the manner of dress somewhat resembles each other.

I find that this was particularly true in certain periods of time – most obviously seen since 2020. There are many specific items of clothing that I still see people wear today, and they transport me back to the pandemic. The oversized green-blue knitted sweater, white tennis skirts, turtlenecks, and other aspects of the 2020 ‘indie’ style retain their cultural and social link to this period. The pandemic exemplified a dependence on social media in the world of fashion, since this was the only way in which we could gauge fashion trends, as streetwear became virtually non-existent.

Since then, we have returned to microtrends, vintage clothing, and thrifting. In this way, we feel we can express personal styles – with fashion trends that may have only 500 likes on TikTok, instead of 500,000, or things that are from the 90s, and judged to be a ‘rare find’. But, like I say, the general principle still applies: even where vintage or thrifted, these clothes travelled through a long process and are far from rare. Nonetheless, we believe that we have a choice.

Something I appreciate about the fashion trends of the 2020s is the rise of crafts, such as DIY, crocheting, and sewing, as an individual take on what we see online. While social media emphasises trends, myriad videos show people making their own clothes. This is exemplary of choice and personal style. And yet, this is still not necessarily an individual’s creativity. This is something of a trend – sewing, adjusting, or adding to clothes to make them your own. Most notably, the trend becomes clear when you ask, ‘Where does the inspiration for this come from?’ It often comes from social media – primarily, Pinterest. So, the idea of ‘being unique’ stems from both the internet and availability.

Consistently dressing in a completely original way is impossible. Making time to create unique ideas for, and sew or knit all new clothes in 2026 is an absurd concept. The time, effort, and money for this would be immense. As a result, total innovation and imagination are very difficult to achieve. There is simply not enough time.

However, this only relates to creativity in its fullest form. This is by no means an argument that there is no imagination in fashion. We can, indeed, still have some choice. While many of the fashion trends that we see online can only be defined as an illusion of choice, we each look distinct in the clothes that we wear. A dozen people could wear the same plain dress, but in a dozen different ways. Consequently, while choices may be dependent on the existing clothing market, autonomy does, in fact, remain within the fashion industry of today; we are not yet totally lost in the illusion.

Four students from St John’s College, Cambridge, have undertaken an extraordinary fundraising challenge, punting over 200 miles in 12 days from Oxford to Cambridge to raise money for the Alzheimer’s Society.

The participants – Charlie Swinfen, Stefan Narinian, Beth Erskine, and Ryan Vowles – covered an average of 19 miles a day in their bid to complete the endurance challenge.

Their punting effort has attracted considerable media coverage. The four have been interviewed by BBC Oxford, BBC Cambridgeshire, and ITV News Anglia. Cherwell interviewed the intrepid group midway through their journey.

How did they come up with such an unusual fundraising initiative? “Some students at St John’s did it in 2010, and we thought it was the craziest thing ever,” one told me. “We settled on doing it for the Alzheimer’s Society as a couple of members of the group have family affected by it, and also September is World Alzheimer’s Month.”

The group were also keen to emphasise the connections between their college and Alzheimer’s research. St John’s College and the Alzheimer’s Society share the forget-me-not as a symbol. The motto of the College’s founder, Lady Margaret Beaufort, was “Remember me often”, giving rise to the forget-me-not as a college flower. The College’s former Master, Sir Christopher Dobson, provides a further link between college and charity: Dobson was credited with research that shed light on the likely cause of Alzheimer’s.

“We didn’t have any experience with canals or houseboating,” one says. “Initially, being naive, we pieced together the blog of the students from 2010 to figure out a general route. But in hindsight, using canal planning apps, we realised that there’s only one decent route to get from Oxford to Cambridge.”

Surprisingly, the four did minimal physical preparation for the challenge they had set themselves. Instead, the emphasis was on logistical preparation: figuring out where to stay and securing insurance. The punt they used was built by Alex Ramsey, also from their college.

The most direct puntable waterway connection between the two universities takes a route through Northampton, Peterborough, and Ely. The group began their journey northwards on the Oxford Canal, navigating a maze of locks, tunnels, canals, and rivers before eventually joining the River Cam and arriving back at St John’s College.

“The first few days were really nice. The canals around Oxford were gorgeous,” one says.

Three of the former students who completed the punting challenge in 2010 also came to visit them for a picnic along the route.

Yet by the halfway point of their journey, on the canal from Northampton to Peterborough, the four admitted that the hours of punting each day were beginning to take their toll, though they stressed that the experience was still enjoyable.

I ask about the differences between their effort and that of the students in 2010. They point out that they are travelling to Cambridge rather than from it, meaning they are going in the opposite direction to their predecessors. “The droughts this summer mean there are lots of sections where we’ve had to lift the punt to get around closures,” one adds.

The day before we speak, the four had braved one of the most challenging – and perilous – parts of their journey: the Braunston Tunnel, a mile-long, unlit tunnel dating from the 19th century.

“There are seven locks in quick succession on both sides, so you are basically not allowed to go through the tunnel in a canoe or punt,” one tells me. “So we needed to find someone with a motorboat or houseboat to tow us through.” Eventually, after hours of waiting, a group agreed to tow them through the tunnel.

More peril was still to come for the four. The day after we spoke, they were due to pass through a large water-management complex north of Cambridge, the Denver Sluice. “We’ll need to do it at the right time of day so the dam doesn’t drag us out to sea,” one told me.

The group emphasised their appreciation for all of their supporters – old friends and new acquaintances alike. “The people we meet along the way are so lovely – they are very moved by what we are doing, and some have had family members affected by Alzheimer’s,” one tells me. “Meeting them keeps us going, even when it’s pretty bleak.”

“We really enjoy reading the comments that come through with the donations. They make us feel like this is worth doing,” another adds, as our interview draws to a close.

The four arrived at their final destination, St John’s College, at approximately midday on Sunday 4 October. They were greeted by a crowd of friends and family as they passed under the Bridge of Sighs. 

In an interview with BBC Oxfordshire, they admitted that they were “pretty knackered” but were still fuelled by adrenaline.

The group initially aimed to raise £5,000, but have since blown past that target. At the time of writing, they had raised over £10,000 for a cause rooted in college history.

“We are delighted to have made it back to St John’s and to have raised these funds for such an important charity,” they told Cherwell.