A lot has been said about Arcade Fire’s latest record, Reflektor, and not all of it complimentary. Certain diehards lamented, and continue lamenting, the transition from the underdog indie outfit they were back on the now seminal Funeral, to the supposedly over-populated, self-indulgent, make-up clad rabble that appears at Earl’s Court tonight in support of Reflektor. This change of image is only aggravated with the insistence beforehand that all attendees dress up in either fancy dress or formal attire, an arrogant and pretentious request according to some. Other devotees worried about how this risky new style would translate from the security of a New York recording studio to a faceless British arena; any doubts were quashed as soon as the lights went down and the curtain was raised. Earl’s court was, for a night, transformed into a 1970s discotheque, with the sight of the best part of 20,000 fans in black tie, tiger onesies and banana costumes producing a staggering communal atmosphere not often felt in a venue of this nature. 

From the outset, the band exhibit such raw energy and enthusiasm that it’s impossible for the audience not to be swept away with them; opening track ‘Reflektor’ is eight minutes of unadulterated disco, and the often forgettable ‘Flashbulb Eyes’ that follows is hypnotic in both its meandering pace and visual accompaniments. The set that follows is a beautiful balance between new and old material: the euphoric coupling of ‘Neighborhood 3 (Power Out)’ and ‘Rebellion (Lies)’ are still enough to get any cynic crying with joy, with new track ‘Joan of Arc’ instilling a similar level of ecstasy. But it’s the more reserved numbers where the band really shows how far it’s come. Win Butler’s haunting vocals on ‘The Suburbs’ stun the audience into silence, and the intimacy between Butler and wife Régine Chassange, singing on a separate stage in the middle of the arena, on ‘It’s Never Over’ is quite remarkable in its beauty. There’s even room for Ian McCulloch (of Echo and the Bunnymen) to guest on a cover of his own band’s ‘The Cutter’, a touch that few would have expected.

The encore, as it sometimes can, does not drop the pace. The blistering guitar riff in ‘Normal Person’ again whips the crowd into a frenzy, with confetti canons accompanying the climax of ‘Here Comes The Night Time’. The night ends where the band begun, with original breakthrough track ‘Wake Up’, a fitting reminder that, despite all the smoke and mirrors, they are still the same awkward group of nobodies they were when Funeral erupted into the music world. This shows encompasses Arcade Fire at their imperious best: the intricacy of their new material combined with the raw passion of their old creates a show so ecstatic that, despite its two hour run time, ends far too soon. And with student tickets priced at £33.00 for their Hyde Park comeback (July 3) to come, it’s almost tempting to do it all over again.  

Rather inaccurately, Jumpy describes itself as a play about sex. If anything, sex is merely a tiny part of a larger story about a mid-life crisis, about teetering on the edge of sanity as a feeling of powerlessness against the outside world chips away at all the reassurances of self-control.

It opens with Tilly, a moody 15 year old about to go out drinking to celebrate the birthday of her heavily pregnant friend, impatiently berating her mother’s concerned questions in a bid to get out of the door. At first it seems as though we are to be faced with a story of (somewhat clichéd) teenage rebellion and angst, but as the play progresses, it reveals a concern with more deep-seated feelings of confusion and vulnerability that are shown to be as prevalent at fifty as they are at fifteen.

The mother, Hilary – a neurotic middle-class woman in her fifties who suffers from panic attacks on the tube and eagerly turns to a diminishing supply of red wine to get her through the day – is reliving an adolescence of anxiety, excessive alcohol consumption, and later, in the wake of her disintegrated marriage, awkward sex. Tilly’s consistency, albeit little more than a consistent indifference to everyone and everything, stands in contrast with the volatility of her control-freak mother and subverts the expected hierarchy between parent and child.

Threatened with losing her job and living, it seems, in a stifling environment in which communication with either daughter or husband is scarce, Hilary’s breakdown is symptomatic of a feeling of loss and loneliness when confronted with age and the imminent prospect of sagging skin, or as Tilly illustratively terms it, ‘vagina neck’.

Despite an uncertain start, and some inconsistencies between the cast members, several really engaging moments of humour propel the first act forwards in the promise of more.

Unfortunately it’s a promise that is on the whole unfulfilled. The audience is left feeling as disconnected from the action as Tilly is from her mother’s attempts at bonding. The problem is perhaps the fact that there is no clear climax to the action, or at least, that the most climactic event (a gunshot) seems premature and lacking a convincing emotional basis.

Lara McIvor finds a compellingly tremulous balance between strength and vulnerability in her portrayal of Hilary and succeeds in the difficult task of embodying a much older role. Clara Davies’ Tilly seems effortless yet the two performances seem somewhat at odds with one another and the many nuances of the relationship are disappointingly left unearthed.

Without a doubt the standout performance is Sammy Glover’s Frances – Hilary’s uninhibitedly flirtatious friend who channels Samantha Jones and Edina Monsoon in equal measure; it was only a shame that there wasn’t more of her.

Jumpy is a play about the fragility of relationships commandeered by selfish instinct and a universal craving for connection, a recognition of which would perhaps have provided the play with the sense of unity that it needed to hold its best moments of comedy and pathos together.

When we think of Frankenstein far too often Boris Karloff’s rigid bolted figure lumbers into our minds, yet this production produces a monster a thousand times more scary. By constantly oscillating between humour and the darker development of the monster’s crimes the audience is invited to laugh, but always slightly uneasily. And boy are there laughs! I tried surreptitiously listing them at first but found that I was almost constantly writing and gave up. The moment Frankenstein (Howard Coase) strolled on stage, looked quizzically at the monster (Nick Finerty)… then ate a monster munch the sere absurdity of it all sent the audience into hysterics. He proceeds to give a hilarious dichtophone commentary on his actions which marks the start of a fantastic script, cleverly adapted from the novel, that constantly plays with our expectations . By mimicking Shelley’s own disjunction of narrative into several separate plots, the script constantly invites you to trace through your memory to remember quite where you have heard ‘cartoons’ or ‘Billie Holiday’ before. I will leave you to find out.  

Finerty and Coase are undoubtedly the stars of the show and their early scenes, particularly the one in the restaurant, are the highlights of the entire production.  Nick Finerty’s development from writhing inarticulacy to questionable humanity was confidently and convincingly portrayed throughout. His rise mirrors Frankenstein’s fall, yet both are placed within an alarmingly realistic modern context. In an earlier interview, director Harley Viveash said that ‘exploring ideas of perspective’ was a key aim and this is borne out in the constant misunderstandings between the characters. They seem to exist at one remove from each other, never comprehending each other’s analogies or turns of phrase.

The success of this is a testament to the whole cast who, though obviously having read the lines a million times in rehearsal, are able to seem  distant. The two leads are supported by a solid cast whose well choreographed chorus actions provide unnerving backdrops to dialogue and facilitate near seamless scene transition. I don’t have enough words to explain the many individual merits of each cast member, but Josh Dolphin’s portrayal of Mike, the old man, and Henry, the best friend, showed him to be a talented and highly versatile actor.  I suppose there was very audible talking in tech box which did somewhat ruin the tension that between the monster and Elizabeth (Alice Sandelson), but now I am hunting for problems. All in all this is an excellent production acted by a strong cast which sparkles with mirth and malice. A must see.

The beauty of sketch comedy is in its variety. Should a particular skit be received badly, it is only moments before it will be replaced by another with a different topic, different characters and quite possibly a different style altogether; there is rarely an observable linking thread between items. Audiences are swiftly taken from piece to piece and thus misses are inevitably swallowed up by hits.

In creating what is essentially a sketch show with a narrative then, three-man comedy group The Awkward Silence have taken a bold step, but one that was undoubtedly worth taking. With The Voyage Of The Narwhal, they have fashioned a series of skits linked by a vague storyline but commendably managed to retain the diversity typical to most sketch shows.

All (or the vast majority) of the scenes are set on the eponymous luxury cruise liner on its doomed maiden voyage. Ralph Jones, Vyvyan Almond and Alexander Fox share a host of imbecilic, eccentric and downright bizarre characters between them, ranging from three rugged seamen who sing entirely politically-correct sea shanties (‘What shall we do with a transgender sailor?’) to a trio of vain American ladies who speak solely in banalities, from a mysterious eastern-European scientist to a strange Pterodactyl-like monster.

There is something of Radio 4’s brilliant comedy series Bleak Expectations about The Voyage Of The Narwhal, particularly in Jones’ somewhat nostalgic narration. Plot-line is entirely secondary to comedic content but this is hardly has a detrimental effect. The show’s hectic nature, dynamic style and undeniably entertaining concept mask any depth of narrative.

The three performers are laudably versatile. Almond undoubtedly provides the most laughs. His Captain Grey is memorable, notably for the utterly hilarious story he tells about losing his manhood in an amorous encounter with an iceberg, but his caricature of a blind American showbiz mogul is equally funny. Fox’s portrayal of the ship’s beleaguered stand-up comedian is praiseworthy, although his affected incompetence occasionally seems a little too real, and Jones is amusing as a sex-crazed transatlantic gentlewoman.

It is when all three combine, however, that the laughs are loudest and the show at its finest. The trio have obvious chemistry and although their interaction lacked a modicum of slickness, their ability to play off each other, both verbally and physically, more than makes up for this. Perhaps the show’s best sketches are those where all three portray incompetent master criminals, intent on sinking the Narwhal yet simultaneously distracted by its lavish decadence.

The Voyage Of The Narwhal was shortlisted for a BBC Writer’s Prize and such an accolade is wholly deserved; Its variety of mirthful characters, engaging concept, and adept comic performances combine well, creating a thoroughly enjoyable show.

George MacDonald Frazer is a genius. From his pen leaps the fully grown bounder, cad and all round rascal that is the inimitable Harry Flashman (VC KCB KCIE). If one reads Tom Brown’s Schooldays one finds the youthful Flashy roasting young boys and all the rest of it. Frazer takes this vile specimen of humanity and, in the form of his own memoirs, places him in every great battle of the Nineteenth Century, from the Charge of the Light Brigade, to the Indian Mutiny, to Little Bighorn and Custer’s Last Stand. And all the while Flashman – like all true bullies a tremendous coward – is quaking in his spurred cavalryman’s boots.

Frazer is as much an historian as anything, and the “memoirs” are so ac- curate that many (especially, it has to be said, our friends on the other side of the pond) are led to believe that this character really did bounder his way across the bed sheets of history and live to write his own brilliant account of his womanizing exploits. Thus Florence Nightingale, Prince Albert, George Custer and Lord Cardigan are all completely convincing, and, one feels, true to their actual selves.

But perhaps Frazer’s greatest achievement is to construct a character whom one loves but is in every way awful. In one memorable episode, Flash is racing across the frozen wastes of the Russian winter in a sled, escaping the captivity of a fearsome noble, having picked up his beautiful daughter along the way, pursued by a band of equally fear- some men on horseback. As the men gain, Flashman has a brilliant idea. Undoing the canvas, he casts the naked and sleeping girl (whose room he has been visiting nightly for the last month or so) from her nest of furs, straight out upon the snow, the sled speeding off into the distance, freed of unnecessary weight!

And yet we still love him. He promises to elope with a French prostitute in New Orleans, only to sell her to a native American tribe. And we still love him. Why? Because, I think, he is never the overlord. He is always the underdog, trying to desperately to escape trouble and live an easy life, and always, somehow, failing. The archetypal coward, he invariably, by some incredible stroke of luck, comes out as the hero. He heads the charge into the guns at Balaclava due to a bolting horse, and is awarded the VC after the Indian Mutiny for trying to do little more than chasing after an exotic queen. Very few books are as much fun as the Flashman series. I only wish I hadn’t read them all already.