Изучение семантических особенностей медиа-текстов с тематической доминантой «Искусство» при обучении письменной речи на уроках английск

takes you into your dreamland - and that's what hand-drawn does," she says.

"We wanted to make a Disney animated film: something that, on the one hand, feels like a very classic Disney animated film, yet is brand new," says executive producer John Lasseter, best known for his Pixar computer-animated hits like "Toy Story" and "Cars." However, he began his career in Disney animation and, when the studio purchased Pixar in 2006, Lasster became Disney chief creative officer with a goal of reviving hand-drawn.

"When I was up at Pixar and all the studios down here (in Hollywood) decided that they were n-o-t going to do hand-drawn animation anymore it broke my heart because never in the history of cinema has a film been entertaining to an audience because of the technology; it's what you do with the technology. I really felt like they were blaming poor performance of their movies on (the fact) that it was hand-drawn as opposed to computer animation. So when the merger of Disney and Pixar happened and I returned to the Disney studios the very first decision we made was that we're going to bring back hand-drawn animation," he says.

"The Princess and the Frog" is also getting attention for elevating a black character to the "princess" role, joining a line that includes "Beauty and the Beast's "Belle," "The Little ermaid" Ariel, "Cinderella" and, of course, "Snow White:"

"I do remember to myself wondering if there would ever be a 'Chocolate Brown' after seeing 'Snow White,'" says Rose.

Anika Noni Rose has given it a lot of thought and predicts a range of reactions to her Tiana.

"For my nephew, it will be the norm. He will think nothing of it. It will be his first princess, period. For my mother, it will be something she has been waiting for. For my grandmother, it will be something she thought never would have happened. Each person that sits in that theater will have a different journey that they are bringing to the story and it will make the story ifferent for them. I think that's something really beautiful about what it is that's being made because Disney is Americana and we have simply opened a new chapter in Americana: something that has been here for a very long time, but hasn't necessarily been shared. In that respect it's just another step in the completion of the story of what America is in this fantasy world," she says.

"The Princess and the Frog" also features Keith David as voice of the villainous Dr. Facilier, Terrence Howard is Tiana's loving father with Oprah Winfrey as her mom; Bruno Campos does the charming Prince Naveen; and the characters include a trumpet-playing crocodile named Louis (that's Michael-Leon Wooley) and a love-struck Cajun firefly voiced by Jim Cummings. Disney animation veterans John Musker and Ron Clements directed the film; and the music is by Oscar-, Emmy- and Grammy-winning composer Randy Newman.

Ellie Goulding: pop sensation

Laura Barton

The Guardian, 12 December 2009

'I want the power to come from what I sing about and how I sing,' says Ellie Goulding.  'I know these cups look dirty," says Ellie Goulding, frowning at the two floral mugs she carries across the room, "but really they're not. It's just I can't get rid of the tea stains." We are in a small upstairs flat in an unglamorous corner of west London, and Goulding is on a roll of apologies – for the cups, the absence of biscuits and the clutter. There are shoeboxes heaped on the living room floor, jars of vitamins and moisturisers piled up in the bathroom, a copy of Hello! on the sofa and an AA Milne book on the table. And amid it all is Goulding, 22, in skinny blue jeans and polka-dot slippers, her silvery-blond hair half-piled on her head. She points to a low-lying sofa across the room. "It's supposed to have legs," she says, "but it arrived without them. That's why it looks a bit weird down there."Goulding is the new sweetheart of British pop, her extraordinary, wispy voice and her particular blend of folk and electronica hotly tipped to be the defining sound of 2010. Her first single, Under The Sheets, made it on to the Radio 1 playlist, and she has been touted by BBC DJs Huw Stephens and Jo Whiley as the next big thing. At a preposterously early point in her career, she has appeared on Later… With Jools Holland and worked with some of the world's most feted producers, including Mark Ronson, Starsmith and Frankmusik. This autumn, she toured the UK with 2009's pop queen, Little Boots; a handing over of the crown, perhaps. But there are, of course, those who say that Goulding is simply the

latest example of intense record company hype, just this year's Duffy or Adele, Florence or La Roux.

There was no stage schooling, no TV talent contests or famous family members for Goulding, though. She grew up in rural Hereford with her mother, who worked in a supermarket, her stepfather, a lorry driver, a brother and two sisters. And though she took up clarinet and guitar, joined the local operatic society and performed in school plays, her musical inclinations were hardly encouraged. "I could only sing when my mum wasn't there," she says. "I think she had a weird way of supporting and encouraging me, more like an old-fashioned way of 'work hard' rather than 'that's brilliant'."

It was also a question of logistics. "It was such a small house that it was impossible for me just to let rip. I shared a bedroom with my sisters: me and my younger sister, Jordan, had a bunk bed, and then Isabel was on the other side of the room. I mean literally the room was from the end of that radiator to the door." She draws an imaginary boundary, about half the size of her current

living room. "That's how big it was. So it was tough." It was only when she went to university that she finally had her own room. "I couldn't comprehend it really. It was weird to make a certain amount of noise and not get shouted at." Still, she concedes, her parents did exert some degree of musical influence. Goulding's parents divorced when she was five, but it was the knowledge that her father had once played guitar in a band that encouraged her to take up the

instrument. Meanwhile, she credits her mother with encouraging her pop sensibility. "My mum really was super into music. It wasn't like she was introducing me to things like Bob Dylan and the Beatles, but she introduced me to pop music. I remember when Florence first came out, or the Kooks or Franz Ferdinand, she would always be the first person with their record, and then she would get bored of them and move on to something else."It is this combination that defines Goulding's sound: folky, acoustic songs run firmly through the pop mangle. But it took some time to find it; initially she was a coffee-shop folk singer type, performing covers on a "cheapo guitar I bought with my student overdraft". One of her earliest performances, a winning turn at a talent contest at university in Canterbury, attracted the attention of a representative from a music management company, who just happened to be in the audience. "And then," she says, "suddenly I had a manager!"

Fame did not come instantly. She remained at university, playing acoustic gigs, writing songs and honing her voice by singing along to Beyoncé and Lauryn Hill. It was only after a show in London, when she missed the last train back to Canterbury and ended up staying at the home of another music manager, that things began to take off. He invited her to meet his boss, she changed managers, decided to explore a new musical direction and finally got her own MySpace page. "One of my songs had 100,000 plays in three months!" she says. The song in question was Wish I Stayed, a track produced by Frankmusik, an electropop artist and producer whom she emailed via MySpace. "I said, 'I've got this acoustic song, and I know I want something good to happen to it but I don't know what – can you help me?'" To her surprise, Frankmusik replied instantly. "He said, 'Yes, I'd love to, come round on Monday.' So I got a train to Thornton

Heath, ended up staying for a week, recorded a couple of songs, and just talked about music." It seemed to Goulding another step in her musical education. "He made me realise I didn't have to just have a folk, acoustic feel: he put a beat behind it and it suddenly just came alive."

Goulding abandoned her drama degree and relocated to London, staying in a management company flat in Hammersmith. "I was totally skint," she recalls. "Literally, all I did was write in my bedroom." Around the same time she met another producer, Starsmith, aka 20-year-old Fin Dow-Smith, who caught Goulding's attention with his reinvention of Katy Perry's hit I Kissed A Girl. It is Starsmith's work that appears on much of Goulding's album. "The first day we spent working in his bedroom, we were like brother and sister," she remembers. "It was carefree, neither of us had a label. We just kept making music." They sent out a demo, and major label interest soon followed. Eventually she met Ferdy Unger-Hamilton, head of Polydor. "We knew it was right immediately," she says, "because he knew the titles of the songs and he knew the lyrics. He was genuinely into it."

For all the attention focused on her vocal acrobatics and the glittery synthesised production, it's the lyrics that are particularly important to Goulding. She began writing her own material shortly after the talent show victory. "Suddenly, pfffff…" She mimes a torrent pouring from her forehead. "Everything just came out of me, out of my head, all of the negative things that had happened to me, all the confidence-knocking, everything just came out." Goulding has not had the happiest of times. After her father left, her mother found a new partner, "who I hated – and I don't care about saying that – absolutely hated." Nor was she especially close to the sisters with whom she shared a bedroom: "I couldn't really relate much to my younger sister, because she was born in 1992, and I was born in 1986. And then my older sister, we just didn't get on that much. Although we bonded over hating our stepdad."

She doesn't see her father. "I don't know why. We just kind of slipped out of contact." Does she anticipate that he will try to contact her now she is famous? She looks me straight in the eye. "Yes. Yeah. In all honesty." Is she OK about that? "Um, no. No. Not really," she says and looks awkward. "I'm really not a bitter person, because I'm so appreciative of everything that I've got. But at the same time I feel it's not right that he might suddenly contact me. If he genuinely thinks, 'Oh God, I really should have contacted her a while ago…' If he genuinely is apologetic…" She pauses. "But it will take like 10 years to even come close to any kind of reconciliation, father-daughter thing."

In conversation, Goulding zigzags from one subject to another. It's a little like listening to a teenager on a bus – she gallops along at a rate of knots, thrilled, breathless, prone to the odd non sequitur. She begins, for example, telling me a story about her auntie and uncle. "Though they're not really my auntie and uncle. My auntie is an old friend of my mum's, and she went out with

my father before my mum. But they came out of it best friends! So she's always been part of my life, and so's my uncle," she pauses, draws breath, "who happens to be one of the tallest men in Britain." Her auntie and uncle have, it transpires, been a big influence. "I first started getting more friendly with them when I was 14 or 15, and my uncle introduced me to folk music, and that's when I learned about finger picking. He introduced me to Alison Krauss and Fleetwood Mac, and he used to do occasional gigs, playing guitar and singing these really beautiful folk songs." Desperate to get out of her family home, Goulding even went to live with them for a while. "Spending time with them was very different, because I don't come from an intellectual

family," she says. "I was the first person to go to university from my family." She misses Hereford, especially the countryside. "I maintain that when I finally retire from my career in music, I will go and live back in Wales – when I am an old person, if I live to be an old person. The water I miss, and the air, there's something different about it. And I miss the simple life. It doesn't matter what you wear and who you're with. I'm kind of envious of my friends. I don't get to do that any more."

Goulding has a make-up artist now, and the other day she saw that someone had Tweeted about spotting her looking confused on Oxford Street. "It's weird. Really weird," she says, "but it's not like I get papped. Very rarely do I get recognised." She doesn't believe she will change, no matter how successful she becomes. "I'm so wary of people. I'd hate it to become style over substance, I'd hate people to start putting me in a magazine article about my style." She

grimaces. "I don't like dressing up in something I'm not necessarily comfortable in just to make it more of a show. I want the power to come from what I sing about and how I sing."

There are perks to her burgeoning fame, though. Goulding tells a story about walking through Soho and spotting the comedian Julia Davis. "Julia Davis is my hero!" she gasps. "I was plodding along with my guitar and I looked up and started running because I saw her having dinner with her husband, Julian of Mighty Boosh fame." Her eyes grow wide. "I had my hand on Julian's shoulder, bypassed him, and I went to Julia, 'I love you! And I'm not even joking!' It was

the first time I'd ever been starstruck." She hopes now to invite Davis to see her play live. "I desperately want to get her to see a show!" she says and half-hiccups with excitement. "You know one of the main reasons I hope I might get well-known is that I might be in a slight position to say to Julia Davis, 'Will you come for a drink with me?'"

Notes of Ancient Greece in a Seldom-Seen Work

Allan Kozzin

The New York Times, December 10, 2009

The Manhattan School of Music Opera Theater keeps its students on their toes with a balance of unusual works they may never sing again and standard repertory that they will sing plenty. The audiences for these productions stand to benefit either way. The Manhattan School has a fine track record for turning out singers of consequence: Susan Graham and Dolora Zajick are among the program’s alumni. And its repertory choices have been discerning. Though the Metropolitan Opera is getting around to Shostakovich’s “Nose” this season, the Manhattan School staged it in 1985.

This year’s novelty, Fauré’s “Pénélope,” is a critics’ favorite of longstanding. It was completed in 1912 and is hardly ever staged but is known through a handful of recordings, including a ravishing Erato set with Jessye Norman in the title role.

You may know the story from Homer’s “Odyssey,” or perhaps from Monteverdi’s “Ritorno d’Ulisse in Patria.” Penelope, awaiting the return of her husband, Ulysses, from the Trojan War, is beset by suitors. Ulysses returns, disguised as a beggar, and persuades Penelope to accept the suitor who can draw Ulysses’ bow. When none succeed, the beggar takes the bow, reveals himself as Ulysses and massacres the lot of them.

Fauré’s score swims in the same melodic richness you hear in his songs, with a supple, through-composed orchestration that occasionally reaches for a Wagnerian sense of catharsis, modified by Gallic sensuality. Laurent Pillot, a conductor who has worked with the Bavarian State Opera and the Los Angeles Opera, drew a warm-toned, finely balanced performance from the student orchestra.

The production, by Lawrence Edelson, was simple and attractive, if not firmly rooted in any time or place. Miranda Hoffman’s costumes were utilitarian: mostly nondescript robes, with vaguely Greek vests and angled belts for the suitors, and a ragged cloak and mask for Ulysses.

Martin T. Lopez’s single set provided a two-level stage (the lower level for the palace scenes and the upper for the second of the three acts, which takes place on a cliff) and plenty of easy symbolism. A sculptured head of Ulysse, toppled and overgrown with grass, lies on the upper stage, and in the last act Pénélope is seen briefly in one of the three vertical chambers to the right of the double stage, seated impassively behind a scrim that creates a vision of her surrounded by a blossoming pink rose.

Lori Guilbeau brought a beautiful tone and a graceful sense of phrasing to the title role. But Fauré gives Pénélope little to do but stand and sing, and Ms. Guilbeau mostly flopped about, looking anguished, in the manner that passes for acting on the opera stage. Cooper Nolan’s powerful tenor served the music of Ulysse well, and he moved easily from his guise as hobbled beggar to that of triumphant king. Victoria Vargas, as Euryclée, the old nurse, and Robert E. Mellon, as the shepherd Eumée, both made brief but solid contributions.

Shakespeare's daughters'

Rachel Cusk

The Guardian, 12 December 2009

This is an important book, the critic assumes, because it deals with war. This is an insignificant book because it deals with the feelings of women in a drawing-room.' Eighty years after A Room of One's Own was first published – and 50 years after The Second Sex – the same value system

prevails, argues Rachel Cusk.

Can we, in 2009, identify something that could be called "women's writing"? To be sure, women are sometimes to be found receiving the winner's cheque for the Man Booker or Costa prizes, just as they are sometimes to be found piloting your flight home from New York. It may be that in both cases certain sectors of society do not feel entirely secure. But it seems to me that "women's writing" by nature would not seek equivalence in the male world. It would be a writing

that sought to express a distinction, not deny it. When a woman in 2009 sits down to write, she perhaps feels rather sexless. She is inclined neither to express nor deny: she'd rather be left alone to get on with it. She might even nurture a certain hostility towards the concept of "women's writing". Why should she be politicised when she doesn't feel politicised? It may even, with her, be a point of honour to keep those politics as far from her prose as it is possible to get them. What compromises women – babies, domesticity, mediocrity – compromises writing even more. She is on the right side of that compromise – just. Her own life is one of freedom and entitlement, though her mother's was probably not. Yet she herself is not a man. She is a woman: it is history that has brought about this difference between herself and her mother. She can look around her and see that while women's lives have altered in some respects, in others they have remained much the same. She can look at her own body: if a woman's body signifies anything, it is that repetition is more powerful than change. But change is more wondrous, more enjoyable. It is pleasanter to write the book of change than the book of repetition. In the book of change one is free to consider absolutely anything, except that which is eternal and unvarying. "Women's writing" might be another name for the book of repetition. Two books, Simone de Beauvoir's The Second Sex – now issued for the first time in a faithful English translation – and Virginia Woolf's A Room of One's Own, bring these thoughts to mind. Between them they shaped the discourse of 20th-century women's writing, a shape that is still recognisable today; both, famously, are formulated around the concept of property. De Beauvoir's thesis of the great displacement of woman in history by the male initiative of ownership is the magnification of Woolf's more literary synthesis of actual and expressive female poverty. A woman needs a room of her own to be able to write; thus her silence has been the silence of dispossession. Yet there is something still deeper and more mysterious in her silence, the mystery of her actual identity.

Woolf and De Beauvoir agree that a woman – even a woman with her own room – could never have written Moby-Dick or War and Peace, for "civilisation as a whole elaborates this intermediary product between the male and the eunuch that is called feminine"; and as well as lacking a room, woman has lacked a literature of her own. Half silence, half enigma: the words "women's writing" connote not simply a literature made by women but one that arises out of, and is shaped by, a set of specifically female conditions. A book is not an example of "women's writing" simply because it is written by a woman. Writing may become "women's writing" when it could not have been written by a man. De Beauvoir's woman is a beggar – she becomes one, to paraphrase, rather than is born one – comprehensively debased in her slavery, debasing herself, fawning for scraps from the male table. Woolf's woman is more in the way of a victim, a prisoner. She is actively disbarred; if her nature is warped, it is by fault of circumstance. "Art, literature and philosophy are attempts to found the world anew on a human freedom," writes De Beauvoir, "that of the creator. To foster such an aim, one must first unequivocally posit oneself as a freedom." A woman can be given freedom, certainly, but she can never have always had it: "one must first emerge within [the world] in sovereign solitude if one wants to try to grasp it anew." The temptation for the woman writer, De Beauvoir says, is to use writing as an escape. The woman writer wishes to avoid confrontation, for "her great concern is to please; and as a woman she is already afraid of displeasing just because she writes . . . The writer who is original . . . is always scandalous; what is new disturbs and antagonises; [but] women are still astonished and flattered to be accepted in the world of thinking and art, a masculine world. The woman watches her manners; she does not dare to irritate, explore, explode."

A woman writer, then, loses her integrity – and her chance of greatness – in the attempt to join male literary culture. For, as De Beauvoir says, "man is a sexed human being: woman is a complete individual, and equal to the male, only if she too is a sexed human being. Renouncing her femininity means renouncing part of her humanity." Thus equality can only be arrived at by the route of difference: but what does this mean for the woman writer? Must she experience kinship with silence and enigma, as the male writer feels kinship for Moby-Dick? Twenty-first-century female culture barely acknowledges its debt to feminism: why should it? And perhaps consequently, today's woman writer is careful not to show any special interest in today's woman. Yet if black writers cease to write about what it is to be black, we do not conclude that blackness no longer has any special features, or that racism no longer exists. Oppression, being a type of relationship, can never be resolved, only reconfigured; in its ever-alternating phases of shame and receptivity, the possibility of its return must always remain. Sometimes society is receptive to the language of oppression; at other times it is not, and oppression becomes a cause of shame.

Women, then, might cease to produce "women's writing" not because they are freer but because they are more ashamed, less certain of a general receptiveness, and even, perhaps, because they suspect they might be vilified. It is easier to be a historian than a prophet, and when Virginia Woolf said that a woman needed a room of her own and money of her own to write fiction she

appeared to be alluding to a female future where possession – property – equalled words as inevitably as dispossession, in the past, had equalled silence. A woman with a room and money will be free to write – but to write what? In A Room of One's Own Woolf asserts two things: first, that the world – and hence its representations in art – is demonstrably male; and second, that a woman cannot create art out of a male reality. Literature, for most of its history, was a male reality. The form and structure of the novel, the perceptual framework, the very size and character of the literary sentence: these were tools shaped by men for their own uses. The woman of the future, Woolf says, will devise her own kind of sentence, her own form, and she'll use it to write about her own reality. What's more, that reality will have its own values: "And since a novel has this correspondence to real life, its values are to some extent those of real life. But it is obvious that the values of women differ very often from the values which have been made by the other sex; naturally, this is so. Yet it is the masculine values that prevail . . . This is an important book, the critic assumes, because it deals with war. This is an insignificant book because it deals with the feelings of women in a drawing-room. A scene in a battle-field is more important than a scene in a shop – everywhere and much more subtly the difference of value persists." The independent woman writer, Woolf believed, would in overturning those values write what had not yet been written. The story of woman would "light a torch in that vast chamber where nobody has yet been. It is all half lights and profound shadows like those serpentine caves where one goes with a candle peering up and down, not knowing where one is stepping." The future, of course, never comes: it is merely a projection from the present of the present's frustrations. In the 80 years since Woolf published A Room of One's Own, aspects of female experience have been elaborated on with commendable candour, as often as not by male writers. A book about war is still judged more important than a book about "the feelings of women". Most significantly, when a woman writes a book about war she is lauded: she has eschewed the vast unlit chamber and the serpentine caves; there is the sense that she has made proper use of her room and her money, her new rights of property. The woman writer who confines herself to her female "reality" is by the same token often criticised. She appears to have squandered her room, her money. It is as though she has been swindled, or swindled herself; she is the victim of her own exploitation. And as