Tate’s 1990s revival and Norway’s fjord fight: culture’s climate reckoning

When the 1990s roared back at Tate Britain

A new exhibition at Tate Britain, curated by Edward Enninful, is turning heads—not just for its art, but for its timing. Titled Weirdo, the show revisits the 1990s, a decade when British culture seemed to explode with raw energy. Photographs of raves, fashion shoots, and underground music scenes dominate the walls, capturing a moment before smartphones and social media reshaped how we experience art and identity.

The exhibition arrives as Britain grapples with its cultural and political identity. The 1990s were a period of contradictions: rave culture thrived alongside Conservative rule, and Cool Britannia’s optimism clashed with economic uncertainty. Enninful’s curation doesn’t shy away from these tensions. Instead, it frames the decade as a time when artists, musicians, and designers broke rules—something that feels both nostalgic and urgent in 2026, as the UK navigates another era of upheaval.

What makes Weirdo more than just a retrospective is its implicit question: can culture still be a space for rebellion, or has it become another commodity? The exhibition’s opening week saw record attendance, suggesting that audiences are hungry for the kind of unfiltered creativity the 1990s represented. Whether that energy can translate into contemporary movements—or whether it’s just a fleeting escape—remains to be seen.

Norway’s fjord fight: a test for environmental justice

While Tate Britain looks backward, Norway is facing a reckoning over its environmental future. The Førde fjord, one of the country’s most pristine natural sites, has become the battleground in a 17-year fight between conservationists and the mining industry. Earlier this year, Norway’s Supreme Court ruled that a permit allowing a mining company to dump waste into the fjord was illegal. Yet, the government has so far refused to revoke it, leaving campaigners in limbo.

The case highlights a growing tension in Norway’s environmental policy. The country prides itself on its green credentials—electric vehicles, renewable energy, and strict conservation laws—but it also relies heavily on mining and oil revenues. The Førde fjord dispute is a microcosm of this paradox: how can a nation claim leadership in sustainability while greenlighting projects that threaten its own ecosystems?

For activists like Ingvild Fonn Asmervik, the fight is far from over. “This isn’t just about one fjord,” she told The Guardian. “It’s about whether Norway will live up to its promises—or keep prioritising short-term profits over long-term survival.” The government’s next move could set a precedent for how seriously it takes its own environmental laws.

The quiet crisis of choral evensong

Amid these high-profile battles, a quieter cultural shift is underway. This week marks 100 years since the BBC first broadcast choral evensong, a tradition that has endured through wars, social upheavals, and technological revolutions. Yet, as MP and former chorister Jonathan Davies notes, the future of this art form is far from guaranteed.

Evensong—a service of music, prayer, and reflection—has long been a cornerstone of British cultural life. But declining church attendance, funding cuts, and shifting demographics are putting pressure on cathedral choirs. Some have already reduced their schedules or merged with other institutions. Davies argues that evensong is more than just a religious ritual; it’s a “collective experience” that binds communities together, offering solace in an increasingly fragmented world.

The centenary has sparked renewed debate about how to preserve such traditions. Should the state step in to fund choirs, or is this the role of private donors? Can evensong adapt to modern audiences without losing its essence? These questions aren’t just about music—they’re about what Britain chooses to value in its cultural heritage.

What to watch: when celebrities play traitors

On a lighter note, The Celebrity Traitors is back on BBC One, and this time, the stakes feel higher. The show, which pits famous faces against each other in a high-stakes game of deception, has become a surprise hit. This season’s twist? Richard E. Grant, who confessed to being a “traitor” almost immediately, could be the first contestant voted off—or the mastermind who outsmarts everyone.

The show’s appeal lies in its unpredictability. Unlike traditional reality TV, where alliances and betrayals are often telegraphed, The Celebrity Traitors thrives on genuine tension. Viewers tune in not just for the drama, but for the moments when celebrities—used to being in control—are forced to navigate a game where trust is a liability.

It’s a small but telling reflection of Britain’s cultural moment. In an era of deepfakes, AI-generated content, and political spin, the show’s central question—who can you trust?—resonates far beyond the screen. Whether Grant survives the first round or not, the real winner might be the audience, reminded that in 2026, nothing is quite as it seems.