It’s usually at about this time of year that I become particularly sentimental and my dreams are filled with images of my place of origin. I catch myself awaking with a start in the middle of the night and then feel disappointed that I’m in my bed in England as opposed to where I rest in New York. There is indeed something special about the city at Christmastime: I hesitate to define it in a few words. Perhaps it is its restless energy: at that point in the year, it is concentrated on leisure and enjoyment and it achieves its objectives with gusto. I find myself thinking not only about the crowds at Rockefeller Centre gathered to look at the tree, but also stepping into the building behind it: it is an art-deco masterpiece. It instantly transports me to the Thirties, when the main entertainment was radio and that radio was filled with glowing vacuum tubes. I can imagine a young Sinatra standing behind a large microphone and crooning about Christmas Eve.

Proceeding out into the chilly concrete canyons of the city once more, one finds further tantalising spectacles on Fifth Avenue: there is usually a long queue in front of Saks Fifth Avenue to look at the Christmas displays in their windows. Further down is perhaps one of the most pleasant restaurants in the city, Cipriani’s, which is connected to the Waldorf Astoria Hotel. When one enters the modest doorway, there is a brief opportunity to shake off the cold and bask in the warm, gentle glow of the restaurant. Order a Bellini. Have the gnocchi. Note the fading December sunlight with occasional glances at Central Park. Cherish the end of another year.

All these pleasures lay ahead of me, their promise contained in emails and telephone calls from home which state schedules and plans. All I have to do is get to the end of “working 2010″ and board a plane. Simple. Yet, it is air travel which is dominating the news from America as of late and not in a good way.

By no means do I consider my travels unique: I am sure that many individuals are standing on tiptoe to reach the end of this month and long just as much to grasp the holiday season with both hands. Airports in New York, Chicago, Los Angeles will soon face the onslaught of travellers looking for the right gate, getting shoved into tiny seats and enduring luggage carousels which are in effect glorified roulette wheels: round and round she goes, where she stops nobody knows, will the right bag land on the right place? This gruelling, badly mechanised process has now been made worse by the intrusiveness of security: nowadays, passengers are required to subject themselves to a full body scan or a full pat-down which involves one’s genitalia. This is just the latest step on a long, downward stairway to America becoming the Kingdom of Paranoia in which the sole ruler is Fear.

Paranoia is not always counterfactual. It is certainly true that terrorists have attempted to conceal explosives in their underwear. However, paranoia often arises from intellectual laziness: rather than be mostly concerned about finding terrorists, those charged with protecting passengers are more concerned with finding bombs. Note the distinction: finding terrorists actually requires critical thinking. It requires analysis; perhaps a brief interview, as the Israelis do, and testing narratives of travel for consistency is a far better indicator than feeling up nuns. As Richard Reid proved with his cack-handed attempt to set his shoes alight, cleverness is not necessarily a feature of the modern terrorist. The facts suggest a gentler approach can work: beyond the Israeli example, while British air security can be intrusive, it does not reach as far as American procedures. Yet, its track record is sound: the Metropolitan Police continue to heavily rely on intelligence as a matter of course.

If this paranoia were solely limited to air travel, America might consider itself lucky: the damage could be limited to the President being asked, awkwardly, how Chicago is supposed to host the Olympics and thus welcome the world, when procedures to enter the country are so aggressive and difficult. However, the Kingdom of Paranoia does have other narratives: one of the most repeated ones has to do with American decline. Much of what I see out of the States has to do with concern about retreat from the nation’s “founding principles” and worry about the rise of China and India.

Let’s be clear: America is in decline, but it is a relative decline. America should not wish its greatness to be at the expense of say, China being poor and chaotic and Indians living amidst open sewers. The rest of the world was always going to want to improve their lot, and as such, the gap was destined to narrow. To suggest that returning to the past would establish some sort of paradise is incorrect: the Founding Fathers knew very well that theirs was a nation that needed improvement. Note the following phrase from the preamble of the Constitution: “in order to form a more perfect union.” The word “more” is significant: without it, then the idea that the nation was paradise on Day One is established. The “more” indicates that there is work to be done. Things changed, political parties shifted, programmes were provided as men of talent and hacks both tried to grapple with the nation’s needs and achieve “more”. But the propaganda of the Kingdom of Paranoia whispers in the ear, “It was better before”. It was better before women’s liberation, before birth control, before the advances in technology, before improvements to access to education and medical care. It was better when gays were in the closet, better when domestic violence was a private matter rather than a crime, better when political protest was considered an aberration. I humbly submit, no, it wasn’t. However, I am obviously in a minority: the American people just granted a House majority to those who wish to climb back down the ladder of history (admittedly, their opponents just wanted to hang off the rung they were on).

Perhaps America should cherish what it is and what it has, rather than waste time on being fearful. There are problems, of course, but there have always been difficulties: no period represents nirvana, merely the hopes, fears, achievements and troubles of a particular generation. Confidence should arise from realising there is so much good across the land: those travellers who wearily drag their way through airports in December are indicators of strong families (whatever the composition of those families may be), the spirit that the nation is able to summon at times of celebration as well as tragedy indicates that its soul is far from broken. It need not be a Kingdom of Paranoia, since it is a land that has so much good.

I open this review with a bit of a confession. When the last book in the Harry Potter series was released, I was out at midnight in my town, queued around the corner to get into Waterstones. My ex-girlfriend had introduced me to the books; prior to her suggestion, I’d been reluctant to embrace something so populist. A boy wizard indeed, had this not been done before? It seemed like it. However, due to her quiet urging, I eventually read all but the first two instalments, and enjoyed them. Not great literature perhaps, but they were entertaining. So I was relatively happy to stand in the midnight chill, waiting to file into the store. My ex went home early as she felt poorly, leaving me to my vigil.

When at last my turn came, I went inside and found that the familiar shop had been transformed: spiders’ webs, cauldrons, staff dressed as wizards and the bookshelves draped in black added to the atmosphere. I bought two copies with the childrens’ cover (no sense in hiding what it is, I thought) and went home. I brewed a pot of tea, and then my ex and I sat down and read our purchases. At about five AM, we finished more or less simultaneously. As I climbed into bed just as the dawn arrived, I realised I was satisfied. It was perhaps an all too brief good-bye, but nonetheless my appetite was satiated: I had closure in terms of both the plot and the characters, no more need have been explained.

The film version of the Deathly Hallows promises to be a much longer farewell: prior to arriving at the cinema, I already knew it had been divided into two instalments. I read a report which suggested that it could have been divided into three parts. However, time is getting on, and Daniel Radcliffe is only barely plausible as a gawky teenager, so thankfully, they kept it to two.

Once the lights dimmed and after an interimnable series of advertisements, it rapidly became obvious that this is going to be a long goodbye in another sense. Whereas this film’s predecessor had a brisk pace and a tight sense of timing, the first portion of the “Deathly Hallows” proceeds very slowly, almost tentatively, with only a few breaks in pace.

Early indications were positive: the film begins by focusing on Bill Nighy’s eyes; he was playing the role of the new Minister of Magic. A brilliant actor, the tremulous glance he gives the camera says much more than his words: he’s terribly afraid. This was followed by a breathtaking sequence in which Harry has to evade Voldemort’s henchmen to get to safety. However, shortly after this point the plot begins to drag. I couldn’t help but think of a verb known to fans of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, i.e., one is “Jossed”: Joss Whedon, Buffy’s creator, is a gifted storyteller, but his programmes tend to get more complex as time goes on, rendering them impenetrable to newcomers. “Deathly Hallows” is like this: we see characters from previous films process through, performing their swan song, taking a bow, in cases like Helena Bonham Carter’s Bellatrix Lestrange, taking obvious pleasure in being over the top. It’s necessary to cover all the bases, but it draws our attention to how many characters have made their way through the previous films. The procession in Deathly Hallows is punctuated with excellent special effects. There are genuinely touching moments at the death of some characters: however the film is too slovenly to have the same emotional impact as its predecessor.

Worse, there are moments in which the producers seem to indulge some of the dreams of fan fiction writers: there are moments of tenderness between Harry and his friend Hermoine Granger which border on the romantic and nearly tip over, a spectacle that no doubt that left some fan fiction scribblers more than a bit damp with glee. That said, the rickety structure holds thanks to the central relationships in the film between Harry, Hermoine and Ron Weasley. The actors having grown up together on film perhaps enables them to transcend a weak production: it is the one part of the movie that really rings true. They proceed with both intuition and understanding, and the rest doesn’t really matter.

This is not to say there are not other pleasures in the film: the telling of the Tale of the Three Brothers was very effectively done through a stylised cartoon. However, it’s impossible to get away from the fact that the narrative of this film is just too overloaded: the sudden cut off point for Part 1 led me to nearly say aloud a few expletives as it was another peak of interest, but this was followed by a sense of relief that I wouldn’t have to wait any longer to use the facilities. Those who wish to see this film should not do so accompanied by a large drink: even a medium sized one is a challenge.

After I stepped out of the cinema into a bitter November afternoon, I saw that there was a large crowd of parents and children waiting to get in. They looked eager, fresh faced and bright-eyed in anticipation of what they were about to see. In contrast, there wasn’t much chatter among those who were leaving. We are saying good bye to these characters, a slow, sometimes tedious, sometimes painful farewell. What makes means of departure bearable are the occasional smiles, the fleeting charm, the moments which catch the breath. There will be closure and no doubt some satisfaction: but afterwards, there will probably also be a big sigh of relief.

Far from being happy about the violence, most of the students at Demolition 2010 were outraged by what happened, such as the throwing of a fire extinguisher off the roof at police, as this video demonstrates clearly:

I am writing this a few hours after arriving home from the Demolition 2010 demonstration in London, which was organised to protest the tripling of student fees. So far as I can tell, the narrative about the event has been decidedly negative: pictures of students attacking the headquarters of the Conservative Party at Millbank Tower are likely winging their way around the world by now. Channel 4 News led with these violent images. It would seem that the London police, the demonstration organisers, the National Union of Students and my union have not emerged from today covered in glory. The attempts by people of goodwill to distinguish the peaceful majority from the riotous minority are worthy, however, the goal of sending a coherent, powerful and unambigious message to the politicians has not been achieved.

As part of my union duties, I joined the demonstration, though I never made it as far as Millbank Tower. I arrived relatively late, though before the march’s official start, thanks to train delays. In vain, I looked around for people I recognised. I was so desperate to march with someone I knew that I had an overoptimistic moment, saying hi to someone who looked vaguely like an acquaintance of mine. I hastily apologised.

Eventually I found students from my university; while I knew none of them, at least I had the slight reassurance that one might have at a family reunion filled with cousins thrice removed but just met. It was quickly apparent that I was stuck with them: shortly I was surrounded on all sides by protestors. Most were cheerful. Some blew whistles. Chants rose: “No ifs, no buts, no education cuts!” and “9K? No way!” Some clever signs were in evidence, such as “I am the Ghost of Nick Clegg’s Integrity” and one featuring a picture of David Cameron with the legend, “Some of my best friends are poor!”

We moved forward slowly. The crowd was addressed by two speakers who I could not see from my position: the first speaker was quite impassioned, but needed to invest in a better class of amplifier. Much of what he said was muffled. The next speaker was just as vehement and just as obscure. In any event, the noon hour struck and we shuffled forward onto Whitehall.

I felt a bit odd as an older person amidst all these young people: I seemed impossibly ancient. Keen to do something, I sent pictures to Twitter via my mobile and reported on what I was seeing. More signs passed me, “Nick Clegg’s lies make Education cry” and “Fee-Bull”. It was obvious early on that the Liberal Democrats were targets of particular ire: education cuts and additional fees were expected from the Conservatives, however the Liberal Democrats had promised to abolish fees altogether, which had apparently attracted a great many votes from the assembled crowd. The anger was made more visible by a sign which read “Clegg Utters No Truths”: the acronym tells the tale. Others chanted, “Nick Clegg, shame on you, you’re a f***ing Tory too!”: the moral of the story for all politicians may be that sometimes a promise is a promise. In contrast, there were a few “Vote Labour” signs, however, given that Labour introduced student fees in the first place, their presence was rightfully subdued.

The almost festive, if somewhat febrile atmosphere was enhanced by the sounds of drumming. We proceeded down Whitehall, again slowly, raising a cheer once we went past the gates to 10 Downing Street. I saw a sign which apologised for its lack of quality, however that was due to cuts in arts funding. The demonstration came to a halt in front of Parliament Square. A young lady in a flourescent vest and hard hat climbed above the crowd in the middle of a pedestrian crossing and encouraged us to sing the following song:

“If you hate the Coalition, clap your hands
“If you hate the Coalition, clap your hands
“If you hate the Coalition, then join the Demolition
“If you hate the Coalition, clap your hands.

“If you think that Clegg’s a wanker, clap your hands
“If you think that Clegg’s a wanker, clap your hands
“If you think that Clegg’s a wanker, and should have been a banker
“If you think that Clegg’s a wanker, clap your hands.”

The young lady then informed us that the BBC had said that there were 52,000 people present. Overhead, helicopters hovered: the crowd raised a cry to them. Coincidentally, I think, my mobile’s access to the internet then died. The march then proceeded past the Palace of Westminster. It was liberating to be able to walk down the middle of the street in front of Parliament; the drumming got louder. Some students staged a sit-in. I continued onward. However, the march began to lose its solidity beyond the grounds of Parliament. I saw a group run down a side-street. I followed briefly to take a look, saw nothing, walked back to the embankment. I then made it as far as Horseferry Road, where there is a roundabout. A number of students were there, still chanting, holding signs, generally being peaceful. I thought the protest was over. So it was a surprise when I got the following text from a friend of mine:

“…burning placards and smashed windows at Tory HQ, apparently, that had better not be you!”

I looked around at the students and protestors. There had been a strong presence of a variety of Socialist Worker and far-left groups: because of how rapidly they divide and proliferate into smaller units, I have thought of them as akin to the Judean People’s Front from Monty Python’s “Life of Brian”. Their acolytes had been working the crowds, though with limited success so far as I could tell. At one point I’d been caught up behind a batch of Socialist Students, which was a more substantial bunch. However, the remnants traling behind seemed relatively subdued. I positioned myself in the middle of a pedestrian crossing, waiting for anyone I recognised, so I could ask what was going on. Meanwhile, a large group of police officers marched up Millbank heading towards Millbank Tower. This was followed by three large police vans also headed in that direction.

I decided to go the opposite way, partially because it seemed the body of the crowd was still in front of Parliament. On my way back, I saw students being interviewed by television reporters. The protest in front of Parliament hadn’t changed much since I had proceeded onwards: there was still the rhythmic drumming and chanting. Enough of the internet came back to my mobile for me to take another picture and to decry any violence. By this point the demonstration had lost most of its coherence: the point had been made. I followed a stream of students out past Westminster Abbey and walked towards Victoria Station.

I arrived at Victoria and picked up an Evening Standard as quickly as I could, to see how the demonstration was being received. Initial headlines were positive: the picture was of smiling students decrying the cuts. I got on a train and got out of London quickly: as my internet access improved, it rapidly became clear that the violence at Millbank Tower was going to be the major part of the story. I also read that some demonstrators had decided to lash out at Liberal Democrat Headquarters, though how far that got was difficult to discern. Stuck on a crowded commuter train, it was difficult not to let out a dissatisfied groan. Arriving home has not helped matters: I switched on the news, and the footage was of the violence that I simply did not see while I was there. Gone were the smiling students, their clever banners, their sincere concerns. Washed away was their very real dissatisfaction with the contrast between Liberal Democrat promises and the grim reality. At this point, it looks like a narrative of spoiled, disaffected students who vandalise property may be the one that is emerging, and it could very well be used to ram home the changes that so upset students, lecturers and university staff alike. Hopefully this is not what remains after the Demolition; it was so much more and deserves to be remembered as such.