★☆☆☆☆
One Star

I am old enough to have hazy recollections of watching — on VHS cassette — the old cartoon episodes of Teenage Mutant Hero Turtles (as it was then called), and playing an equivalently named computer game on the original NES console. Neither experience recalls particu­larly warm memories, but they were enjoyable enough ways of procrastinating at the time. The Turtles franchise has since then been through several film iterations. The one I remember from the early ‘90s consisted of actors in rath­er camp-looking costume suits, which, for all their artistic foibles, had a certain charm. This review is of 2014’s effort.

Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (2014) is an at­tempt to reboot, à la Batman Begins, an oth­erwise tired franchise. As with Nolan’s effort to make serious the camp crusader, this film attempts to make darker, more serious and edgier our heroes in a half-shell. In the direc­tor’s chair is Jonathan Liebesman, of whom I must confess to never having heard of before. IMDb tells me that his previous outing was at the helm of Wrath of the Titans, which, I am assured, was insufferably awful. Before that he churned out Battle: Los Angeles, which, I can assure you, was insufferably awful. Sadly, Turtles adds to his growing canon of undistin­guished output.

The plot? April O’Neil (played by Megan Fox, with zero panache) is a hungry young journal­ist, tired of producing puff-pieces, hungering for her big break in churnalism. Then along comes the dream story she’s always wanted — four six-foot-tall vigilantes combating crime on the streets of the city. April has the exclu­sive.

The only caveat she faces is that these vigilantes are all giant mutated turtles, that “speak English” (April’s words) and their ring leader is a worryingly wise giant talking rat (Splinter). Unsurprising­ly, April’s editor (Whoopi Goldberg — who knew she was still acting?) disobligingly refuses to broad­cast the discovery, and April begins a personal quest for proof of her claims. Before long, she and said turtles be­come embroiled in a vast terrorist conspiracy (with a plot un­nerv­ingly similar to that of Batman Begins) led by a martial arts expert in a titanium suit (Shred­der!). Can they save the day?

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One can understand how drivel like this gets made. There is a pre-existing franchise, which guarantees access to a ready-made fan base, however threadbare. There is already a plot and well-defined set of characters, so writers have to do little more than adapt an existing mythology to a screenplay. It is easy to storyboard, and producers can exercise a high level of control over the final prod­uct (historically the preserve of a director). Chances are that box office returns will be healthy.

But as artistic output, or even light entertainment fodder, Turtles is simply dread­ful. The heroes themselves are completely devoid of charm or humour. The ‘banter’ be­tween them is cringe-worthy, distinguished by its pre-eminent quality of farce. Less than twenty minutes into the running time, the film resorts to flatulence jokes. The computer generated imagery is unusually bad, so one cannot even suspend disbelief (as if the plot premise were not challenge enough). Splinter looks particularly absurd.

Can I say anything positive? The camera is held steady. The stunts are reasonably compe­tently handled. The plot, though lacklustre, is easy enough to follow. In mitigation to Me­gan Fox, she appears to have spent most time on set exchanging dialogue with imaginary creatures, later inserted through CGI in post-production, so she had little to ‘act’ against. I have considered whether I am simply judg­ing Turtles by the wrong standard, and should instead speculate on whether a child would enjoy it. Perhaps so, but I am not aware of children ma­triculating at Oxford or, gener­ally, reading Cherwell. Unless you seek an exercise in nostalgia, or need to entertain a tasteless child for a couple of hours, avoid this film at all costs.

If I were to ask you what the highest selling album of this year was so far, thoughts of Ed Sheeran, Coldplay or Sam Smith might enter your head. But no. The most successful album of 2014, so far, is the Frozen soundtrack, a film that was catapulted to being the highest-gross­ing animation and the fifth highest-grossing film of all time by its music and songs. Be­yond just financial success, soundtracks have always played a vital role in the popularity and effectiveness of cinema. And so, inspired by this, we decided to look back on the best soundtracks from the annals of film’s history.

The first distinction between the great soundtracks of cinema’s history is between or­chestral and non-orchestral scores. Within the purely instrumental oeuvre, canonical land­marks like the haunting harmonica melody from Midnight Cowboy, The Godfather’s swell­ing symphony, or the piercing violin staccato of Psycho all stand out. Not only were these fantastic musical constructions themselves, but also integral to the story-telling and at­mosphere creation of their respective produc­tions. The ethereal and poetically moving use of classical music in Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Od­yssey was, in many ways, the apogee of demon­strating the impact that these instrumental soundtracks could have.

The 2000s saw a mini ‘Golden Age’ for or­chestral movie soundtracks, begun by Gladi­ator’s heroic musical backing. Created by mu­sic impresario Hans Zimmer, creator of the soundtrack for any film worth mentioning over the last twenty years, the score was not only Oscar-nominated, but went on to inspire the music for Pirates of the Caribbean as well. Zimmer also wrote the score for Inception, that boomingly menacing mélange that includes the track Time, an utterly entrancing and in­vigorating piece. And of course, The Lord of the Rings won two Oscars for its brilliantly com­posed, and now iconic, music.

On the compilation side of soundtracking, Quentin Tarantino is often credited as the con­temporary master of movie music. It speaks volumes that Reservoir Dogs is as well-known for its use of ‘Little Green Bag’ as anything else, just like Pulp Fiction’s opening credits can im­mediately be recognised by the surf-rock ma­nia of Dick Dale’s rendition of ‘Misirlou’. Equal­ly, Paul Thomas Anderson’s who’s who of disco classics that scored Boogie Nights is a feel-good trip, which culminates in the truly awesome scene of Alfred Molina’s chrome bathrobe-clad coke addict singing along to ‘Jessie’s Girl’. Obviously, when talking of disco soundtracks it’s impossible not to mention Saturday Night Fever, with its Bee Gees dominated playlist, so adored that it reinvigorated the sales for disco albums.

Many of these soundtracks were so great because they were put in the hands of prodi­gious musical talents. The truly frightening and ominous tone of the soundtrack to There Will Be Blood, which perfectly complimented the demented protagonist of Daniel Plainview, was the brainchild of Radiohead guitarist Jon­ny Greenwood.

There’s also The Lion King, with a soundtrack famously written by Elton John and so well known it’s hard to imagine a cinematic world without it. Even last year’s The Great Gatsby, though critically divisive, was roundly praised for its cracking soundtrack, which was execu­tive produced by Jay-Z.

What makes all these few examples, or any other fantastic film score, so emotive and ex­emplary is that they are intimately tied to the films they accompany. Far from being mere compilations of amazing music, they become integral parts of the plot development, atmos­phere creation or scene-setting of their respec­tive productions. Just imagine The Magnificent Seven without its galloping, brassy theme, or Darth Vader without the marching band drumming and horns blaring in the back­ground. And lucky for us, as the Frozen and The Guardians of the Galaxy soundtracks, which went to the top of the Billboard chart in the US, attest, modern cinema clearly hasn’t lost sight of the value of a brilliant movie soundtrack.

Political autobiographies must be one of the most uninteresting literary genres, principally populated by authors with sufficiently large egos to have believed themselves capable of fixing their country and, even more impressively, after failing to do so, to explain why they believe themselves to have been successful. Perhaps surprisingly however, John Major: The Autobiography succeeds where so many others failed.

At present, the author is enjoying something of a resurgence in his newly-found role as an elder statesman, regularly commenting upon issues as his words are gratefully received by a once vicious press. As Major enjoys a renaissance hopefully many will be drawn towards his autobiography as it is a genuinely absorbing read.

Despite being popularly regarded as a stopgap between the premierships of the variously hated Margaret Thatcher and Tony Blair, John Major’s was a uniquely eventful seven years. In that time New Labour emerged, the first Gulf War was fought, the pound fell out of the ERM, Bill Clinton was elected, the Northern Ireland Peace Process began and the Conservative Party ripped itself apart so comprehensively that the damage still shows. Major was at the helm during this period of changes and his observations, critiques and analyses are fascinating.

Such works can so often descend into vain justifications for failed policies and spiteful attacks upon enemies. Major, to his credit, does not indulge in either of these. His anger at those rebels who sought to derail the Maastricht Treaty in Parliament is palpable but not spiteful. This work does not read as the product of someone sharpening his knife but rather as a politician reviewing his career with a certain sense of wonder that things could have gone so spectacularly wrong.

In addition to his time as Prime Minister, Major was a leading light in Thatcher’s government and his book is invaluable to one looking to gain an insight into this most controversial of premierships. As Thatcher’s Foreign Secretary and Chancellor of the Exchequer, Major was privy to much of her private decision making and, in parts, is openly critical of her. He bemoans her dogmatism and heavily criticises her acts of sabotage upon government legislation after her fall from power.

When you find yourself on the third inevitable pub trip of Michaelmas with people you barely know and ought to impress, there’s one traditional fail-safe that every Oxford student has fallen back on; wanking on about the books you’ve read (or heard about). Here’s our bluffer’s guide to sounding well-read.

On The Road — Jack Kerouac
An obligatory read for anyone who has taken a gap year and everyone who wished they did. Full of Benzedrine and ‘tea’ this can make you sound worldly, beatnik and interesting without even needing to rip your trousers.

Das Kapital — Karl Marx
You don’t actually need to read this; Sparknotes The Communist Manifesto and you’ve basically got all you need to convince your first fresherfriend that you’re going to spearhead the global revolution.

Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man — James Joyce
If you’ve ever been disappointed by the incompetence of everyone around you, then this is your book. Superiority oozes out of its very name, and this handy little name-drop will elevate you (and your tortured poetry) above any non-humanities student. Beware of being over-ambitious and claiming to have read Ulysses.

When John Godber’s original two-man version of Bouncers first appeared in 1977 at the Edinburgh Fringe, its debut performance was attended by precisely two: a drunk and a critic. The drunk clambered on stage and began chatting to the actors and the critic left halfway through – hardly encouraging signs.

Despite these inauspicious beginnings, Bouncers has established itself as one of the nation’s favourite plays. In 1993, Godber was ranked third behind Shakespeare and Alan Ayckbourn as the third most-performed playwright in the country and the National recently included Bouncers in its ‘100 plays of the 20^th Century’ list.

Now, student-run Poor Player Productions is staging Godber’s ‘modern classic’ at the BT Studio in 3^rd Week. Bouncers tells the story of a typical night in a typical 80s nightclub. A four-hander in which the actors inhabit various roles – from mincing, dolled-up girls to beer-soaked, sex-mad ‘lads’ – whilst always returning to the four misogynistic, pugnacious doormen of the title (Les, Ralph, Judd, and Lucky Eric), it promises to be an engaging, energetic production.

The well-crafted vulgarity of Godber’s script evokes that recognisable stench of beer, piss, sweat and deodorant. There is another element added to this stifling concoction, however: an uncomfortable pathos that is piercingly profound.

There is humour aplenty, make no mistake, but as Godber himself admitted, ‘the humour is human and tinged with sadness’. The exaggerated, almost parodic behaviour of the characters is undeniably hilarious at times, but the darker, more thought-provoking underbelly of the stereotypes is ever present: the casual sexism, the blatant homophobia, the deep-seated bitterness.

This pathos is easily observed when the four bouncers, played by Chris Connell, Yaroslav Walker, Michael Comba and Tommy Jolowicz, face the audience and recite a forceful, pulsing quasi-paean to the world of the nightclub:

“Come to the place where the beat pulsates. In the heat of the night, the walls gyrate. In the bowels of hell, the scent is strong. There’s sex in the air and the hunt is on. And the children of England sing their song.”

All four rehearse this section with laudable slickness, one taking over the lines from another with barely a pause. The effect is undeniably powerful.

Godber’s stage directions emphasise that each character should be larger-than-life: ‘ordinary mannerisms and gestures are grotesquely exaggerated’. The combined impact of the performers’ smooth approach and appropriate exuberance is simultaneously absorbing and entertaining, testament to the vision co-directors Adam Leonard and James Watt. Should this polished approach be translated to the performance as a whole, the production will be memorable to say the least.

This is where the difficulty will lie, in sustaining this pace and slickness throughout. Realism imbues the dialogue, but not the presentation. The play flows from one scene to the next without any break and character changes are immediate and absolute. As Godber wrote, ‘they [the actors] simply have physical precision, energy, muscular control, and they have the audience’s imagination: they are naked save for their skills as performers.’ An intimidating task but one this cast seems entirely capable of succeeding in.

The journey Our Fathers has taken from initial conception to on-stage production has been a long one. It has been four years since Mike Tweddle’s interest in fatherhood, which piqued when he found a box full of his late father’s diaries in 2010, crystallised into a professional ambition.

When I met him and Juan Ayala, the show’s director, outside a café on a leafy suburban street in Summertown, I wanted to find out more about the show’s origins. How had Mike’s personal experiences led to the hour-long production that arrives in Oxford at The North Wall on Saturday?

‘My dad died when I was thirteen, which is quite a critical stage in adolescence, and so I was interested in the theme of absent fatherhood in particular,’ he tells me. ‘How had the disappearance of my dad affected the man I’d become? How is society dealing with the fact that there are a lot of absent fathers out there? I decided that I wanted to bring together a group of artists and explore fatherhood through their own relationships.’

That group of artists consisted of Mike from the UK, Juan from Spain, Bert Roman from Belgium, and Sofia Paschou from Greece – four individuals with different cultural backgrounds and different relationships with their respective fathers.

‘We got a residency in Athens,’ Mike continues. ‘We had two weeks and no plan, but I told everyone we would be working around fatherhood. As soon as we learnt about each other’s fathers, who were such fantastic characters, we realised we had something very emotionally rich to play with.’

The depth of Mike’s personal investment in the project is evident even now. He speaks with a thoughtful, contemplative tone as he becomes absorbed in relating the show’s early history.

‘We started to understand the different challenges that different kinds of men in different contexts face when becoming a father. Challenges related to religion, or class, or tradition. At that time, it was still very therapeutic for me. There was a lot of crying, a lot of fear.’

‘We realised that the three of us [Mike, Bert and Sofia] had relationships that were perhaps more theatrical, that had an element of drama we could explore further. Juan stepped out at that point to direct, to help us transform our own messy personal stories into something an audience could relate to, and we took it from there.’

After sharing initial ideas with audiences in Athens, the show returned to the UK and eventually became an hour-long exploration of the twentieth-century European father, focussing on fictionalised versions of Mike, Bert and Sofia, and presenting slightly dramatised, slightly exaggerated versions of their paternal relationships.

Mike and Bert are a couple considering fathering a child together. Sofia is single and needs to find a man who will live up to her dad’s expectations. Examining fatherhood from different perspectives and embracing issues of sexuality, responsibility and freedom, Our Fathers has received numerous glowing reviews but Mike admits that there were some doubts about the show’s accessibility to begin with.

‘At first, those of us on stage were worried about the audience not being able to engage with the piece’, he reveals, ‘but Juan always had an eye on that. He kept us all in an interesting place between self-indulgence and theatricality. He could see the whole thing from an external perspective and could make sure the audience were always entertained.’

On cue, Juan jumps in to elucidate his directorial vision.

‘After the initial emotion had subsided, it became more of a professional risk than a personal one’, he explains. ‘On a personal level, they [the performers] were all very generous. They shared every detail. They were naked in the rehearsal room.’

 ‘But by then, the issue was whether or not the material worked on stage, in front of an audience. There is truth behind the stories, and I think that gives the show enormous power, but we were always concerned primarily with the audience.’

 ‘The show uses a variety of mediums’, he continues. ‘It’s a mix of stand-up comedy, domestic drama, and dance. There are elements of physical theatre and there is always a degree of improvisation as well. I think it is a very accessible show in that respect.’

Mike interrupts to expand: ‘The variety of mediums comes from a realisation that when you’re digging deep into emotional ties and deep into memories, words just aren’t enough. I think the most moving moments are when image, movement and words combine and hit the point we want to make that the words could not achieve on their own.’

I ask whether either of them think the show has a definite target audience

 ‘None of us are fathers, so we were always looking at fatherhood from a son’s perspective,’ Mike tells me, ‘But we’ve had positive responses from all sorts of people: people considering parenthood, young audiences beginning to understand their parents, gay audiences because of the prominence of alternative parenting.’

‘Ultimately, the show is about love and the way circumstances dictate the ways in which it can be expressed, and I think that’s something everyone can relate to.’

Mike himself is an Oxford alum, having graduated from Wadham in 2003. ‘It would be lovely to have some students come along’, he tells me as I prepare to leave. ‘It’s great for me to come back to Oxford and reconnect with the university. I spent a lot of my time here performing or directing, probably at the expense of my degree.’

We laugh together and I guiltily think about my essay due in tomorrow, a single word of which I’ve yet to write.