Last weekend, I decided to brave the muddy fields of Reading once more. Returning for the first time since the mandatory post-GCSE pilgrimage of 2010, I arrived – wary of tent-burning, £9 burritos and 16-year-olds on MDMA, but willing to fight to see the amazing line-up of bands that had been the deciding factor in persuading me to buy a ticket, some of which I’d been waiting years to catch live. This is what I found.

Arctic Monkeys â˜…★☆☆☆

Does Alex Turner even care any more? Yes, he’s a massive fuck-off rock star and yes, he can pull the arrogance off through sheer talent, but now the Arctic Monkeys seem as though their heads are so far up their own arses they can’t see Sheffield any more. The delightfully wry boy who wrote Whatever People Say… was unrecognisable in the snake-hipped, slurring icon who took to the stage on Saturday. Sure, being full of yourself is part of rock’n’roll, but not when it detracts from the power of your set and ability to actually interest your fans. None of this was helped by the fact that the volume was far, far too low, leading the crowd to start chanting “Turn it up, turn it up”. A limp, cold performance.

The Hives â˜…★★★★

Perhaps Mr. Turner should learn something about swagger from The Hives’ now-veteran frontman, Howlin’ Pelle Almqvist – Pelle can pull it off with surprisingly camp garage-rock pizzazz. The beautiful thing about every Hives show is that it isn’t just Pelle who goes crazy. All five members are clearly heavily invested in their performance (special mentions to goggle-eyed lead guitarist Nicholaus Arson and drummer Chris Dangerous). Consistently named one of the best live bands around, it was plain to see why at Reading. Opening a set with a song whose lyrics consist of three words (“Come on, come on, come on, come on, everybody come on!”) is surely the sign of genius or insanity. I’d go with a bit of both. Randy Fitzsimmons will have been proud.

Enter Shikari ★★★☆☆

In recent years, Enter Shikari have become very fond of espousing the equivalent political views of someone in year 9. It would be nice if they would stop. Yes, we appreciate that ‘the slimy one percent’ owns 99% of the wealth, and yes, we love the NHS, but is it really the place of a post-hardcore band to tell us what to think about governmental cuts while we boil in the sun, crushed between thousands of sweaty bodies, waiting for them to play some actual music? Couple that with the over-crowded front of the main stage as hundreds of aggressive teen boys turn up for a fight (Enter Shikari’s reputation for creating havoc now precedes them) and this band was decidedly annoying. They didn’t even play Mothership. No space to dance, no space to mosh, hardly space to breathe. In their defence, the blame for that can’t be laid at the band’s door. Three stars.

Die Antwoord â˜…★★★☆

Matching convict-orange hoodies. Ejaculating ghosts. The most glorious flattop to grace music since the early 90s. A duo that never misses a chance to mess with your head, Ninja and Yo-Landi’s combination of sinewy energy and bubblegum kink was a winning one once again. I Fink U Freeky and Enter the Ninja were particular highlights, if just to see a bunch of swaggering over-masculine teen boys (which seems to be recurring theme at Reading) reduced to singing “I am your butterfly/I need your protection/Be my samurai”. New single Pitbull Terrier would have been a welcome addition to the set list, but even without it, Die Antwoord kept the energy level at maximum for a blistering 40 minutes of zef madness.

Hudson Taylor ★★★☆☆

Probably the surprise package of the festival. Playing on a smaller stage early on the first day, the boys from Dublin could have been forgiven for surrendering to difficult circumstance. Instead they kicked things off with a rousing sing-along, oscillating between barn dance and lighter-in-the-air intimacy. Only Don Broco had more dedicated fans out of every band we saw this year.

Warpaint â˜…★★★☆

As a band who can creep up behind you and lull you into a deep sleep, Warpaint’s gently hypnotic set was a joy to watch. Not bothering to waste time talking between songs, the band’s sonorous wail filled the NME tent and built up, song by song, until everyone under the canvas appeared to be in a trance, swaying and gyrating, dreaming. Warpaint are proof that a band doesn’t need mosh pits and crowd banter to be a success at Reading, just professionalism and a clear-cut belief in the effectiveness of their music.

Gerard Way ★★☆☆☆

It feels almost cruel to criticise Gerard Way’s solo global debut, but the fact remains that without the rest of My Chemical Romance behind him, the man’s music is far too nice, and forgettable as a result. He doesn’t quite have the voice for anything gentler than the spitting, self-conscious pop punk that made his band the poster boys they are, and despite the legions of die-hard female fans who turned up and duly screamed every time he did, it was difficult not to keep wondering whether his set would have been more fun with a few guitar solos and lyrics about vampires and suicide.

Other highlights of the festival included Pusha T and, in fact, the general intimacy of the tiny Radio 1Extra tent, Gogol Bordello’s headline-rivalling gypsy punk party, which stole a significant proportion of blink-182’s crowd, and Royal Blood, who seem to be fast carving themselves a niche among the best blues rock duos of the last ten years alongside the likes of The White Stripes and The Black Keys. Jeremy McKinnon of A Day To Remember took to a zorb and used it like a giant hamster ball midway through their set for the single most surreal moment of the weekend.

Reading’s atmosphere in general was mixed. The vast majority of festival-goers are 16-18 years old, and as a result the crowds are lively and responsive to the acts, but the flip side of this is that the campsites can be the scene of a lot of posturing and peacocking. Many seem to think there is still something to “prove” about going to Reading, and sometimes it seems to get in the way of the fun and friendliness that might be found at other festivals. Nonetheless, with a brilliant line-up and notable lack of torrential rain until the Monday morning, Reading 2014 was one to remember.

★★★★☆
Four Stars

What’s the point? That’s the question at the core of David Michod’s The Rover, a brooding thriller set in the Australian outback ten years after the unexplained collapse of human civilisation. The film stars Guy Pearce as a mysterious man determined to retrieve his stolen car, who enlists the help of the car thief’s brother, played by Robert Pattinson in a transformative performance. As the pair attempt to track down both the car and its new owner, a tense and beautifully acted character driven story emerges which allows the film to explore the devastating consequences of the delusions we create to maintain the human spirit.

The derivative plot and setting recall any number of post apocalyptic films from Mad Max to The Book of Eli, but the film is quickly distinguished from its genre contemporaries by Michod’s investment in his character’s remaining shreds of humanity, even if the admittedly strong production design provides little that audiences haven’t seen before. The dystopian outback sets the tone for the film, where every dust road and wooden shack are as run down and worn out as their inhabitants. Lights give off a sickly glow, windows and doors slide laboriously along their frames, and people lounge in their chairs for days on end.

Every character we encounter is waiting for something – for a customer, for a loved one, for death. Though set in Australia, the film is unashamedly a Western, its lone gunslinger hero a cipher for the story’s concerns with independence and liberty. However, the film plays with genre convention and subverts expectations. An early scene set in a matriarch’s drug den recalls any number of frontier town brothels, but Michod drags the trope into much darker, more disturbing territory. This frontier isn’t on the cusp of anything, it’s at the end of it.

Pearce is melancholy but ferocious in his performance as our mysterious protagonist, bringing an exhausted menace to the film. His unclear motivations and single mindedness make for an intriguing first act, but it is only after the arrival of Pattinson that the audience is able to emotionally connect with the film. If it is Pearce’s Eric and his stolen car that provide the film’s plot, it’s Pattinson’s Reynolds that provides its heart. Whilst Eric tests the audience’s patience with an unsympathetic protagonist, Reynolds becomes the audience’s surrogate, terrified, unsure of himself and adrift in this bleak inhumane world. Whilst Reynold’s arc is the most accessible in the film, it is also the most heartbreaking, as his misguided attempts at independence lead him round in circles.

Pattinson is remarkable in the role, with no trace of Twilight‘s pensive Edward Cullen in the darting eyes, jittering limbs and quivering jaw of his emaciated Reynolds, who flinches from an imagined attack anytime someone speaks. The film is at its most engaging when both actors share the screen, with Pattinson’s magnificently watchable freneticism perfectly complementing Pearce’s recessive presence. This tension between performers reinforces the instability of their character’s power dynamic, which sustains the film’s momentum to its conclusion.

Despite the film’s broad vistas and endless roads, it still manages to maintain an oppressively suspenseful tone through its ability to make us care about its small cast of unpredictable and violent characters. The shallow colour palette employed by cinematographer Natasha Braier captures the tired frustration of our characters, whilst her creeping cameras create a sense of unease that keeps the audience alert.  In one memorable sequence a camera gradually zooms in on the face of a terrified Pattinson, hiding from bullets behind a motel bed, inviting us to empathise with these characters in their most vulnerable moments. In this way Michod foregrounds the human emotions which could have easily become lost in the dusty wasteland.

Antony Partos’ terrific original score, atonal and abrasive, creates a sense of anticipation, building and building all the way through to the end of the credits. The film features a few moments of levity including perhaps the most left field musical cue in recent memory – you’ll know it when you hear it – which feel incongruous to the film’s otherwise cohesive tone due to their clumsy execution. The film’s self regard can stretch the audience’s patience at times, with moments of unintentional ridiculousness leading to stifled laughter in the screening I attended.

The Rover is magnificently acted, gorgeously shot and wonderfully scored, and tells a complex human story through a tense but straightforward plot. However, it is a film as bleak as the world it depicts, arriving at depressing conclusions about liberty and delusion, and uninterested in offering any real catharsis. The audience in my screening stayed in their seats for almost the entirety of the credit roll. The cinema felt like it was waiting for the ending, for its reassuring resolution. The Rover leaves you, like its characters with a sense of feeling incomplete – the story has concluded, but now we’re left without purpose. This lack of comfort is both its greatest weakness and its masterstroke. Indeed, what is the point?

This article is a response to that of Will Obeney, which can be found here.

Last month, we saw Will Obeney make the argument that intrusions of modern technology are – amongst other annoyances – signs of a lamentably declining standard in the behaviour of some audience members. He believes more theatre-goers should be aware of their “responsibilities to fellow audience members or those on the stage and behind it”. But do these modern problems faced by the world of theatre betray a saddening decline in the behaviour of audience members, or should the stage adapt to accommodate the changing audience dynamic?

This has been a hot topic of late, with frequent theatre-goer Richard Gresham’s ‘Theatre Charter’ (in which he, like Obeney calls for more respect for conventional audience etiquette) gaining a number of supporters, and perhaps most notably Stephen Fry, whose endorsement propelled the campaign to the limelight. However, others have condemned the Charter and the motivations behind it. The Albany, Deptford, published an article about why they wouldn’t be signing the Theatre Charter, because whilst they “hope that those that attend [their performances] will behave in a fashion that respects our artists and our fellow audience members” they feel that “to formalise this expectation in this way” would damage the relationship the theatre has with its audiences, audiences who might not typically experience the arts, and might already be worried about what to wear or how to behave.

In some ways, I can sympathise with the views expressed by Gresham and his Theatre Charter. I doubt that anyone would really want their phone to ring in the middle of a play, and similarly would react negatively to a disturbance caused by others. However, some other examples of supposed audience misbehaviour show the distinctions between proper and improper etiquette to be less clear-cut. Recent commentators have also attacked audience members for expressing their admiration of Martin Freeman – starring in Richard III at Trafalgar Studios – by cheering or screaming whenever he walked onstage. Plenty of people have seen this as a breach of etiquette, or as an unfortunate consequence of the need for the casting of famous faces. However, in this supposed misdemeanour, I see something far more positive and exciting – new theatre-goers, theatre-goers who are really enjoying themselves. These fans of Freeman have been derided for being there only because of Sherlock or The Hobbit, or only because they fancy the play’s star, or, for what some seem to see as the worst crime of all, being teenage girls.

Of course, the categories ‘fan of Sherlock’ and ‘Shakespeare enthusiast’ are hardly mutually exclusive, even amongst teenagers, but even if we do owe these audience members to a TV show, why is that such a problem? They’re going to a theatre intending to fully enjoy a play, and I would argue this makes them more likely to appreciate the play on its own terms than some seasoned theatre-goers. Also, there’s a high chance that for at least some of these audience members, this is their first or one of their first productions. Rather than tutting at them, or telling them off, it’s important that they, as the new generation of theatre-goers, are made to feel welcome, rather than excluded from an elitist view of the theatre which adheres to codes of which they might be unsure or unaware.

If I had to choose, I’d rather be in an audience full of enthusiastic if somewhat vocal new, young theatre-goers than, as is more often the case, an immaculately behaved crowd of old-timers divorced from any emotional response to the piece. Sometimes, when you’re at a play, a phone will go off. Sometimes someone will cough loudly at a dramatic moment. Sometimes an audience member will react strongly and emotionally to something they see onstage. But theatre is a live art form, and a downside of this impermanence and immediacy is that sometimes someone else might for a moment bring you out of the experience of the play, whether it’s someone rustling sweet rappers, an actor stumbling over their lines, or a friend poking you in the side for the first ten minutes to ask if that’s ‘her from that thing’ playing the lead.

The upside to live theatre is the wonderful fact that, in spite of everything that could go wrong, the actors, the set, the costumes, music, lighting – everything – comes together to create a unique and emotionally involving experience. Occasional disturbances may happen, but if you can’t ignore them outright, shrug them off as part of the experience. You are not the only member of the audience, nor are you the most important, and there is more than one valid way to enjoy the theatre.

Balliol – Graham Greene

Graham Greene is one of the most important English novelists of the 20^th century, penning such classics as Brighton Rock, The Power and the Glory and The End of the Affair. Greene’s fellow author and contemporary at Oxford, Evelyn Waugh, said of him: ‘he looked down on us, and perhaps all undergraduates, as childish and ostentatious. He certainly shared in none of our revelry.’ Ok, so maybe he wasn’t a barrel of laughs, but his contributions to cultural life are undeniable.

LMH – Nigella Lawson

Despite changing schools nine times in as many years, Nigella Lawson secured a place at Oxford to study French and Italian. She spent her year abroad in Florence, where the Italian cucina inspired her to unleash her inner domestic goddess. Despite the revelations about her extremely lavish lifestyle and penchant for class-A drugs, she still charms the public with her florid writing style, personable TV manner and sex symbol looks.

Christ Church – Richard Curtis

Christ Church may have produced 13 prime ministers, but perhaps its biggest boast is the king of rom-coms, Richard Curtis. While at university, he was an active participant in the Oxford drama scene, scriptwriting for the Experimental Theatre Club and collaborating in the Oxford Revue, with his pal, Rowan Atkinson. Since then he has shown that he has a keen sense for the comic (Blackadder, Mr. Bean and The Vicar of Dibley) as well as for the sentimental (Four Weddings and a Funeral, Bridget Jones’s Diary, Notting Hill, and Love Actually).

Exeter – Alan Bennett

Another member of the Oxford Revue, Alan Bennett came to Oxford on a scholarship and stayed on for a few years after graduating to teach Medieval History. But alas, he soon realised he wasn’t cut out for academia. Nor for the clergy, which he had always assumed he would join, for the sole reason that he looked a bit like a clergyman. He is best known for his play, The History Boys, about a group of boys applying to Oxbridge, a tale no doubt inspired by his own experience.

Lincoln – Dr Seuss

The Cat in the Hat and Green Eggs and Ham may not seem like particularly highbrow literature, but their creator, Theodor Geisel (alias: Dr Seuss) spent two years at Oxford, studying for a PhD in English Literature. His children’s books bring up important social and political issues veiled in Aesopian language: The Lorax advocates environmentalism and anti-consumerism, The Sneetches encourages racial equality and Yertle the Turtle criticizes Hitler and authoritarianism.  Something to think that next time you’re reading about The Hoober-Bloob Highway and Daisy-Head Mayzie! 

New – Kate Beckinsale

Kate Beckinsale had a more intense undergraduate experience, than most, balancing her study of French and Russian literature with a demanding acting career. During one summer vac she went to Tuscany to film Kenneth Branagh’s big screen adaptation of Much Ado About Nothing and while studying in Paris on her year abroad she filmed the French language Marie-Louise Ou La Permission. Drifting from smaller productions to Hollywood blockbusters, Kate Beckinsale appeared in Pearl Harbour, which, despite being poorly acted and historically inaccurate, gave her an opportunity to snog both Ben Affleck and Josh Hartnett.

Brasenose – William Golding

William Golding spent two years studying Natural Sciences at Brasenose, before realising that he didn’t actually like science and swapping to English Literature. His book of Poems was published the year he graduated, but it was 20 years before he wrote his first novel and magnum opus: Lord of the Flies, which was adapted for stage and put on by a group of Oxford students last Trinity. His literary works won him a Nobel Prize, a Booker Prize and a knighthood.

Magdalen – Andrew Lloyd Weber

Another Oxford alumnus whose cultural endeavours were recognised by Queen Liz herself, Andrew Lloyd Weber dropped out of his History degree at Oxford after just a term. His awards and honours are as innumerable as his contributions to musical theatre. Now this impresario is a regular on daytime TV, appearing as a judge on reality TV shows, in which people audition for the main role in his West End shows, like The Wizard of Oz and Jesus Chris Superstar.

Somerville – Dorothy L. Sayers

Dorothy L. Sayers was one of the first women ever to receive an Oxford degree, a few years after she graduated from Somerville with a first in Modern and Medieval literature. She went on to write a series of detective novels set in the interwar years featuring the English toff and amateur sleuth, Lord Peter Wimsey, whom she described as a mixture of Fred Astaire and Bertie Wooster. Though she is best known for her crime fiction, she herself considered her best work to be her translation of Dante’s Divine Comedy.  

Teddy Hall – Terry Jones

Culture may not be the first thing one associates with Teddy Hall, but cracking banter probably is. So, it makes sense that the college’s most famous culturally-inclined alumnus is a member of Monty Python. During his time at the Hall he performed comedy with future Monty Python castmate Michael Palin in the Oxford Revue. He is best known for his conceptual jokes and depictions of middle-aged women. Terry Jones also takes humour from absurd situations, for example, the famous sketch in which he plays a cheesy game show host who asks contestants to summarise Marcel Proust’s 3000-page work À la recherche du temps perdu in 15 seconds.

Keble – Katy Brand

Katy Brand decided to study Theology at Oxford after embracing the faith on a holiday in Cornwall with some Evangelical Christian friends. However, she quickly lost her religious beliefs and later said: ‘After about a year, I realised it was mostly rubbish and that things are never as simple as they seem when you are 13’. However, during her time at Oxford she met friends who helped her launch her career in television. Now she is one of England’s most beloved comediennes.

St Peter’s – Hugh Dancy

One of the biggest pieces of eye candy ever to have walked the cobbled streets of Oxford, Hugh Dancy is a successful actor on the stage, the small screen and the big screen. He studied English at Oxford under the tuition of poet and playwright, Francis Warner, before being scouted in a café in London. To the disappointment of womankind, he recently tied the knot with slightly-more-famous-than-him actress, Claire Danes.

Worcester – Rupert Murdoch

Rupert Murdoch owes both his birth and his downfall to newspaper publishing. His parents met after his father spotted a debutante photograph of his mother in one of his own newspapers. Now the News of the World tycoon faces police and government investigations into bribery and corruption by MI5 and the FBI. In between these two events, Rupey read PPE at Worcester and managed Oxford Student Publications Limited, which is in charge of that paragon of student publications, Cherwell.