Issues

Why an obsession with Big Tech is not progress

I have never owned a smartphone but my life doesn’t feel demonstrably worse as a result. I am not on Whatsapp; my friends tell me that it’s a time-sapping curse. From social-media-addicted teens to smouldering mountains of electronic waste, smartphones appear to be hastening our descent into dystopia in myriad ways. And it’s not just phones: the advent of AI heralds a future in which creative work is abolished, vast data centres consume ever more energy and water, and humanity might well be turned into paperclips (or so a thought experiment by Oxford professor Nick Bostrom on the single-mindedness of machine learning once suggested).

Yet, despite the ubiquitous anxieties about an impending technological apocalypse, being a Luddite still feels like a naive minority position. When people see me brandishing my “brick” of a mobile phone, they might assume that I’m being insufferably condescending to those with less willpower – but my refusal to update it is, in part, motivated by my own susceptibility to distraction.

One reason why it’s difficult to alter the course of technology’s onward march is a stubborn belief in automatic progress. We might have a degree of healthy scepticism towards the tech bros, suspecting that their ambitions to live for ever in pod cities on Mars are hubristic and far-fetched. Yet it’s hard not to retain an implicit faith – inherited from the Enlightenment – that not only is technology unstoppable but that it’s also always improving.

This assumption of linear progress can cause us to forget about what was actually much better in the past. From the mid-19th century onwards, UK travel retailer WHSmith ran a subscription library on train platforms; you could borrow a book from one station and return it at another. Residents of Victorian London enjoyed 12 mail deliveries a day. Take a stroll around the Made in Ancient Egypt exhibition at the University of Cambridge’s Fitzwilliam Museum and you’ll see a striking illustration of the sophistication of pre-modern artisanal cultures: a statuette of a woman’s head with individual strands of hair carved in glass; tiny turquoise faience frogs inlaid with gold; an elaborate collar made from turquoise and carnelian beads – all crafted more than 3,000 years ago. The screens that surround us serve to conceal historical ingenuity, so that we can comfort ourselves with the illusion that things are getting better all the time.

In The Shock of the Old: Technology and Global History Since 1900, historian David Edgerton demonstrates that technological change often runs in reverse. Ship-breaking is an example of this “low-tech future” – the process has regressed from specialised docks in Taiwan to beaches in Bangladesh where barefoot workers use axes and hammers. Sound quality has decreased on our single wireless speakers. Software updates provide only a simulacrum of advancement. As Cory Doctorow argues in his recent book Enshittification: Why Everything Suddenly Got Worse and What to Do About It, the “development” of products and services is driven by market forces, not human desire.

It is a testament to our persistent faith in technological progress that this year’s Nobel Memorial Prize in Economic Sciences was awarded to three scholars for explaining “innovation-driven economic growth”. In fact, as economist Carl Benedikt Frey has argued, not only is the pace of innovation slowing around the world but the most advanced and technologically innovative countries are suffering from economic stagnation too.

The buzz around AI suggests that we are finally about to witness a genuine game-changer. As Edgerton observes, however, this kind of futurism is itself unoriginal. People have been hailing the coming of a fourth industrial revolution since the 1950s, when it was thought that automation would do away with both blue-and white-collar jobs; despite the excitement around 3D printing in the 1990s and 2000s, its main use now is in art schools. An MIT report has shown that 95 per cent of AI pilots in companies are failing and there are increasingly widespread warnings of a major market correction in 2026 or beyond.

If the public and media commentary around new technology tends to forget past instances of technological optimism, we are often reminded, conversely, that techno-pessimism is not new: Socrates denounced writing for implanting “forgetfulness” in our souls and medieval scholars fretted that the invention of the index would dispense with the need to read entire books. But the fact that those concerns recur does not mean that they aren’t valid: James Marriott of UK newspaper The Times recently reminded us that after the introduction of smartphones in the mid-2010s, PISA scores – an international measure of the academic performance of 15-year-old students in reading, maths and science – began to decline.

There is a cognitive dissonance between the AI “revolution” that is perpetually around the corner and our everyday experience of technology, which remains obstinately dysfunctional – from my hours spent this week trying to connect a laptop to an external monitor to the unidentified items still languishing in the literal and metaphorical bagging area. Not only is new technology trashing the planet and ushering in a post-literate society, it is failing on its own terms too.

Resisting new technology feels futile. Whereas the advent of the internet in the 1990s was legitimised by utopian chatter about democratisation, the approaching AI revolution is announced with a grim realism; we are simply told to learn to live with it. Yet there is an ambiguity at the heart of this sense of inevitability: it’s not clear whether it refers to the implicit assumption that technology always moves forward or to the unstoppable power of those promoting it. It’s an important distinction.

This is related to the residual mystique of tech bros, even though the media now often pillories them – a niggling sense that their wealth and power are the consequences of their being geniuses ahead of the curve. Yet they appear to suffer the most catastrophic nightmares of us all, if their scramble to buy bunkers in New Zealand is anything to go by. And this pessimism serves to inoculate them against public critique, even as their greed brings about the end that they seem to fear.

State investment funds much of the innovation in the first place. Yet governments appear blinded by the hype, unable to exert what little powers they have to regulate Big Tech. As my ability to function without a phone illustrates, human requirements haven’t changed much over time. It’s important to interrogate our apparent need for the latest devices and to ask whether it’s necessity, compulsion or mere addiction. It is time to ask what progress means and who gets to define it. Can we dare to regard technology only as a means to an end? Let’s see what happens in 2026 – just don’t try and Whatsapp me with an update.

Read next: Used with consideration, smartphones can deepen our connection to the present

Three Mexican companies bridging the country’s offline workforce with global clients

Mexico has long been well known for its can-do attitude. Today there’s also investment to match the ambition and a talented workforce – not to mention the effects of US tariffs on countries such as China, which are creating fresh opportunities here. But here’s the rub: even people wanting to make things closer to home in the Americas have struggled to engage with Mexico’s informal, mostly offline system of factories and makers. We meet three companies trying to join the dots.

Prima
Connecting ideas with makers

Headquartered in Mexico City’s Lomas de Chapultepec neighbourhood, Prima identifies products with potential – from welded metal structures to other industrial components – then finds the factories to make them. Once selected, it sets up a joint venture with the plant and manages the production process. “Getting to work with Prima isn’t easy,” says co-founder Daniel Autrique. “We’ll audit you and look at working standards, safety and insurance.” Clients and factories communicate via a digital platform, with AI helping with everything from quality control to engineering.

Prima employs 70 people and raised $42.5m (€36.6m) by the end of 2024. It has been canny in realising that, though Mexico can’t compete in everything – electronics, for example, is out – it can forge ahead in metals, plastic assembly and welding, while ensuring high standards of production, traceability and sustainability. It is also tapping into the shift to near-shoring, making the US a key market. Autrique, who hails from a family of industrialists in San Luis Potosí, says that there’s “a forgotten system” in Mexico, with factories doing business via text messages with little banking credit. Prima is bringing that resourcefulness and work ethic into the 21st century.

Yumari
Harnessing the skills of Mexico’s workers

Andrés Díaz Bedolla is the CEO and co-founder of Yumari, an AI platform that links Mexican factories with companies – many of them in the US – that need any number of products, from clothing to home decor and furniture. According to Bedolla, interest in Yumari surged in April when Donald Trump unleashed his trade war.

As with Prima, a big part of the job is the standardisation and professionalisation of the vast, skilled but unregulated factories that already exist. In Yumari’s case, an app features a “buyer dashboard” where clients can view everything from ideas and sampling to manufacturing and logistics. “If anyone comes to our platform and says, ‘We used to manufacture in Asia but need a cheaper option,’ we say don’t come to Latin America,” says Bedolla, explaining that Yumari isn’t about offering low-cost substitutes for Chinese factories but rather about taking pride in where and how things are done.

Allie
The future-proof factory-builders

Allie uses technology to enhance efficiency and combine complex processes. It works with clients in F&B and packaged goods to make their machinery “smart”, rather than having a series of operations working independently of one another.

Through Allie’s FactoryGPT, clients can talk to their factory, which has become a “thinking, speaking entity”, says Allie’s co-founder Alex Sandoval, who is originally from Venezuela. AI and machine learning predict “deviations” to nip any issues in the bud, while the system suggests ways to optimise the production line. “We have a computer that connects to all the machines,” says Sandoval. “That’s every data point in the factory.”

Read next: Entrepreneurs to watch: the forward-thinkers making new paths in Mexican industries

Private mediation services matter. Here’s why.

Crisis creates opportunity – and 2026 is set to be a boom year for the private mediation sector. Disputes and emergencies are multiplying and resolving them calls for the skills, talents and attentions of seasoned negotiators. This once fell to traditional mediating powers such as the UN and countries including Norway and Switzerland.

Today, those erstwhile arbiters of fairness have lost some of their clout and moral authority. So private mediation firms, often founded by former diplomats and humanitarian workers, are filling the void. Maryna Domushkina, an independent mediator who began her career at the UN before joining the Geneva-based Center for Humanitarian Dialogue, explains.

Why is private mediation on the rise?
Conflicts have become more fragmented. It probably began about 10 years ago. We’re now in a landscape of multipolarity without multilateralism. We have moved from a rules-based order to a transactional one. Private mediators fill the gap between formal and informal actors in negotiations. They can help to build confidence where official channels are blocked, can operate more discreetly and, because they’re not constrained by institutions or public opinion like states are, can move faster.

What do you think will be the global flashpoints in 2026?
We’re in a period of sustained geopolitical instability. The Middle East will continue to be a flashpoint; some states are looking for fast solutions without addressing the root causes but they won’t work. The Ukraine conflict will continue; the challenge lies beyond the battlefield in how to build a lasting and just peace. There’ll be new flashpoints in the Indo-Pacific too: climate- and resource-driven instability are amplifying existing conflicts.

How might things change?
Mediators need to be able to integrate competing alignments and non-state actors. The global consensus mechanisms will weaken further and there will be more transactional diplomacy. That requires layers of engagement, with various interests and incentives. There will also be a new demand for state-to-state negotiation, with a third state as a mediator. There still needs to be someone guaranteeing agreements.

B-Quik: The automotive player keeping Thailand on the move

As Chinese electric vehicles challenge Toyota and other Japanese legacy brands for market share across Southeast Asia, a Thai company is racing through a gap in the middle by providing services that all automobiles need. B‑Quik fits tyres, fixes brakes and handles suspension – types of routine maintenance that are required regardless of whether there’s an engine or a battery under the bonnet. This agnosticism is one of the reasons why B‑Quik’s centres are becoming increasingly difficult to miss on Thai roads – something that’s aided by their striking yellow façades. But the brand’s success ultimately comes down to what it offers.

B‑Quik has more than 235 branches in its home market, a handful in neighbouring Cambodia and 40 in the Indonesian capital, Jakarta. Southeast Asia’s biggest economy, Indonesia, is home to some 284 million people and most still rely on two‑wheeled transport to get around. About one in 10 Indonesian households owns a four‑wheeled vehicle, compared to one in two in Malaysia. As the country’s growing middle class becomes more affluent and investment in public transport struggles to keep up, car ownership is expected to rise, which means a lot more wheels on the road.

Driving B‑Quik’s success is its 63‑year‑old Dutch CEO, Henk Kiks. A self‑proclaimed “farm boy”, he started as a tyre‑fitter in the Netherlands and now drives a hybrid Porsche to the company’s headquarters on the outskirts of Bangkok. His office is above an immaculate service centre in Nonthaburi. Customers drink coffee in the lounge, while B‑Quik staff examine the underside of cars elevated on four‑poster hydraulic jacks.

Kiks leads Monocle through the vast tyre warehouse and its rows of floor‑to‑ceiling rubber, sharing his expert knowledge of tyre brands, as well as his excitement about the prospect of an F1 road race in Bangkok in 2028. By that time, B‑Quik’s next milestone – 300 branches across the region – will be in the rear‑view mirror, with the number of branches accelerating towards 400. The bigger it gets, the more B2B opportunities arise to partner with car manufacturers, especially new entrants that want to offer countrywide after‑sales to their customers without building their own expensive network of service centres as well as showrooms.

“We are like the dentist,” says Kiks. No one wants to pay money to change their tyres so B‑Quik staff are trained to be truthful and never oversell – a sort of Hippocratic oath for mechanics. This strategy helps B‑Quik to sell more than 1.2 million tyres a year. In 2023 the company launched a membership programme in Thailand. Today you’re more likely to see a car in Bangkok with one of its yellow stickers on its rear window than a Liverpool badge (many Thais’ football team of choice). That’s a huge achievement: far more loyalty than the best dentist could ever dream of.

Asian start-ups to watch

1.
Highlands Coffee, Vietnam
With almost 800 coffee shops in its home market, Highlands is set to go global with a new brand identity and the distinction of using only Vietnam‑grown robusta and arabica beans.

2.
Plan B, Thailand
The outdoor advertising giant is taking over screens and digital billboards in key economic hubs across Southeast Asia. Keep your eyes peeled for Plan B on your next trip.

3.
Zeekr, China
Geely Auto Group, the owner of Lotus and Volvo, is gearing up to challenge Europe’s luxury marques with premium EV brand Zeekr. Hiring Bentley’s chief designer was a statement of intent. Models are now arriving in showrooms.

Read next: The Monocle City Guide to Bangkok, featuring the very best hotels, restaurants and retail spots in the Thai capital

Beauty standards in the digital age are changing how we look at ourselves – and not just aesthetically

Boring online meetings might be one reason why people are increasingly drawn to cosmetic procedures. On these occasions, our gaze often wanders down to our own image in the corner of the screen and we start worrying about how pale, tired or old we look. This will be enough to motivate some people to have their nose straightened, seek Botox treatment or book an eyelid operation.

Ada Borkenhagen, a German psychoanalyst and professor of psychosomatic medicine, has been researching body image, cosmetic procedures and selfoptimisation for decades. Here, she explains why she believes that our digital appearance has become more important to us than how we look off-screen.

When you walk down a street and observe people, what do you notice?
In Berlin, I often see the so-called “Instagram face” among young women up to the age of 38 – full lips, high cheekbones, big eyes and a clear chin line. This look comes from beauty filters on social-media apps, which offer us a beautified version of our face when we film or take pictures of ourselves.

Do you mean that you see these online faces in real life too?
This kind of face has become a model for many beauty surgeries in what is now a global trend. It seems as though there are more women than ever with filled lips. Don’t be fooled: you probably only notice lip treatments in three out of 10 women who have had them.

So we only recognise interventions when they have been poorly implemented?
Yes. Beauty procedures reveal differences between social classes. If you can afford a good practitioner, they will do procedures that suit your face and will be more careful when it comes to fashion trends such as the Instagram face.

Are those inflatable-boat-like lips that you occasionally see the work of bad surgeons?
The heavily exaggerated duck snouts, the beaks, the ski-jump lips – these are part of fashion. Even a mediocre surgeon can do an Instagram face. But making me look how I did 10 years ago is the high art of aesthetic medicine. And you pay for that – but also for the surgeon who says, ‘We’d rather not do anything here.’

A director of a beauty clinic once said that women essentially get these inflatable lips for other women. He doesn’t know any man who finds them beautiful. What do you think?
I didn’t ask men about it but the fact is that behind this trend are beauty-filter algorithms that are based on universal beauty characteristics: the face should be symmetrical, the skin flawless and the proportions balanced. Women should have a heart-shaped face with large eyes and a narrow chin. Men are considered beautiful when they have a striking jawline. Their eyes might be a little deeper, their nose a little bigger and their eyebrows more pronounced.

When everyone is guided by these universal beauty ideals, don’t faces start looking more and more similar?
Yes. The Instagram face has prevailed. You will see women with it in Zürich, Tokyo, Cape Town, New York and beyond. Is there a difference between on-screen and off-screen beauty? Our virtual lives have become much more important. Today it’s crucial how you look in photos, on the internet and on video calls.

Is this something that you have noticed in your research?
Studies show that young people with high levels of social-media consumption have a greater tendency to have procedures done. Sometimes they come to the surgeon with a photo of themselves that has been beautified with a filter and say, ‘This is what I want to look like.’ In analogue [real] life, you might see yourself in the mirror two or three times per day. That’s different to those who are very active on social networks and constantly see each other through the selfie camera. So it’s only logical that a lot of people want to look better in photos and videos.

Selfies offer a wide-angle perspective, which makes you look different from in a mirror, so you adapt your face to a lens.
Yes. But this doesn’t mean that people don’t care about how they look in real life. It’s just that not everyone can afford a beauty style that looks good both on and off the screen. This reveals differences between social classes.

How does a good doctor deal with a patient who wants an Instagram face?
They would, for example, tell a patient who has quite pronounced cheekbones that if they inject too much, they’ll look like a hamster. But a patient of a cheaper doctor might end up with hamster cheeks because some are willing to simply exaggerate their features.

If it’s about wealth and class, why do so many Hollywood stars have operations done that look so obvious? Surely they could afford to hire the best surgeons?
In the US, different ideals of beauty prevail. Interventions are not really hidden there – they are viewed as a sign that you have money.

Actress Jamie Lee Curtis recently caused a stir when she spoke in an interview about ‘the genocide of a generation of women by the cosmeceutical industrial complex’ and how the filter face had robbed them of their natural appearance. What do you think?
I see it that way too. But it must be said that these women voluntarily underwent their beauty procedures. That is why self-knowledge is important. Beauty ideals change. You have to understand that before you go under the knife. In the 1990s, for example, many women shaved their eyebrows and then tattooed on new ones. Today that seems completely old-fashioned.

The pressure to be beautiful has entered the intimate realm: today some men have their penis enlarged and women have their labia made smaller.
That’s right. The vulva, for example, has become far more publicly visible. Pubic hair has become increasingly scarce. If you only wear a little fabric, you don’t want a huge cloud of it.

What role does pornography play?
The first Playboy featuring a fully shaved woman appeared in 2000. A beauty ideal for a more intimate area emerged.

What is that ideal?
Male genitals should appear large and prominent, while female ones should appear as small and hidden as possible. This ideal has developed in parallel with the depilation imperative for the female body. The moment that areas are no longer covered by clothing, a beauty ideal arises for these body parts. When skirts became shorter, leg hair had to be removed; when armpits became visible, armpit hair had to go. And now that people wear swimsuits with very high leg cutouts, pubic hair has to go.

There is also a trend for intimate shaving among men.
Yes. But the reason for that is different. When a man removes his pubic hair, you can see the entire penis shaft so it looks bigger.

It’s interesting that women seemingly have the opposite impulse: the trend is to think that smaller is better, as the rise of labia reductions shows.
It is certainly the case that a very restrictive ideal of beauty has formed in this respect. But I also see the intimate shave as a form of liberation. Suddenly we are talking about the vulva again. When it comes to their appearance and function, you’ll find very little in gynaecological textbooks until the beginning of the 1990s. There’s a lot to catch up on. For example, we still don’t know what the vulvas of people across the globe look like.

What do you mean?
In the EU, people know exactly what the average cucumber looks like – what curvature it has, how big it is. The same applies to the penis: we have known what the average is like since the 18th century. But with women? In Europe, there have been only two major investigations: one involving just 50 women in the UK and another in Austria with 150 women. That’s a joke.

Does the fact that we don’t know what an average vulva looks like fuel an uncertainty that plastic surgery exploits?
Yes, then suddenly norms are established about the ideal female genitals without knowing whether it’s actually reflective of the truth.

All procedures, including those in intimate areas, are presumably based on a desire to comply with a supposed standard. But are people actually happier after having cosmetic surgery?
If the expectations for the procedure are realistic, a qualified plastic surgeon performs it and the healing process goes well, then most patients are satisfied afterwards. But there is also the repeat effect: if you start having beauty procedures, you want more. We have to distinguish between cases. If I decide to inject Botox in my fifties, the effect wears off after a few months and I have to inject it again. I would therefore be considered a repeater. It’s like hair colouring; for a good result, I have to refresh the roots every few weeks.

In which cases should a patient consult a psychologist rather than a surgeon?
When someone wants a completely different body or chases a Barbie-like ideal. These people won’t be satisfied even after numerous operations. Imagine, say, someone who wants to look like Claudia Schiffer because they want to have a life like hers. That’s an illusion. Ultimately we all have to accept that our bodies age. You can make someone look 10 or 15 years younger but the ageing process continues.

Most people who opt for these interventions claim that they only have them done for themselves – rather than to look more beautiful to others. Are beauty surgeries really acts of self-determination?
Think of it this way: our bodies are no longer our destiny. But we must also be aware that physical attractiveness is one of the greatest factors for inequality in Western societies. Attractive people earn more, get milder judgments on crimes and even get better school grades.

So it’s less about self-acceptance than getting a better deal because of your looks?
No, many people are interested in accepting themselves and I won’t deny them that. But I can imagine that women are more likely to undergo such procedures to please other women than to appeal to men because most men won’t even notice the embellishments. After I’ve been to the hairdresser, my partner will see that it looks good but he might not notice that I’ve streaked my hair.

Is it really an act of freedom to change your body surgically?
Optimising ourselves is our time’s promise of salvation. If you commit to this logic, you feel permanent pressure.

Some say that the upswing of the beauty industry also has to do with the higher number of single people today because they have to remain competitive. Is that true?
My investigations from 2015 on women between the ages of 35 and 60 who had hyaluronic acid and Botox injected in Berlin showed that most were in a relationship. Of course, separations often trigger a desire to change something but among the big reasons for the boom in the industry, in my opinion, are the rising importance of appearance and the fact that we are increasingly communicating with selfies.

But aren’t single people also likely to boost the beauty industry?
They are but this also has to do with how many of us have to present ourselves to the partner market several times in our lives. And what matters today in that context? The photo. Our appearance decides our relationship possibilities, so we try to look good for as long as possible.

You once said that beauty procedures allow a 50-year-old woman to participate in society. But that means women who don’t have anything done to them lose their social connection in old age.
The ageing woman has long been invisible in our society. With today’s procedures, a woman can now maintain a youthful appearance for longer. But the ageing woman nevertheless remains invisible. We see women who are ageing but only those who don’t look like they are. Unlike in men, grey hair and wrinkles are not considered sexy in women. They used to be considered old at 35 and no longer desirable. This has changed, with the effect that women no longer simply disappear from society.

In the future, will we have to make excuses for ourselves if we look 50 years old when we actually are 50?
Yes. But men also know this. The pressure also increases for them to have thick hair until old age and not have bags under their eyes. On the other hand, they can simply grow a beard over the hanging turkey neck.

On average, men perceive themselves as slimmer than women. Are they putting less pressure on themselves?
That’s right. And we must not forget that men can still compensate for a lower attractiveness with status, power and money. This isn’t possible for women to the same extent. Society judges them much more harshly on their appearance.

What will it do to a society when surgically beautified bodies become the norm?
Differences between social classes will become even clearer. To maintain the most attractive appearance, you’ll need knowledge and money over a long period of time. The middle classes already educate their children in this way: they teach them to eat healthily, to exercise, to apply sunscreen in the summer.

Aren’t those for health reasons?
Yes, but there is also a beauty factor. Another example is braces. In Germany, you hardly see any young people with crooked teeth because that’s paid for by health insurance and straight teeth have become an ideal of beauty.

Perfectly shaped breasts, a tight belly, no cellulite – what body image do children grow up with when their mothers are not allowed to look like mothers?
All of this increases the pressure on young women to look at least as good as their mothers. Let’s think of Heidi Klum: in her 50s, she has a more beautiful body than many women do at the age of 20. Of course, this triggers uncertainty.

What advice would you give an 18-year-old who comes to you with a desire for surgery?
First, I would explore with her what she expects to gain from it. If it’s really just about fixing a specific flaw – protruding ears, a hooked nose, crooked teeth – you can do something about that. But I would also emphasise that it will not suddenly solve all of her other problems.

Do you think that cosmetic surgery will one day be as normal as wearing braces?
I would say that it already is almost as normal. But there will be counter-movements with regard to these short-term ideals of beauty. Back to a more natural look? In a way, that might be happening already. But in terms of the ageing face, it will be more like a well-preserved vintage designer bag – you can see that it has been worn but it is high quality and well maintained.

The Brazilian telenovela is travelling north for a big break with english-speaking streaming audiences

The Brazilian telenovela – with its melodrama, suspense and hairspray – will keep a new cohort of viewers gripped in 2026, thanks to an unexpected twist: international expansion. In recent years, many have dismissed the format as outdated in the age of streaming. It turns out, however, that there’s a market for the shows’ endless intrigue.

Globo is Latin America’s largest communications and media company and turned over BRLI6.4bn (€2.6bn) in 2024. Now it has set its sights beyond its borders. Though telenovelas have long been exported in their original form to Latin America and Europe, a new idea is being pursued in a bid to tempt the vast US market. Brazil’s telenovelas will be adapted into English with new actors through a partnership with Los Angeles-based studio MFF & Co. The studio has bought the rights to a string of Globo hits, including Todas as Flores and Belíssima.

“Brazilian telenovelas have been watched not only in their home country but in many other parts of the world for years,” Miura Kite, MFF & Co’s president of global content, tells Monocle. “Telenovelas are also written in near real-time, adapting to daily audience feedback, so it’s a unique process.”

Changes will be made for the North American market. While Brazilian telenovelas average at a whopping 150 episodes, they will be broken into seasons for the US audience. “By reimagining these narratives, we’re not only tapping into an extraordinary creative legacy and a proven track record in terms of ratings, but also inviting new audiences to experience the imagination, emotion and diversity that define these stories,” says Kite.

Three classic Brazilian telenovelas to watch

1.
Roque Santeiro, 1985.
Set in the fictional town of Asa Branca, this show mixes humour, social critique and, perhaps less obviously, magical realism.

2.
Vale Tudo, 1988.
Considered the pre-eminent telenovela by many, this show asks the difficult question of whether it’s worth being honest in a corrupt society.

3.
Laços de Família, 2000.
Using plenty of bossa nova and beautiful imagery of Rio, creator Manuel Carlos depicts the Carioca middle classes – sometimes with sympathy, sometimes with scorn – like no one before or since.

Munich-based A Kind of Guise finds inspiration in the Mongolian steppe for its latest campaign

For its autumn-winter 2025 collection, Munich-based label A Kind of Guise (AKOG) cast its gaze eastward to the vast Mongolian steppe. Inspired by the land’s nomadic herders and their intricately patterned and, crucially, extremely warm outerwear, Altai Mirage is one of a number of recent collections that takes its cues from the clothing and patterns worn by traditional communities.

A painting of a horse galloping across a Mongolian plain by artist Jonathan Niclaus captures the essence of this collection; the technical quality and intricate patterning of the rider’s clothing are what AKOG was aiming for. Breathable and moisture-wicking materials have been used for millennia to keep their wearer dry and warm during long rides and gruelling Mongolian winters, when temperatures can drop to minus 40C.

Functionally, these materials are not so different to those used in modern technical wear but are completely natural and fashioned by hand. The AKOG design team spent months researching traditional sewing and embroidery techniques before embarking on design and manufacture. “Our process for Altai Mirage was one of immersive research and homage,” Robert Tscherny AKOG’s marketing director, tells Monocle. “We approached it as a case study, with extensive fieldwork. On one occasion, we encountered a group with Bactrian camels in the sand dunes of Elsen Tasarkhai. Our guide explained the importance of camels in nomadic life. Our designs were led by these experiences.”

They also observed hunting, throat singing and ancient sports such as bökh wrestling, all of which informed the editorial shoot, for which the team flew back to Mongolia. In the photos, shot amid the starkly beautiful steppe, locals sport AKOG garb while herding or riding on horseback. “Every item is meant to carry a spirit and a meaning,” says Tscherny. “Just as it does in Mongolian tradition.”

Images courtesy of A Kind of Guise.

How French comedian Paul Cabannes has taken Brazil by storm

As told to Fernando Augusto Pacheco.

In 2012 I married a Brazilian and we went to her homeland for our honeymoon. I loved it and almost immediately wanted to move there. So we did, relocating from Paris to the city of Maringá, where I began teaching French. After a few years I started a YouTube channel making humorous videos about being a Frenchman in Brazil. Because they were popular, I decided to try my hand at stand-up comedy, which I thought I would do as a hobby in front of about 20 people. Soon I was playing sold out shows across Brazil and now I tour the world performing at venues in cities with large Brazilian diasporas, such as London and Paris.

What I have realised through my time onstage is that, if you want to seduce somebody, you have to talk about them. When you do that to millions of people, you can seduce an entire nation. The second reason why my comedy has proven so popular in Brazil is that I notice small peculiarities about the country’s culture that people who have lived there their whole lives think are unremarkable. For example, when a Brazilian has a piece of food in their hand, they will almost always offer it to you, with the expectation that you will refuse it, which you have to. That way, both of you are being polite. But sometimes they actually want you to accept it and you’re keen to do so. But you have to refuse anyway. After the first refusal, they will try a second time but you must still refuse. Only when they offer it a third time can you accept.

Another thing that I have noticed is how difficult it is to leave a Brazilian party. If you say that you’re thinking of heading home, the host will reply, “It’s too soon,” and keep inventing excuses for you to stay – even if they want to call it a night. It’s considered even more rude to tell people that you want them to leave your party than it is to leave someone else’s, so you have to give off subtle (or not so subtle) signs, such as miming brushing your teeth. Even then, when your guests announce that they’re going, you still must say, “No, please don’t.”

Such habits are particularly funny when you come from a more direct culture, like France’s. The two countries have a lot of words in common, as well as religion. But apart from those things, there are few similarities between the two. In France, we say no quite bluntly. Once, I had the honour of being invited to a dinner hosted by Emmanuel Macron for Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva at the Élysée Palace. At the end of the meal, I asked a guard, “Can we go to the garden to have a look?” He replied, “Non.” This is something you would never hear in Brazil. Brazilian people just don’t say no.

The commute: Step out onto the street with Josefa González-Blanco

Josefa González-Blanco, Mexico’s ambassador to the UK, once ran a wildlife and conservation centre in the southern Mexican state of Chiapas. There, she led the first successful reintroduction to the wild of the scarlet macaw, a species that had been extinct in the region for more than 70 years. On a cold London morning, as we join the ambassador on her daily commute from Belgravia to Mayfair, Latin America seems a long way away. Fortunately, though, the presence of Tiny Dancer, González-Blanco’s schnauzer-poodle-chihuahua mix, brings a little Mexican sunshine to our necessarily brisk walk.

Are you a morning person?
I’m a night owl, which makes me feel more connected to Mexico. As my day is winding down here, my team there is still active. The British afternoon overlaps with the end of the workday in Mexico; it’s a small window of connection between both worlds.

What’s your ideal breakfast?
When it’s just myself, I keep it simple: yoghurt, oats and a strong cup of tea or coffee. I also have a deep affection for traditional English or Scottish breakfasts. At an event at Scotland House, we made quesadillas with blood pudding – they were magnificent. Whenever I host an official breakfast, though, it always begins the Mexican way, with chilaquiles, enchiladas suizas, huevos rancheros… Food, for us, is never just food; it’s conversation, comfort and an important form of diplomacy.

How often do you walk to work?
Three days a week. If we have time, Tiny and I will take a stroll around Hyde Park: she darts around the horses and barks at squirrels that she will never catch.

Headphones in or city sounds?
It depends on my mood. Sometimes the city sounds can feel comfortable. Classical music helps me find a clear mental space. I often listen to Rachmaninoff’s “Piano Concerto No 2”, which reminds me that diplomacy is a constant negotiation that strives for harmony. But sometimes what I need is a bit of joy and that’s when I turn to rancheras, mariachi, guitarra de son or la música regional.

Does Tiny Dancer enjoy London?
At the beginning it was too cold and rainy for a girl from the tropical rainforests of southern Mexico. But now she loves it, especially the Underground – if I get distracted, she will often jump up onto another passenger’s lap.

What do British people get wrong about Mexico?
We are the 13th-largest economy in the world, a leader in clean-energy technology and a pioneer in biodiversity conservation, home to more than 10 per cent of the planet’s species. Our story reflects this natural diversity and abundance. People associate Mexico with our food, tequila and our general sense of celebration. All of which are true. Yet behind that lies a country of philosophers, scientists, architects and innovators.

What do you do when you arrive at the office?
The first thing I do is light a candle. Then I have a coffee. Then I get to work.

Do you have Christmas plans?
I’ll be spending it in London again this year. I’ll be attending His Majesty the King’s Christmas Reception at Windsor Castle with the diplomatic corps, which is always a very special occasion.

A look behind the artistry and challenges of ‘Swan Lake’ at the Royal Danish Ballet

Every theatre has two entrances, each offering visitors a contrasting experience. If you enter through the main foyer of Copenhagen’s Royal Opera House for the latest production of Swan Lake, you will be greeted with Tchaikovsky’s score, fantastical costumes and lighting, and the diaphanous grace of 55 exceptional ballet dancers.

Enter through the stage door, however, and the enormity of the graft and skill, the hard-won know-how, as well as the physical agony of staging such a spectacle, becomes apparent. It takes what amounts to a village of people to launch those tutus twirling across the water. And sometimes things do not go to plan.

Though Swan Lake is being staged at the 600-seat opera house on the harbour front, the Kongelige Teater in the city centre has been the Royal Danish Ballet’s home for more than 250 years. Our backstage tour starts in the tailoring department. “This is my favourite costume from this production,” says pattern maker Bente Kirk, stroking the dark purple fabric with gold brocade used for the queen’s dress. Alongside samples, Kirk has laid out original sketches by designer Mia Stensgaard. Judging by her mood board, it seems that Stensgaard has taken inspiration from birds of prey, Fabergé eggs and Cate Blanchett’s performance as Queen Elizabeth I.

This workshop is one of the only places in Denmark where new milliners are still trained. Kirk shows us a tutu that has come in for repair. It is constructed from 10 layers of tulle and one of organza, supported by a thin metal hoop and fitted to the waist with a bodice. Tutus wilt over time so they require freshening up to maintain a perky silhouette.

Kirk has worked here for 22 years, during which time the tutus have been made by two men in southern England who supply most of the ballet companies in the world (at a cost of about €350 per piece). They are retiring, so Kirk and her colleagues must figure out how to make them in Denmark. But the business is shrouded in secrecy. “I once spoke to them over the phone and suggested that we come to visit them but they said, ‘No, no, no,’” says Kirk.

Ballet costumes are surprisingly heavy. This is partly because they are built to last decades. They also need to be regularly adjusted because the physique of ballet dancers is changing, says Kirk, as she works on letting out a bodice for a forthcoming production. In recent years, male performers have become more muscular and the ballerinas taller and more varied in figure than was previously permitted. And, as a result of their complexity, costumes are rarely cleaned. Excuse me? “Oh, yes, they smell like hell,” says Kirk, laughing. “But the performers are all used to it. And some dancers think of it as a privilege to wear something that was worn by a great soloist – it has a special aura.”

Swan Lake might forever be associated with those tutus but a great ballet performance begins at the feet. Shoe manager Henriette Brøndsholm tells Monocle that this production is the most challenging ballet of all when it comes to footwear. “The swans are en pointe almost the entire time that they are onstage,” she says. “The premier ballerina goes through two pairs every performance and she will end up with at least one black toe.”

The shoes are made to measure by Freed of London. The toe pointe, or block, which is about 2 sq cm, is constructed from layers of card. Every dancer will break in their shoes to achieve their preferred flexibility and some will customise them further, darning the tips to attain a perfect flat surface. They are sold to fans after performances, recouping some of the cost (about €60).

Brøndsholm started at the company’s ballet school when she was nine years old and is still here 47 years later, having retired – as all dancers eventually must – at the age of 40. She too has danced in Swan Lake. As the bell rings for the evening’s performance, she says that she still misses being onstage. “When the audience is there and the music plays, it doesn’t matter how much it costs you in toenails and blisters,” she says. “It’s all worth it.”

Someone who knows the truth of this first-hand is tonight’s lead, Astrid Elbo. “This is my third time around the lake,” she says, referring to the occasions so far on which she has played the dual leads of the White Swan, Odette, and the Black Swan, Odile, which are perhaps two of the toughest roles in the classical repertoire. “The challenge is as much mental as it is physical,” says Elbo. “I need to concentrate and visualise like an athlete – planning the day, thinking about nutrition and getting extra protein.”

The 31-year-old Elbo enrolled at the company’s ballet school when she was six years old. Traditionally, she would have been considered tall for a ballerina, she says, claiming (unconvincingly) to have been like “Bambi on ice” as a young dancer. “Co-ordination was difficult since my centre of gravity is high.”

Tonight, Elbo’s prince is French dancer Mathieu Rouaux. Monocle asks him how he feels about taking second billing – unusual for a male lead in the still-chauvinistic world of classical ballet. “I love it so much – there’s less pressure,” he says. “I use it as a tool not to freak out. What will the audience remember? The swans. And maybe a blurry image of some tall, handsome guy in the background.”

A few minutes before the curtain rises, the atmosphere backstage is energised but calm. Dancers, some still wearing tracksuit tops over their tutus, stretch or stand while chatting. One swan is doing star jumps. The orchestra strikes up (sounding slightly muted from back here) and the stage is soon a blur of dancers, the clatter of their pointe shoes sounding like horses on a cobbled street. Later, recuperating offstage, dancers bend double, breathing heavily but silently through rounded mouths.

As the curtain falls on the first half, it is clear that something is amiss. Ballet director Claire Still has appeared in the wings and is huddled with a dancer swaddled in a red dressing gown. It turns out that one of the four ballerinas who has just performed the “Dance of the Little Swans” (probably the most parodied ballet sequence of all but incredibly demanding) can’t continue for the second half. Emma Larsen, an 18-year-old “aspirant”, or student, from the ballet school is now shrugging off her dressing gown and hurrying to switch costumes to fill in for the injured dancer.

The recent history of the Royal Danish Ballet has not been without tumult. In 2024 its then artistic director, Nikolaj Hübbe, resigned following accusations of a harsh teaching environment and a “culture of silence” at the school. Years earlier, there were allegations of cocaine use in the company. Californian Amy Watson was chosen as Hübbe’s replacement. She is the first woman who danced in the company to become its director – and the first to last more than a year in the post.

“Things have evolved,” says Watson. “I can say with certainty that you do not need to be brutal to raise a ballet star. Positive affirmations create better outcomes.” Scandals, plus a perception of ballet as an elitist form of art, could be an existential threat to the company, which relies on generous state funding. “This country appreciates art and culture, and it’s fantastic to have the government’s support,” says Watson. “The message that I have to get out is that ballet is for everyone.”

Back in the wings, Elbo, now in costume as Odile, the Black Swan, spits her gum into a large dustbin as the curtain rises on the second half of the production. She seems remarkably relaxed given that she is about to perform the daunting 32 pirouettes (or fouetté en tournant) in Act III. Audiences count the rotations as she delivers them perfectly to tumultuous applause. Afterwards, Elbo seems satisfied. “It felt so good that I could have kept going,” she says.

But with a job this punishing, how does she relax? “I have started going out dancing more,” she says. “I go to a techno club and stand at the front of the crowd so I can’t see anyone. I don’t even move to the beat because I’ve been told to be on the music my whole life. I just dance.”