Murakami on stage, local food debates and ballet’s second act: culture’s climate reckoning

When Murakami’s dreams take the stage

Haruki Murakami’s novels have long defied easy adaptation. Their blend of Tokyo realism and surreal dream logic—unicorns, parallel worlds, labyrinthine memories—has resisted both film and theatre. Yet Philippe Decouflé’s new production of End of the World and Hard-Boiled Wonderland at London’s Barbican has cracked the code. The French director-choreographer transforms Murakami’s dual narrative into a kaleidoscopic spectacle, using the Barbican’s vast stage to mirror the novel’s bifurcated structure: one protagonist in neon-lit Tokyo, the other in a dangerous dream realm.

The challenge was immense. Murakami’s 1985 novel, which alternates between a data scientist’s urban paranoia and a librarian’s underground odyssey, demands a visual language that feels both hyper-real and hallucinatory. Decouflé’s solution? A fusion of live action, ballet, and projection mapping. Tatsuya Fujiwara, known for his role in Battle Royale, plays the dual protagonists, while the dream sequences unfold as a series of tableaux featuring acrobats, dancers in unicorn masks, and a rotating set that shifts from a Tokyo subway to a cavernous library. Critics have praised the production’s ability to preserve the novel’s existential questions—about memory, technology, and the boundaries of self—without losing the story’s dark humour.

The timing of the adaptation feels deliberate. Murakami’s work has always grappled with the tension between modernity and tradition, a theme that resonates in 2026 as AI and climate crises force societies to re-examine their relationship with progress. The Barbican’s staging, which runs until October 25, arrives as London’s cultural institutions increasingly turn to immersive theatre to compete with digital entertainment. Whether it will inspire more Murakami adaptations—or simply remain a one-off marvel—remains to be seen.

The local food paradox: why distance isn’t the whole story

For two decades, the mantra of “food miles” has shaped consumer habits in the UK. The logic was simple: the shorter the distance between farm and plate, the lower the carbon footprint. But a growing body of research, and a recent Guardian analysis, suggests the reality is far more complex. Nearly a third of global greenhouse gas emissions are tied to food production, yet the environmental impact of a meal depends less on how far it travelled and more on how it was grown, transported, and stored.

Take the humble tomato. A locally grown, greenhouse-heated tomato in the UK can emit more CO₂ than one shipped from Spain, where sunlight reduces the need for artificial heating. Similarly, New Zealand lamb, raised on pasture and shipped to the UK by sea, often has a lower carbon footprint than British lamb, which may rely on feed transported from overseas. The Guardian’s “Change by Degrees” series this week highlights these nuances, urging consumers to consider not just distance but farming practices, packaging, and seasonality.

The shift in thinking reflects broader changes in climate policy. The UK’s 2025 food strategy, delayed but now under review, is expected to emphasise “climate-smart” agriculture over blanket localism. Supermarkets are already adapting: Waitrose has begun labelling products with their carbon footprint, while Tesco is trialling “low-emission” delivery slots. Yet the debate remains polarised. Environmental groups like Feedback argue that local food systems reduce waste and strengthen community resilience, while critics warn that an overemphasis on food miles distracts from bigger issues, like reducing meat consumption.

For shoppers, the message is clear: there are no easy answers. A locally sourced apple in October? Likely low-emission. A British strawberry in December? Probably not.

Ballet’s second act: Li Cunxin on sacrifice, stockbroking, and a 14-year memoir

Li Cunxin’s life has already been the stuff of legend. The Chinese-Australian ballet dancer’s 2003 memoir, Mao’s Last Dancer, chronicled his journey from a rural Chinese village to the world’s most prestigious stages, including a dramatic defection to the West in 1981. The book became an international bestseller, adapted into a film and a stage production. Now, 14 years after signing a contract for a follow-up, Li has delivered The Lucky Son, a memoir that picks up where the first left off—though not without hesitation.

“I don’t think my publisher expected it to take this long,” Li admits from his home in Brisbane. The delay wasn’t due to a lack of material. After retiring from dancing in 1995, Li reinvented himself as a stockbroker in Melbourne, a career that spanned a decade before he returned to the arts as artistic director of the Queensland Ballet. Along the way, he navigated the pressures of financial success, the breakdown of his first marriage, and the sacrifices his wife, ballerina Mary McKendry, made to support his career. “I was so focused on my own journey that I didn’t always see what she was giving up,” he reflects.

The Lucky Son is less a ballet memoir than a meditation on reinvention. Li’s time in finance, a world far removed from the discipline of dance, offers a rare glimpse into the challenges of transitioning between careers. His return to the arts, first as a director and later as a mentor to young dancers, underscores a theme that runs through both books: the tension between ambition and contentment. “I thought Mao’s Last Dancer was the end of my story,” he says. “But life doesn’t work like that.”

The memoir arrives at a moment when the ballet world is grappling with its own identity. Companies like the Queensland Ballet, which Li led from 2012 to 2021, are increasingly focused on diversity and accessibility, moving away from the rigid hierarchies of the past. Li’s story—of an outsider who found success in two vastly different fields—feels like a metaphor for an art form in transition.

What to watch (and why it matters)

This week’s television offerings reflect a cultural moment caught between nostalgia and reinvention. On BBC Three, Krapopolis, an animated comedy set in ancient Greece and co-created by Rick and Morty’s Dan Harmon, premieres with Richard Ayoade and Hannah Waddingham voicing its dysfunctional gods. The show, which blends mythological satire with modern humour, arrives as British animation struggles to find its footing amid competition from US and Japanese studios. Meanwhile, Danny Dyer’s hosting stint on Saturday Night Live UK (a revival of the 1990s format) has reignited debates about working-class representation in comedy. Dyer, a former EastEnders star, has built a second career as a podcast host and memoirist, embodying a shift in British celebrity culture toward authenticity over polish.

In film, The Social Reckoning, Aaron Sorkin’s sequel to The Social Network, has divided critics. The film, which dramatises the 2021 Facebook whistleblower scandal, stars Jeremy Strong as Mark Zuckerberg—a casting choice that has drawn both praise and scepticism. Sorkin’s script, which frames the scandal as a clash between idealism and corporate power, arrives as tech regulation dominates political discourse. The UK’s Online Safety Act, which came into force this year, has already sparked legal challenges from platforms, making The Social Reckoning feel eerily timely.

For audiences, the choices reflect a broader cultural reckoning: how to reconcile nostalgia with the demands of a rapidly changing world. Whether it’s Dyer’s unfiltered humour or Sorkin’s moralising, the week’s offerings suggest that culture, like the environment, is in a state of flux—searching for new narratives to make sense of the old.