In this chapter, one of the Holy Sonnets, ‘Oh my black Soule’, is analysed in detail against the background of its dramatic elements. These mainly consist in allusions and references to medieval morality plays such as Everyman, allegory and personification. Allegorical elements relate to colour symbolism and the change of colours that occurs in the sestet. The latter have sources in medieval drama as much as in the Bible. The pun in the final couplet on ‘dy(e)ing’ shows links to Prudentius’ Peristephanon Liber as much as to Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar; it refers to both the death of Christ that saves humankind and to the physicality and personification of the soul: death can be overcome in spite of sin, and the speaker is reassured of his redemption.

This introduction presents the key concepts discussed in the subsequent chapters of this book. The aim is to provide detailed readings of his directed and co-directed films made for cinema and television, along with his unsigned works of the late 1960s and 1970s. The subject of the book, the man otherwise known as Chris Marker, Chris. Marker and Jacopo Berenizi are just three of the pseudonyms that distance him from his original name of Christian François Bouche-Villeneuve, who was born in 1921 in Neuilly-sur-Seine. has multiple aliases. Marker began his career as a writer. He published his first essays and articles in the journal Esprit in 1947, and continued to contribute to this publication in the 1950s. One of Marker's photo-films, Si j'avais quatre dromadaires (1966), connects animals and children in its specific vision of a different time.

Rather than thinking of waiting only as a form of discipline, Chapter 3 takes a closer look at the figure of ‘the waiting subject’ by engaging with the narratives of three unemployed Latvians. The informants’ narratives reveal how the bond with the state, made visible through language, is more complex than the rhetoric of waiting recognises. By listening to how ordinary individuals talk about the state and themselves, the analysis probes the kinds of intimate tyrannies that link the subject and the state in the post-Soviet, post-totalitarian context. By examining how these intimate bonds tying individuals to the state become a target of questioning and anxiety, we also gain an insight into the ways in which the austerity state is being legitimised.

The last chapter analyses how Broadchurch (ITV, 2013–2017) and Happy Valley (BBC, 2014–) typify the British police series genre’s latest narrative and stylistic direction. It specifically considers how the use of HD aerial cameras mounted on drones in both series ideologically navigate the growing socio-economic inequalities of their specific localities in relation to gendered identities deriving from austerity politics.

The first chapter in Part II offers an exploration of Shamim Sarif’s first novel, The World Unseen and its 2008 film adaptation, and of I Can’t Think Straight (2008) and its eponymous film version. The narratives are approached in light of intersecting issues of race, ethnicity, religion, and sexuality in apartheid South Africa and contemporary Britain. It is argued that Sarif’s depiction of the romantic relationship between two Muslim women in South Africa, and of a British Muslim woman and a Christian Jordanian woman of Palestinian heritage in contemporary Britain, challenge the Western stereotype of submissive Muslim and Arab women and of their male relatives as universally patriarchal. Sarif’s reinscription of a female homosexual vocabulary onto Arab-Islamicate cultures offers an antidote the erasure of female Muslim homosexuality in contemporary Islamic discourses. The chapter probes Sarif’s critique of Muslim homophobia. It also suggests that Sarif’s configuration of same-sex desire in relation to the dominant Western model of ‘coming out’, is homonormative; yet, despite the limited vistas offered by her characters’ middle-class perspectives, Sarif’s deployment of queer female bodies forge clandestine countermemories in the face of discursive suppression of Muslim female homosexuality.

William Shakespeare structured his histories around the thought of the outside as a consummation devoutly wished, the escape from the 'water wallèd bulwark' of Dover cliffs. In 1599 the Lancashire poet John Weever praised Shakespeare as creator of characters like Richard III in a book of Epigrams. What is certain is that Richard III is constructed around a series of tributes to the Stanleys that exaggerates their importance in the invasion of 1485 which brought the Tudors to power. The battle of Bosworth takes place, in Shakespeare's rewriting, on All Souls' Day and it could be that Richard III was written for performance in 1593 on that day of the dead. By making Henry VII's first thought as king concern for the boy who was known as Lord Strange, Shakespeare concluded Richard III with a question that would have had sinister implications for Strange's actors and their audience.

In Written on the Wind, colour is 'perfectly thematised' as representative of both the characters' largesse, and their 'emotional and psychological predicaments.' As part of a carefully organised aesthetic, the use of Technicolor comes with the notoriously stringent regulations enforced on every production bearing that company's mark. Showy colours match aspects of the characters' declamatory presence, but also prickle with subliminal energies. Although Written on the Wind appears after Kalmus' reign at Technicolor, it follows her blueprint under the watchful eye of the colour consultant on set, William Fritzsche. In a scene where Lucy carelessly dumps the placard, colour is crucial to the act's significance, and opens a key motif. The red of the placard is one of a small number of colours that connects Lucy and Kyle in particular ways. Embracing the Technicolor spectrum, Written on the Wind introduces pinks in sparing amounts and indirect ways.

In this chapter, the local situations of Birmingham and London are analysed. Although these were the two conurbations accommodating by far the largest number of immigrant children, they were reluctant to introduce dispersal. In Birmingham, some key Labour figures (Denis Howell, Roy Hattersley) campaigned actively in favour of it, and were dissatisfied when the city refused to operate it, afraid as it was of its detrimental effects. There, dispersal was a major bone of contention, until a voluntary type of dispersal was finally decided upon, which proved ineffective against ethnic-minority clustering in schools. In the Inner London Education Authority, dispersal was more massively rejected, mostly owing to a neighbourhood-school-based approach and to the specific resources London enjoyed. Lastly, this chapter studies the debate on the introduction of ‘banding’ in Haringey, which was presented as an IQ-based type of dispersal. This caused a major controversy after Alderman Doulton locally suggested West Indians had lower IQs than autochthonous pupils.

The Vietnam War posed significant challenges to academics on educational exchange who were expected under the Fulbright Program to be ambassadors as well as researchers. The CIA surveillance of the anti-war movement and political interference in the administration of the Fulbright Program from government caused academics in both Australia and America to defend the autonomy of the program. How did scholars interpret the ambassadorial expectation when they were opposed to their government’s foreign policy? Many also found they could not speak critically of their national government without antagonising their hosts. Living up to the Fulbright Program’s ideal of achieving ‘mutual understanding’ was very much a matter of learning by experience, to be interpreted by scholars for whom research was actually the priority.