★★★½

Hail, Caesar! has been marketed as the Coen Brothers’ homecoming, as a return to their distinctive style of surreal and dark comedy that brought them such acclaim in The Big Lebowski and Fargo. Hollywood’s A-listers dominate the cast, which includes Clooney, Brolin, Johansson, Swinton, Fiennes and many more. It’s no wonder dedicated fans of the Coens have been eagerly awaiting its release. But despite overflowing with potential, there are many reasons why it doesn’t live up to the expectation.

Filmgoers will immediately identify this as a “Coen Brothers’ movie”, that oft-used but apt cliché, as it bears all the hallmarks of the Coenesque. Their screenplay, as ever, is brilliantly funny and believably real. This is enhanced again by their liberal use of reverse shots, allowing the viewer to feel present in all conversations, and faultless editing to maintain their distinctive rhythm. Their unique characters don’t fail to amuse, such as Fiennes’ thespian director Laurence Laurentz – channelling David Lean and Laurence Olivier – who is perhaps underused, or Johansson’s slick-talking New Yorker Deanna Morgan. The Coen brothers’ tradition of directing, writing, producing and editing their films position them as the closest thing to American auteurs – Hail, Caesar is no exception, and definitely showcases their characteristic style.

But while the Coens usually find success critically and commercially, their films bridging the gap between independent and mainstream audiences, Hail, Caesar is undoubtedly a film aimed primarily at cinephiles. It’s heavy use of cinematic in-jokes and self-references are at best rather self-indulgent, and at worst shroud the film’s enjoyment in exclusivity. Their use of lengthy dance and choreographed swimming scenes unnecessarily disrupt the narrative in an attempt to reference Busby Berkeley’s kaleidoscopic dance sequences of the 1930s, as well as their own previous use of these in The Big Lebowski – only they fail to incorporate them as cleverly and it feels disjointed. The evocation of 1940s noir in the final third seems like an afterthought, out of step with the overall mood: the Coens appear only to be showing off their famous admiration for film noir.

Such admiration rises to adoration in their representation of Hollywood, the film being almost an ode to its Golden Age in the 1940s-50s. Light hearted mockery aside, Hail, Caesar views Hollywood with rose-tinted nostalgia, ignoring how stifling the studio system was for directors attempting even minimal artistic innovation. They get around this by basing the resurrected image more on how popular culture views Hollywood’s Golden Age than how it actually was; the underground Communism, the homosexual nepotism, the studio’s fear of tabloid scandal, all are borrowed from pop culture and portray the period as rather quaint. But perhaps this shouldn’t be surprising, as all the Coens’ films are profoundly indebted to the classical genres of Hollywood – such as their “stoner noir” The Big Lebowski, and neo-western No Country For Old Men to name just two. Their new release continues this trend, and while not being as clever or ambitious as their previous projects, it is undoubtedly a postmodern pastiche of deep affection, not a parody. Their reverence for classical Hollywood is measurable in the choice of protagonist, the studio ‘fixer’ Eddie Mannix who, though he can’t quite explain why, proclaims the studio system “just feels right”.

As far as the comedy is concerned, the sharp dialogue certainly gained a few laughs. Yet one could sense the over-reliance on high profile actors. Tatum’s tap-dancing Burt Gurney, the Communist and alluded-to homosexual, was an unsuccessful attempt to extract comedy from a tired stereotype by casting a celebrity; Clooney’s gullible numbskull Baird Whitlock, the kidnapped Hollywood star, was funny primarily because it was Clooney, the usually smooth Nespresso man playing the fool. The narrative itself, which follows Mannix trying to ensure the smooth running of the studio, is rather half-baked – always seeming secondary to the Coen’s desire to resurrect Hollywood’s Golden Age – and leaves the viewer unsatisfied upon its resolution.

I must say that on a personal level I enjoyed the film; I was entertained, I laughed, and being a Coen Brothers fan I could understand enough of the cinematic self-references to feel like I was part of one big inside joke. But when I left the cinema I couldn’t help but feel disappointed, which I apparently shared with the audience based on the audible grumbles of complaint. I suspect die-hard cinephiles will feel their appetites for the Coenesque satisfied for a few years, but for me it felt like something was missing. It’s a fine line between self-referencing and self-indulgence, and I fear, this time, the Coens may have slipped over it.

★★★☆☆

A sunny guitar intro and vague, confused lyrics sung to a nostalgic 60s beat: Living Hour’s ‘Summer Smog’ illustrates quite accurately what its title and the album cover both evoke, the inevitably contemplative mood of anyone who has been sitting at the beach for a little too long. Whether any of the words are more sophisticated than “ooh”, though, I find difficult to tell.

The first track slowly becomes less fuzzy, picking up a sweet tempo similar to many holiday songs, which is always very welcome in February. Immediately afterwards, ‘Seagull’ stagnates in the same musical and thematic region, its effortlessness temporarily broken by a short but energetic solo.

It seems brave for a first production to have most of its tracks over rather than under the four-minute line, but Living Hour manages to stay on the right side of the limit between the long and the unnecessarily diluted, settling for a few ballads like ‘There Is No Substance Between’ which pulls the band away from slightly weak pop to more experimental psychedelia as in ‘Mind Goodbyes’.

Originally from one of the sunnier cities of Canada, Winnipeg, the band’s debut album recreates a dreamy atmosphere with no surprises, tracing the outlines of a world still marked by adolescence where the boundaries between different elements are blurred.

This term’s OUPhil concert is dedicated to modern music, with two pieces from giants Bartók and Mahler being performed in a very full Sheldonian. Starting with Bartók’s Viola Concerto with the talented Rachel Maxey playing the solo part, the programme requires that the audience be entirely open to the Hungarian composer’s intriguing mix of voiced sensitivity and lack of spontaneity due to a complex score.

The concerto challenges our expectations by articulating melodic themes which are then more or less successfully superimposed on a fragmented, yet expansive orchestral accompaniment. The tense atmosphere is very clearly set as soon as the first notes are echoed by the violins, creating a sense of anguish. Rachel Maxey goes along confi dently with the ambitiously “notey” viola part, in turns fading in with the orchestra and suddenly springing back to the musical forefront with focused ease. However, there seems to be no straightforward aspect to this piece, since even the tempo is as elusive and changing as the alternation between the mostly aggressive beginnings of phrases and the underlying introspection.

Contrast is key from the opening of the evening onwards. Silences are filled with expectation, enabling the musicians to trace the outline of the current theme more precisely and mark it without losing too much coherence. Mahler’s Symphony No. 2, dubbed the “Resurrection”, proposes a more accessible take on similar sonorities. The repetitive motif played by the strings at the beginning of the first movement, an “allegro maestoso”, evolves through a series of variations during which the entire orchestra progressively gains amplitude until the booming last minutes of grand but confused unison with the choir and two female soloists.

The sheer volume of sound reflects the large numbers of musicians on stage, with a rare duo of harps, five percussionists and an impressive total of eleven French horns, although this appears to fluctuate throughout the performance. Groups of three or four leave the room only to return to their seats at the centre of the Sheldonian moments after, inevitably distracting the audience on their way. The reason for this traffic becomes clearer when distant horns are heard calling triumphantly from the corridors, an interesting device which is not entirely justified, especially considering the existence of mutes.

At times solemn and rarely light, the OUPhil’s programme is carefully interpreted and juggles with the composers’ attraction for opposites. The orchestra’s rounded, full sound responds to the successive soloists in sometimes brutal, but mostly adequately phrased echoes ranging from a sharp pizzicato to disconcerting legatos.

The winds howl, the bells chime and the rain falls.

It’s rain on a gloomy night, a storm in pitch-black darkness. But then “it’s alright.” The shadows start to dissipate, vanishing away in wisps.

More Rain, M. Ward’s eighth solo album, isn’t really about rain at all. It’s about the comfort of the hearth, confessional and well, other people. It’s a record that is – dare I say it? – upbeat and warm. Who knew that M. Ward had it in him?

M. Ward has always been an artist obsessed: obsessed with timelessness, perfection, the crispness of blending boundaries. More Rain was initially intended as an ode to doowop, easy-going and easy-listening.

But then as he put it to Glide, the creation process started to snowball. Peter Buck of R.E.M., Neko Case and k.d. lang feature; the doo-wop became M. Ward’s trademark mix of blues and folk and a bit of rock’n’roll.

Yet here’s the difference between More Rain and M. Ward’s earlier work. Transfiguration of Vincent makes its mark with the one-two gut punch of ‘Vincent O’Brien’ and ‘Sad, Sad Song’ – “He only laughs when he’s sad, and he’s sad all the time so he laughs the whole night through.”

But the strongest track pairing on More Rain? The tremendous ‘Confession’ – “There’s a place you can hide when they’re conspiring against you: confession” and its reassuring counterpoise, ‘I’m Listening’.

“Listening,” because on these tracks, for this half hour, the roles of artist and listener are switched. M. Ward is listening to you, not you him. The album doesn’t give, it takes. Resentment trickles away, so does anger. Even the odd ache of loneliness begins to fade. Which is the problem. Sadness and loneliness and ache are what M. Ward does best. He’s no Pretty Pimpin’ Kurt Vile. He’s got a sneer and a guitar, a piano and a raspy, melodic voice. His is music produced by Christianity, but not faith.

That long road we’ve been stumbling down all these years is not supposed to end with internal peace. M. Ward’s albums are best as reflections, and hence questionings, of happiness. More Rain almost seems as if it takes comfort as a given, as good.

The album has a few real gems. The wistful ones are best: ‘Girl From Conejo Valley’ is a beautiful rerecording of a decades-old blues hit (except the song is actually a new one). And ‘Slow Driving Man’ is a plain and honest – clean – tale of a loner just like us.

But the cover of The Beach Boys’ ‘You’re So Good to Me’ doesn’t have the happy beat of the original; and without that, c’est perdu. Nor does the contribution from Neko Case on ‘Time Won’t Wait Up’ – why use a singer with Neko Case’s moonbeam of a voice, then drown her out anyway? – resonate, its potential unforgivably wasted.

And although ‘Phenomenon’ and ‘Temptation’, where Buck lets loose with mandolin and guitar, are better, they are nonetheless emblematic of an album second half in which weariness wins its battle over introspection. They’re perfect, like M. Ward’s songs always are, just not that good.

Real rain doesn’t pitter patter, it cascades. Thunderstorms are the crush, not the kiss.

Don’t be deceived by its first track, More Rain is a drizzle, not a storm.

Before attending C Duncan’s Oxford gig at the Old Fire Station, I didn’t realise the alternative music scene was missing a certain geeky sensibility. But, standing there in their shirts, jeans and trainers, the Mercury Prize-nominated Glaswegian musician and his three-piece band are not the standard indie rockers you may expect to stumble across in this tiny venue on a Friday night.

Christopher Duncan’s debut album Architect, released in July last year, really is all about the careful piecing together of sounds. But however intimate and endearing the band are, their live show does not quite match up to the sculptor’s deft accuracy with sound that we hear on recording.

Their sound does, at least, match the surroundings. The space is industrial and intimate. With the drum-kit set up on a child’s road-design play-mat, and various colourways of their album artwork and similar road-like designs projected on the screen behind them, the endearing group take to an appropriately idiosyncratic stage. But one thing neither this gig, nor any other gig, for that matter, needs, is a compere asking the crowd to “shout a bit louder” to announce the band before they take to the stage, as was felt necessary by organisers, Glovebox.

With both parents trained as classical musicians, and having studied at the Royal Conservatoire of Scotland himself, it is no surprise that C Duncan’s musical precision is so acute. Thundering drums keep up the momentum of ‘Here To There’, as Duncan’s repeated “I’ll take you everywhere I go” becomes intriguingly chantlike. On acappella track ‘In Days Gone By’, his bandmates put down their guitars and synths to join him in vocal harmony, in a stunning, almost choral capacity.

It would not be fair to have C Duncan down as a classical musician pussy-footing his way around the ‘popular’ music scene without taking any risks. His choice to cover the Cocteau Twins’ ‘Pearly Dewdrops Drops’ is a surprising one, considering how far from the ethereal wave of the 80s/90s band C Duncan’s vibe is. But it pays off.

Even final track and single ‘Garden’ has a subtle exuberance when performed on stage, and is certainly one of the tracks most aptly transferred to a live setting. Duncan’s catchiest number takes on a mock-Beach Boys vibe, admittedly with less dense harmonies. Guitar solos in the second half become almost psychlike, which is far from what could ever have been expected from an album with such a calculated scientific branding.

When C Duncan and band really let loose, their chopped-up meticulousness is even more exciting than their modest and exact personae ever could be.

Created in Michaelmas 2014, Notes’ inaugural issue featured Megan Madden’s stark photograph of a tea-cup on its cover: a sardonic pun on the ‘mugshot’, and a visual nod to things casual and left-behind. In his introductory note, editor Domhnall Iain Domhnallach’s praised ‘the fleeting, the makeshift, the shapeshifting and the transient’, setting the tone not only for that issue – appropriately titled ‘Ephemera’ – but for what has today become Oxford’s most frequently-printed zine of new writing and art.

Rather than setting itself up as yet another glossy high altar of print publication, Notes strives to present a fortnightly screen-grab of what Oxford’s writers and artists are at work at. Looking over the zine’s back issues, we find workshopped poems, ambitious sketches, reimagined images, and plenty of category-defying prose. Think of Notes as the Snapchat of creativity in Oxford: instead of polished gems in gilt cases, we get the gritty works-in-progress of both regular and one-time contributors, complete with snarky captions. Each issue overflows with fascinating ideas and projects. As Sarah Murphy, editor of Issue 12: ‘Cornucopia’, put it: ‘This is our ode to bounty. Such plentiful. Very art.’

This is not to say that Notes sacrifices aesthetic quality for sheer frequency and quantity. In fact, one of Notes’ many strengths is the strength and consistency of formal innovation that finds its way into these pages. The most recent issue, ‘Snake’, features among its contributions a JCR Motion, a listicle, a transcript of a lecture, a reply to a call for volunteers in a cyborg lab experiment, and a delightfully self-referential digital illustration with the caption: ‘He had the Audacity / for a double-page spread…’ While not all these pieces have fully inhabited their chosen forms (we find, occasionally, the marks of inner grammarists telling the authors to dot their i’s and cross their t’s), there is a sense that these forms represent the true vernacular of Oxford life, and serve as an idiom for the university’s many subcultures.

Another note-worthy point is the wry humour with which the publication engages its own contents. The editorial notes that preface each issue are a joy – and often a laugh – to read, in the way they sit happily alongside their (highly varied) contributors as artworks in their own right. Mina Odile Ebtehadj-Marquis’ knowing One Direction reference thus provides the perfect segue to Rebecca Roughan’s ‘Sonnet 130’ in Issue 4: ‘Ugly’, while Surya Bowyer’s introduction to Issue 11: ‘Tip’ is a worthy addition to the other poems in the issue. The fascinating Issue 7/8: ‘Out/Liars’, printed in opposite directions on either half, with Abigail Taubman’s photograph of a reflected corridor forming the centre-spread, is itself a comment on truth-telling: the contents page for Issue 7 lists the pieces in Issue 8, and vice versa.  

Where could Notes go from here? The editors have thus far decided to keep the zine in hard-copy circulation, and print lends the publication not only its distinctive aesthetic but an enduring appeal to emerging writers and artists – Notes’ primary source of contributions. But for an enterprise dedicated to exploring new forms and voices, its light-touch approach to the internet is curiously limiting. The Notes Tumblr has been inactive since Issue 4, and its Facebook page is used primarily for publicity; it could, perhaps, take a leaf from SevenVoices or even the ISIS by creating a space for other aural and visual forms. Notes has, nevertheless, done well at the reverse, engaging the web from the printed page – screenshots, emails, webchats, Facebook statuses, and even a pedestrian crossing captured by a CCTV camera have all been explored (and exploited) as new, distinctive genres.

As it stands, Notes provides Oxford’s creatives with an unparalleled space for print experimentation, and for all the bold and baffling experiments that take place within, Oxford’s cultural life is richer for it. We ought to take it seriously not despite its quirkiness, but because it is a magazine that, unlike its more genteel and subdued peers, wavers bravely on the boundary between art and life. We recognize ourselves in its pages – rude, jubilant, incomplete, and sometimes undone – a ‘certain chaotic beauty’, as Sinead O’Donovan puts it in ‘Arrested’ (Issue 13). In an age of perfect media bodies and staged political marketing, there is reason all the more to commemorate the shapeshifting and transient, especially as they appear in the work of Oxford’s most startling new voices.

When I stepped out of a bitterly cold Feburary evening, into the (relative) warmth of St Peter’s college chapel, I was not prepared for the sheer onslaught of sound, fury, and very raw emotion that the cast of the rape of Lucretia were to provide me with. I would be the first to admit that I don’t really know anything about opera, and I’ve struggled in the past to connect with student productions of this inimitable art form. However, something about this production really struck a chord with me when I attended their dress rehearsal.

There is something eerie and fitting about staging this opera in the chapel – the high nave wall, embossed with stunning stained glass, backs the stage. This lends a sense of height to the production – the sound of some astonishing operatic performances, as well as the live orchestra completely fill this massive space – bringing out the pomp and might of Rome, and the full, evocative impact of Britten’s music. Director Peter Thickett has made some subtle choices in the staging of the rape itself; the highly choreographed menace of Tarquinius drawing out Britten’s lyrics – “The pity is that sin has so much grace, it moves like virtue”. This scene was the one that I had the most worries about being performed convincingly, and yet the understated violence of the act itself, compounded the narrators desperate laments to the empty bed left behind, brought me to the edge of tears.

Visually, this is a distinctly engaging production – subtle floral motifs abound through both the marketing and costumes (I highly recommend watching the profoundly disturbing trailer on the facebook event) – evoking a subdued sense of innocence without being too heavy handed. An absolute highlight for me was the lighting, which I watched being programmed over the course of the rehearsal. Two, automated and coloured spotlights on either side of stage move and change colour in line with the action. Shadows and lights throw various parts of the stage and chapel into sharp relief, immersing you in the events unfolding – particularly the aforementioned rape scene, where low, red light has the effect of mist, heightening the understated violence of the act.

This is a stunningly bold production, of incredible scale and vision. The wonderful combination of setting and talent really brings Britten’s work to life, in a way that its never come to life before for me – I strongly recommend checking out this exciting piece of opera, it will not be a waste of your time.

Ellie Gomes’s reflections following a conversation with Artistic Director Laura Grace Simpkins on the contemporary importance of this work. 

Britten’s 1946 work ‘The Rape of Lucretia’ was banned across Europe when it was first written – however any students of Ancient History will be familiar with the shocking tale. In its simple form, the plot describes the prince, Sextus Tarquinius raping the wife of his friend Collatinus because he is intrigued by her respectable chastity. As a result of the violation, Lucretia commits suicide, overcome with shame in a society obsessed with female purity. Thus, Lucretia was praised as the moral paradigm of a Roman woman- chaste, honest and ultimately driven by the maintenance of her honour. Britten’s adaptation saw the transformation of the story, which depicted Lucretia as such a figure of piety, into a political drama, examining the vile mistreatment of women in the context of the Second World War. Either narrative deals with the sad reality of women’s agency as secondary to the desires of men.

From the outset, the opera is rife with complex ambiguities which reflect the universal theme it discusses: rape and its consequences. Whilst the title itself may come across as imposing, the crew were keen not to skirt away from the sad fact of the reality of rape, which is no less pressing than when Livy put pen to paper.  The timing to stage such a play could not be more apt for our modern perception of consent, abuse and victim-shaming. According to the artistic director, whilst the rape scene is suitably traumatic, the emphasis is on emotional impact, rather than gratuity. Earnest conversation about sexual violence is immensely important in tackling it.

What can be guaranteed is that this play will leave you with a resonance of ambiguity and complexity, the play is harrowing, but so is rape, and that is precisely why it is such an important production to see. What makes dramatic tragedy in all of its forms, so thoroughly fundamental is that despite time period, whoever we are we are able to relate because the raw emotions we witness are real. This production will make you question the security of your experienced reality as you are returned to it. Life can be hard but the lives of those on stage, and our reactions to them prove that tragic situations can be overcome and offer us an insight into how such a crime can have lasting effect on a victim.

The Rape of Lucretia runs from the 3^rd-5^th March at 8pm in St Peter’s college chapel