Nabokov's Nymphet

Photographed By Karen Burgos

Dolores Haze, better known as Lolita, is one of the central figures in “Lolita” (1955). Her nickname is only one of many bestowed upon her by the novel’s protagonist, Humbert Humbert. The suffixes -ita (Ibero-America) and -cita (Continental) in Spanish are diminutives, typically used to convey affection or endearment. In ordinary contexts, these forms are tender, even playful. For instance, I’m sometimes called “Elinita” or “Elita” by my Latino friends. Think, too, of “Evita”, a softened, intimate form of Eva Perón. In everyday speech, women are sometimes also called “mamacita”, though that is a topic for another day. In VladimirNabokov’s novel, however, that linguistic tenderness is warped into something deeply unsettling.

At its core,“Lolita” tells the story of a middle aged scholar who becomes obsessively infatuated with his landlady’s young daughter. To secure proximity to the child, he marries the mother, Charlotte Haze. After Charlotte’s sudden death, he assumes custody of Lolita, claiming she has nowhere else to go. What follows is a cross country journey defined by manipulation, coercion, and control, until Lolita eventually escapes, only to face further hardship. The narrative closes with violence and death, offering the protagonist no meaningful redemption.

Despite this grim outline, the novel is not solely tragic. It is also darkly comic, a deeply ironic satire told entirely through Humbert’s voice. His narration is seductive, lyrical, and exquisitely crafted, drawing the reader into his perspective. As an unreliable narrator, he recasts himself as the victim, portraying Lolita as a “little demon” while distorting reality to suit his desires. The effect is disorienting: the prose enchants even as the truth beneath it repels.

Part of this extraordinary linguistic control owes much to Nabokov himself. A polyglot who once described his upbringing as that of “a perfectly normal trilingual child,” Nabokov moved fluidly between Russian, English, and French. That multilingual sensibility is felt on every page: in the precision of his diction, the musicality of his phrasing, and the layered wordplay that allows language to both reveal and conceal. It is no accident that Humbert’s voice is so persuasive; it is the product of a writer acutely aware of language as both instrument and illusion.

The name “Lolita” itself has long since drifted from its literary origins. In contemporary culture, it has been In contemporary culture, it has been absorbed into fashion, aesthetics, and internet subcultures, often far removed from its original literary context, and has also appeared in fashion inspired by designers such as Orla Kiely. Nabokov, however, used the term “nymphet” to describe a specific and troubling archetype, with “faunlet” as its male counterpart, terms far more precise, and far more disturbing, than their cultural afterlives suggest.

The novel has been adapted for film twice. The earlier version, in 1962, with its black and white cinematography and sharp, restrained humor, is stylistically striking. Yet the later adaptation, in 1997, feels more emotionally resonant to me, almost poetic in its tone. Though it has been some time since I last watched either film, Jeremy Irons’ performance remains vivid in my memory: controlled, melancholic, and quietly chilling. And yet, perhaps what was missing was something harsher, less veiled, a note closer to Scar from “The Lion King”: the calculating uncle, urbane yet unmistakably capable of murder. Irons captures Humbert’s refinement and self mythologizing eloquence, but the underlying brutality, the predator beneath the poetry, feels, at times, too subdued.

“Lolita” is, without question, a deeply controversial work, its subject matter unequivocally disturbing. Still, it remains one of the most beautifully written novels I have ever read, and, quite simply, one of the finest works of fiction ever produced.

A Clockwork Orange

Photographed By Karen Burgos

One of the things I’ve resolved to do this year is go to the cinema more often. I’m usually hopelessly out of sync with my friends when it comes to new releases. Whenever they’re deep in discussion about whatever’s currently showing, I’m light years behind, and by the time I finally catch up, they’ve already moved on.

That said, "The Artist" is now firmly ticked off my list. Consequently, I’m ready for Oscar Night on February 26.

Speaking of films, one of my all time favourites is "A Clockwork Orange" (1971), directed by Stanley Kubrick, who also happens to be one of my favourite directors. Among his body of work, my personal favourites, in no particular order, include "A Clockwork Orange", "Eyes Wide Shut", "Barry Lyndon", "The Shining"… and, how could I forget, "Full Metal Jacket". Me love you long time!

It’s not on that list, and I feel almost traitorous admitting this, but I actually prefer Adrian Lyne’s adaptation of "Lolita" to Kubrick’s. Please, don’t hate me! I suspect Jeremy Irons’ almost Shakespearean rendering of Professor Humbert Humbert has a great deal to do with it. I’ll revisit Vladimir Nabokov’s masterpiece another time.

"A Clockwork Orange" is based on Anthony Burgess’s novel of the same name. Set in a dystopian future, it follows Alex DeLarge, a Beethoven’s Ninth loving juvenile delinquent, and his three companions, or “droogs,” as they’re called in the invented slang, Nadsat. Alex is portrayed with chilling charisma by Malcolm McDowell.

After a break in goes disastrously wrong, Alex is apprehended and eventually sentenced to fourteen years in prison. While incarcerated, he is offered a reduced sentence on the condition that he volunteers for an experimental rehabilitation programme known as the Ludovico Technique, an intervention designed to “cure” criminal behaviour in just two weeks. Whether it truly succeeds, however, remains an open question.

The film is undeniably violent, ultra violent, and remains graphic even by today’s standards. Yet it is also lyrically and artistically executed, exploring themes of crime and punishment, revenge and retribution, science, politics, and religion, as well as deeper dimensions of human nature. It is, in many ways, sheer perfection. And then there’s the fashion: Alex’s iconic look, bowler hat, false eyelash, white outfit, suspenders, and combat boots, has been endlessly imitated.

The opening scene of "A Clockwork Orange", with Alex and his companions drinking milk at the Korova Milk Bar, is arguably one of the most captivating in cinematic history, perhaps rivalled only by the “I believe in America…” opening of "The Godfather" and John Travolta’s strut in "Saturday Night Fever", with due credit to the Bee Gees.

A close second, in my view, is the scene in which Alex, larger than life, grips his cane and disciplines his droogs, Pete, Georgie, and Dim, by the marina. It foreshadows his own downfall, yet remains mesmerizing to watch. The choreography alone stands as a testament to Kubrick’s genius.

And then, of course, there’s the infamous Kubrick stare:

1. Tilt your head downward.
2. Look up from beneath your eyebrows.
3. Smile, or grimace.
   For best results, ensure the camera is uncomfortably close.

“Here’s Johnny!”

So Fresh And So Clean

Photographed By Ellinor Forje

Happy New Year! Yes, a bit late, I know...I know. But, I just realized that hadn't shared any well wishes for the forthcoming year.

So what are your resolutions (how many of them have been broken already?)? Mine is basically the same as last year: STOP PROCRASTINATING. It's easier said than done.

With that said, a new dawn, a new day is here, which means only one thing! Time for the traditional January sales (did you hit the shops this weekend?). But, January is cold has hell. And unforgiving. I've never counted it as one of my favourite months of the calendar. Yet, it's the one month that has a certain ambiguity to it. It marks the beginning of something new, and the end of a period that was building up to close a chapter. So January is both redundant and fresh at the same time.

Ah, it's a new year! Finally. I hope it gets filled to your hearts' content. And thank you, you guys for visiting my space.

My Week With Marilyn

Very few performers have ever projected the kind of magnetism Marilyn Monroe did. It goes beyond beauty or confidence, there’s an elusive quality to it, a way of drawing people in while still holding something back. On screen, she seems to create a sense of intimacy, as if her attention is directed at you alone, yet there remains a distance that can’t quite be crossed. It’s a presence that has been studied and imitated for decades, but never fully replicated.

Part of what complicates that image is how deliberately it was shaped. In the mid 1950s, Monroe began studying Method acting in New York under Lee Strasberg at the Actors Studio, hoping to move beyond the “blonde bombshell” roles that had defined her early career and to be taken seriously as an actress. Strasberg became both a mentor and a stabilising presence in her life, encouraging her to draw on her own emotional experiences and bring a more vulnerable, psychologically grounded quality to her performances. That tension, between the constructed icon and the more searching, exposed performer, only deepens the sense of mystery surrounding her.

I recently watched "My Week with Marilyn" (2011), which now comfortably earns a place among the stronger films I’ve seen this year.

Based on Colin Clark’s memoirs, "The Prince, the Showgirl and Me" and "My Week with Marilyn", the narrative is relatively straightforward. It recounts Clark’s alleged involvement with Marilyn Monroe (Michelle Williams) during the London production of "The Prince and the Showgirl", starring Laurence Olivier (Kenneth Branagh). At the time, Clark (Eddie Redmayne) is a junior assistant on set, an otherwise peripheral figure who finds himself drawn into Monroe’s orbit.

The film centres on Monroe’s relationship with Clark, while also tracing the charged dynamics surrounding her, including Vivien Leigh (Julia Ormond). She is adored, resented, and mythologised in equal measure, constantly surrounded by admiration, yet persistently starved of genuine intimacy. When faced with the possibility of abandoning fame for love, she ultimately chooses the stage, only to reveal almost immediately the fragility beneath the persona. “Should I be her?” she asks, before stepping fully into the role.

This duality anchors the entire film. A copy of "Ulysses" on her bedside table gestures towards an intellectual depth often denied her public image, while her vulnerability surfaces in her dependence on acting coach Paula Strasberg (Zoë Wanamaker). She oscillates continually between self possession and childlike need.

The production’s attention to detail is particularly striking. Monroe’s iconic hair, so often mishandled in screen portrayals, is convincingly realised here, avoiding the artificiality that can so easily break immersion. It is a small but significant triumph.

If there is a weakness, it lies in the physical portrayal. Monroe’s presence was famously expansive, she seemed to overflow the frame, whereas Williams is more slight, and that sense of overwhelming, almost gravitational allure is occasionally diminished. Still, she delivers a nuanced and compelling performance, and any shortcomings feel more directorial than hers.

Ultimately, the film is visually elegant and consistently well acted, capturing the complexity of Monroe’s persona without attempting to resolve it. The question of who she truly was remains unanswered, and that, perhaps, is its greatest strength.