Apparently, according to the Wikipedia page on Quantum Multiverse Theory (whatever that is), there exists an “infinite number of possible universes that together comprise everything that exists: the entirety of space, time, matter, and energy as well as the physical laws and constants that describe them”. Yeah, me neither. Or, as David Tennant helpfully describes in one of his more technical moments as Doctor Who, “every single decision you make creates a parallel existence” creating “billions of parallel universes all stacked up against each other.” Ah, cheers Dave.

And, according to respected theoretical physicist Richard P. Feynman, “physics isn’t the most important thing – love is.” So, if we were to put the two halves of our conversation together and bash out a play script, we should come up with something not too dissimilar to Nick Payne’s Constellations. Which is a very roundabout way of letting you know that, as part of Turl Street Arts Festival, there will be a free (!) rehearsed reading of Constellations every evening this week, directed by Tom “ooh didn’t he direct Pillowman” Bailey.

Dina Tsesarsky and Jack Welch star as Marianne and Roland. She is an academic studying high-level physics. He earns a living by making honey. That’s about all that can be said for certain. Instead of presenting audiences with a traditional linear plot, Payne asks the eternal question ‘what if?’ and delves into the quantum realm, depicting Marianne and Roland’s story in a host of different realities, with different meetings, different betrayals, different conversations, and different endings. Marianne and Roland are simultaneously together and not, simultaneously loyal and unfaithful, simultaneously dysfunctional flatmates and star-cross’d lovers.

It is the unfortunate nature of a rehearsed reading that there is a certain degree of stasis, but Tsesarsky and Welch do their best to imbue the piece with movement and dynamism. Both reveal their capabilities by subtly altering their characters as the reality changes. In one universe, Roland is confident, almost suave, but in another he is a nervous wreck. In one universe, Marianne is forthright but in another she is temperate and loving.

Repetition is rife, as conversations echo one another across realities. Far from engendering frustration, however, this provokes attentiveness. The viewer picks up on the subtle differences and immediately wonders why they are significant and what they mean. They also introduce an element of humour as the characters betray their nuances through their mere choice of words.

When Constellations originally opened at the Royal Court in January 2012, living legend and sometime drama critic Michael Billington declared himself uncertain as to whether it was “the cleverest play in town or simply Love Story with extra physics”. With Bailey’s reading, this will not matter to the average audience member. Nick Payne’s play can be both trite and thought-provoking, both contemplative and heart-warming. And therein lies its strength. Plus, its free.

Look! Up in the sky! Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No… it’s another superhero movie. With the announcement of Spiderman’s imminent integration into the ludicrously profitable Marvel cinematic universe, now seems as good a time as any to assess the state, or rather the prevalence, of the superhero movie. In fact, there are around 30 superhero movies, based on DC or Marvel comics, which are slated to arrive between now and 2020.

But why is the superhero market becoming so oversaturated? The simple answer is, as is usually the case in Hollywood, money. There are four superhero movies that have made over a billion dollars, and 2012’s The Avengers (entitled Avengers Assemble in the UK) still stands as the third highest grossing film of all time. The Marvel cinematic universe has in total grossed over $7 billion worldwide, and with the upcoming slate of phase 2 and phase 3 films in the pipeline at Disney, they show no signs of slowing their momentum.

But why has the superhero movie become such a cash cow? One answer is the economic concept of vertical integration. Superhero franchises such as X-Men, the Marvel cinematic universe or the elusive DC universe are composed of multiple franchises. The Marvel universe alone consists of the Iron Man series, the Thor series, the Captain America series and others that have either been launched or are set to launch across the next few years. Marvel has even crossed into television with Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. and Agent Carter, which promise to rake in cash for years to come. The potential for profit from a team-up movie such as The Avengers, which can draw in fans of each character’s respective franchise, incentivises film studios to make bigger and more diverse spectacles out of a genre that has become the blockbuster tent-pole.

So why is oversaturation a problem, if there seems to be a reliable audience for these films? Well, first there is the homogenising effect of the multi-franchise universe approach. The Marvel movies are necessarily tonally indistinct from each other, so that it doesn’t seem odd when Iron Man and Thor duke it out on screen. Man of Steel, Warner Brothers’ misguided attempt to launch their own cinematic universe, suffers from a subdued gritty realism, supposed to accommodate the inclusion of Batman at a future date – a character that Warner Brothers is relying on to sell their cinematic universe in the follow up to Man of Steel which is, tellingly, titled Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice.

The appeal of superhero movies is that they offer both spectacle and escapism. To be faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive, to be able to leap tall buildings with a single bound: the superhero movie is a kind of power fantasy, an escape from human frailty or vulnerability. But what do we escape from if every superhero movie is the same? Recent efforts to shake up the style and feel of these films, notably Marvel’s Guardians of the Galaxy, are considered amongst the best of their franchises, and the gritty realistic take of Nolan’s Batman trilogy was enough to dislodge the sour taste of the campy Joel Schumacher films of the 1990s. But now, ‘gritty realist’ superhero movies and ‘fun spectacle’ seem to be the only two genres into which superhero movies fall.

Now that Kevin Feige will probably be producing every other movie coming out of Hollywood, the only question remaining is at what point will audience’s tire of the superhero genre? As of right now, the studios producing these films have no reason to change the formula, and will have no reason until they stop making money. But when they do need a change, they are lucky to be operating in a genre that has endless scope for reinvention, the recasting of young actors in the X-Men franchise standing testament to this.

For now however, superhero movies are going to stick with what works. Marvel will continue to produce movies that are tonally indistinct; DC will continue to replace the lead characters of their films with Batman and Sony will continue to reboot Spiderman. Well, maybe not everything works.

Over Christmas, one of British TV’s finest offerings returned to our screens. Following the sensational revelation of Danny Latimer’s killer (whose identity will not be mentioned in this article, though other spoilers may appear), Broadchurch has returned. Despite a certain continuity — DCI Alec Hardy continues to grimace a lot, the Latimer parents still have a rocky relationship, and everyone in the town seems to harbour dark histories or secrets — the new series has swung even further into the twin territories of emotional turmoil and sinister undertone.

What used to be essentially a police procedural has become a courtroom drama. It still looks gorgeous, with the same soft focus, picturesque framing and South Coast summer light that made the first series the best-shot British TV show of the last few years by a mile. House prices in the local area have shot up as seven million people each week sit down to watch a programme that is part crime drama, part Visit Devon advert. The acting, too, is masterful, as the cast continues to go from strength to strength. Nearly all the new characters are great, with particular mention going to Marianne Jean-Baptiste’s hardened defence lawyer and Charlotte Rampling’s sardonic prosecutorial equivalent, second only to the Latimer parents in terms of believability. Their backstories, as well as Eve Myles’ as Claire Ripley, continue to enthrall.

However, one gets the continued sense that the writers feel a constant need to beat the drama of each previous scene. It would be lovely if, just for a moment, everyone could please stop shouting. Almost every scene this series is packed full of weeping, wailing, and gnashing of teeth, and whilst it does give the actors a lot with which to work, and a range of emotions to express (Olivia Coleman is especially good at this), the overall effect is to detract from the power of the series. If characters shout at each other in every single episode, then how do you go on to show when they’re really angry?Not all of the new characters are a success, either. Meera Syal is really, really annoying as the judge (who, for some reason, wears a barrister’s wig). When she tries to be authoritative and reserved, she comes across as smug and asinine.

Broadchurch is, perhaps, a bit high on its own success. The oh-so-clever parallels between the Broadchurch and Sandbrook cases are obvious — the dodgy fathers, the wives who may or may not have been accessories to the crime, DCI Hardy’s repeated infringements of the law retrospectively screwing up the prosecution; the list goes on. Not a single character can get away with just being normal, which is fine, apart from the fact that like the shouting, it diminishes the effect of everything else. Of course Sharon’s son is in prison. Of course she hates Jocelyn for failing to defend him. Of course he killed someone. Because it wouldn’t be Broadchurch if there weren’t tears and passions running high. It’s worrying that a show which was so real in its first instance is now in danger of jumping the shark.

Nonetheless, these criticisms are irrelevant in the face of the fact that every Monday night and the arrival of the next installment is so avidly awaited. We do still care intensely about the characters, and they do seem like real people. We’re moved by Beth Latimer’s intense sorrow, Hardy’s dogged determination to get a conviction, and Ellie Miller’s desperation for exoneration in the eyes of the town. They have almost as little control over events as we, the viewers, but still they continue to fight. This humanity is key to the continued appeal.