★★★★★
Five Stars

When Ben Jonson’s The Alchemist was first staged in 1610 in a small room of an indoor playhouse in Blackfriars, London was something of a ghost town. Plague had hit the city, driving out everyone with money enough to afford the journey. Much of the play’s plot relies on this fact, and an atmosphere of debauchery coupled with a ‘cat’s away’ attitude are integral to the play’s success.

It was a similar atmosphere which filled an Oxford now almost bereft of students as I made my way to Freud’s to watch this OUDS production at the start of what I shall never refer to as 12^th week. Oxford University Drama Society has big plans for The Alchemist – Edinburgh Fringe-shaped plans – and this three-night run in Oxford was the perfect chance for them truly to test their mettle.

The play’s programme promises to fuse Jonson’s script “with music and dance”, in “a vibrantly physical and shamelessly fun production” and sure enough, the music is prominent from the start and creates a tense and lively atmosphere throughout, keeping the action moving along swiftly.

Physicality, too, is quickly evident. Leo Suter’s Subtle is stark naked as the play opens, hidden only by a shower curtain as Georgia Bruce’s Face threatens to throw his clothes out of the window – “Believe’t, I will!”

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It is this air of fun and enjoyment which pervades the entire performance, to the benefit of the play. It is clear throughout that each and every one of the cast is having a great time, and this rubs off considerably on the audience, which laughs its way through every farcical scene and humorous aside.

Face is a butler who has been left alone in his master’s house, and has gathered his allies in crime, Subtle and Dol Common, to con the city’s fools out of their money. This results in numerous changes of identity for all three main characters, which they handle expertly. Bruce is magnificent as Face, always remaining calm and in control, while never letting her disguise slip.

Suter is almost as good as Subtle, who pretends to be the titular alchemist, putting on many different voices for each of his targets, each more ridiculous than the last.

OUDS has clearly had a lot of fun with casting as well. Numerous characters have their genders changed from the original script, while some characters are just played by actors of different gender. Howard Coase is wonderfully deceptive as the prostitute Dol. All this confusion of identity, increased by a misleading presentation of the cast list in the programme (which suggests that the cast may shuffle around in future performances), contributes to the atmosphere of deception and trickery.

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Each member of the cast delivers a stellar performance, and as such it seems cruel to pick any out, but special mention must go to Connie Greenfield’s Mammon. Sir Epicure Mammon wants Subtle to make the philosopher’s stone for him, and believes he has tricked the doctor into thinking that he’ll use it for good, charitable works. Greenfield portrays the character’s malicious naÑ—vety brilliantly, excelling further as Mammon’s lecherous side emerges.

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It might have been nice to receive some of the dance we were promised, as a few of the scene changes feel a little sluggish in comparison with the rest of the fast-paced action, but as the production becomes more polished, this is surely a problem which will soon be rectified.

In all, this is a very solid production, filled with brilliantly delivered one-liners, metatheatrical hilarity and the very best in physical comedy. You have not lived until you’ve seen Ed Barr-Sim as Abel Drugger pursuing another character across stage while doing an impression of a Tyrannosaurus Rex.

Doctor Who is back next month. True, it returns in the wake of a string of media scandals, including the unfortunate accidental release of five scripts on a public server, as well as leaked footage of the new cast in action… but this is hardly surprising. The widespread demand for scraps of what is to come only serves to demonstrate the sheer popularity of this exciting, fast-paced family show that, since its relaunch in 2005, has timelessly captured the hearts of millions; adults and children alike. Even amidst the ever-changing format of the show, the sheer importance of the Doctor and his companion remains constant.

There was almost a touch of Bond about Christopher Eccleston, who reintroduced the role of the Doctor to the British viewing public for the first time in 15 years. Though undoubtedly there was a reputation to maintain, the main priority for the pilot episode was to translate the Doctor into a modern, 21st Century setting; with a touch of leather and significant technical upgrades, Eccleston fulfilled this perfectly. His role was hugely complimented by having the young, working-class shop assistant Rose Tyler (Billie Piper) by his side. Straight out of a London council estate, this loveable, raw character, along with her mother Jackie and boyfriend Mickey, truly manifested the idea that adventures can come to anyone, anywhere. Between them, these characters made the show instantly accessible to its audience (Daleks and aliens aside).

It seemed, however, that perhaps the pressure on the production team to do justice to the show’s tremendous legacy became a little too much behind closed doors. Eccleston resigned after just one series, declaring that he resented the on-set “politics” and shameful behaviour of senior staff members towards those they managed. The first appearance of the Tenth Doctor, David Tennant, was underpinned by a host of very different pressures. The show was already hugely successful; with a BAFTA under its belt, it had singlehandedly redefined “family-orientated Saturday night drama”. Now the pressure was to do justice to the character Eccleston had created.

There were sceptics; not only was Tennant’s “look” and styling a very drastic change, but his performance of the role was perhaps a little more light-hearted and humorous in comparison to Eccleston’s. Within months, however, any cynicism had dissipated. Tennant not only managed to retain – if not amplify – the public’s love of the Doctor, but managed to do so whilst completely reshaping and tailoring the role to suit his own strengths and quirks. He evolved the Ninth Doctor’s relationship with Rose, which in turn drew out previously unseen colours in her character, keeping the role fresh. The series emphasised, for the most part, stand-alone episodes rather than a broader narrative-arc over the entire run (with the exception of the final few episodes); this made the show unpredictable, rich and multi-faceted, enticing new viewers throughout. The viewing public were sad to see Rose go, but, undoubtedly, the nice thing about both Martha Jones (Freema Agyeman) and Donna Noble (Catherine Tate) was that, once again, they were strong, accessible characters, the likes of which one could meet every day. Donna also reintroduced an age variable to the companions that had been recently lacking.

When Tennant announced his departure from the show in 2008, he was quoted as saying, “If I don’t take a deep breath and move on now I never will, and you’ll be wheeling me out of the Tardis in my bath chair.” Widespread mourning ensued. At the time, the bookies seemed to anticipate big changes to the role, with Paterson Joseph, David Morrissey and John Simm amongst those most backed by Paddy Power.

And this is where, I believe, things started to go wrong.

As Matt Smith was unveiled as the Eleventh Doctor, executive producer Steven Moffat asserted that the casting directors were “[blown] away with [his] bold and brand new take on the Time Lord”. Eyebrows were raised; whereas the disparity between Eccleston and Tennant had incited scepticism before, the uncanny similarity between the latter and Smith was inciting it now. It seemed that even the BBC was not ready to let Tennant go.

The acting wasn’t hugely dissimilar either. Though Smith’s youth was emphasised as being something new, it seemed as though straws were being grasped at, and many would argue that this therefore became a little overplayed. Undoubtedly Smith is a wonderful actor and would have been a fantastic contender against Tennant for the second series, but having them appear consecutively began to draw out a touch of monotony. The screenwriting didn’t help. Since Russell T. Davies left the show, it’s as though it has been seized by screenwriters who know too muchabout Doctor Who; the internet fan-fiction type that analyses the science of every episode down into micro detail. The episodes no longer stand alone; the subplots knitting them tenuously together have become confusing even to adult viewers. As the end credits roll, only a fraction of us are left in awe; the rest of us are left frantically trying to clarify exactly what just happened.

As for companions, Amy and Rory were great. We hadn’t had a male companion around since Mickey in the first series, and the three characters complimented each other well. But Clara Oswald? She is no Rose, Martha or Donna; she is not identifiable, and even those who made it to the end of the last series remain confused as to where exactly she came from, or fits in. The fact that she is presented as entirely flawless does not help. At times it’s hard to see her as anything more than a token love-interest thrown in for the Doctor.

But finally, we are about to meet a Doctor who can perhaps bring out a side of her we haven’t seen. Peter Capaldi is certainly unlike any Doctor we have seen in the show since the relaunch. He is closer to the original vision of the character; older and wiser, more of a power figure. Finally, after the chaos of the last few series, it looks like BBC have taken to the drawing board and cast a retrospective look back at Doctor Who as it used to be when it first aired in 1963. Hopefully, it’s not too late.

Doctor Who returns to BBC One on Saturday 23rd August.

‘Brutality of the highest order’ is promised of Lucy Bailey’s Titus Andronicus, and it does not disappoint. From the opening speeches the action is relentlessly disturbing and challenges all preconceptions of Shakespearean theatre.

This 2006 revival remains bold and energetic, dragging its audience along ruthlessly through the scenes of rape, murder and mutilation. And that’s just the first half. Shakespeare’s revenge tragedy appears to begin with an ending: the celebrated general Titus Andronicus returns victorious after a decade of war, with his prisoners in tow, and only four of twenty-five sons remaining.

To avenge their deaths he kills the first-born son of his prisoner Tamora, Queen of the Goths, and thus sets in motion the cycle of murder and revenge that leaves no character unbloodied.

Titus, played by William Houston, is a grizzled war hero grieving for his dead children and wearied by the decade of fighting for the glory and honour of Rome. He is triumphant in his first entrance – carried in by procession with confetti falling and incense burning – but this initial embodiment of power is not sustained as Houston quickly shows Titus to be an exhausted man, unwilling to shoulder the power and responsibility that the Roman rabble demand from him.

Houston’s performance is certainly memorable, partly on account of the unusual delivery of his lines. At best, his cracked and rasping voice strikes notes of pain and suffering; at worst, it comes across a bit like Bane’s in The Dark Knight Rises, albeit considerably more audible. Houston’s performance comes together from the third act onwards however; what before amounted to an oddity becomes a masterstroke.

Houston is exceptional as Titus plummets deeper into despair and apparent insanity. His performance is increasingly unnerving as he doggedly seeks his revenge, playing a gruesome game of deception with Tamora. The climax comes in the final scene; Titus enters as a fantastically deranged chef, and serves Tamora a specially-baked pie, watching gleefully as she unwittingly cannibalises her two sons.

Prepare yourself for a spectacular understatement: this production is not for the faint-hearted. Those familiar with the play will expect a certain amount of gore, but perhaps not with such unsettling relish. There are some unexpected and wickedly funny moments – a character muses, stroking his chin with a severed hand, at one point – but these darkly humorous instances only make the bloody action more grotesque.

Indeed, the blood is shed so copiously at points that some patrons standing close to the stage (the ‘groundlings’ in the pit) are splattered with it. Some are visibly delighted to be so immersed in the action, others, less so. During the matinee I watched, the body count off-stage surpassed the body count on-stage, most fainting when Lavinia (Flora Spencer-Longhurst) makes her mutilated entrance at the end of Act II.

She has been violently raped, her tongue cut out and both hands removed to prevent her from naming the culprits who have committed such brutality. She trembles and jerks continuously in her agony and shame: it is uncomfortably both agonising and captivating to watch.

That feeling recurs throughout this production; the audience suffers with the play’s victims as well as shares in the power and pleasure of inflicting pain. Obi Abili as Aaron the Moor brings an infectious relish to his character’s murderous mischief.

Abili gives a performance that is both horrifying and hilarious. He swaggers bare-footed across the stage, he seduces the audience with his sly smile and charisma, and brutally murders in a nonchalant fashion; he steals the show.

Titus Andronicus is outstanding perhaps because of, rather than in spite of, its graphic slaughter. Its urgency of action and unshrinking delight in violence and revenge makes this production an unforgettable, if disconcerting, experience. 

★★☆☆☆

Two Stars

“The book always trumps the movie”—a preferred axiom of unmarried American educators stroking their recently adopted third cat, and, unfortunately for fans, illustrative of the recent film adaptation of Nick Hornby’s 2005 novel, A Long Way Down. 

The premise: four unlikely strangers form a surrogate family after aborting plans to fling themselves from the top of a popular suicide destination in the heart of London on New Year’s Eve. The foursome includes Martin (Pierce Brosnan), former daytime talk show host, philanderer and notorious ‘pedophile’ (he thought she was eighteen); Maureen (Toni Collette), a middle-aged mother of a young man living in a vegetative state; JJ (Aaron Paul), a mid-twenties American pizza boy; and an eccentric, wildly opinionated and foulmouthed teenage girl (Imogen Poots). The narrative progresses episodically, chronicling their close encounter with death, their inevitable rise to tabloid prominence due to Martin’s celebrity and their burgeoning affection for one another. The film’s primary dramatic tension relies on whether or not such a precarious family dynamic will effectively prevent them from trying to jump again.  

Reviews underscoring discrepancies between page and screen adaptions are often cursory and dry. As I’ve been called both—once in a college admissions letter and once from a gloved customs agent named Phyllis, respectively—I’m inclined to avoid such comparisons. That said, any credible assessment of a cinematically adapted Nick Hornby novel would be remiss in neglecting juxtaposition based principally on one lousy experience in a soundproofed TSA holding cell.

Temporally, Hornby’s novel privileges the reader early on with insight into what ultimately happens to his characters. The outcomes of Martin, Maureen, JJ and Jess are made clear from the onset, thus providing a forum for character exploration and the satire of tabloid media, rather than fussing around with superficial suspense. Unfortunately, director Pascal Chaumeil’s and screenwriter Jack Throne’s film suffers from everything Hornby so adroitly avoided—sentimentality. 

The film transmutes personal mysteries into mere periodic reveals in a series of desperate attempts to sustain the driving narrative force, which consequentially, is one of apprehension. Scenes of private on-screen reflection appear inaccessible without a full appreciation for the context in which these powerful emotions derive from. The film exposes the particular limitations of the cinema, but only when confronted head on with the adaptive preferences of its creators.

Hornby’s novel is a remarkably empathetic portrait of fully realized characters with believable arcs—a high concept premise sustained by selective restraint. The film might entertain those not familiar with Hornby’s work; but to those harboring a special place for the source material, it will play dismally, limping onwards and suffering mostly from the surgical removal of religion, an artificially injected romance, diminished complexity and the worst of all sins: closure.

If that still sounds sexy to you then by all means, get yourself a ticket. If not, buy the book.

★★★★★

5 Stars

In 2002, Richard Linklater decided on the final shot of a film that would take 12 years to shoot and would follow the apparently typical life of a boy, Mason, growing up in modern America. Casting 6-year-old Ellar Coltrane in the central role, Linklater began shooting what would eventually become Boyhood.

No stranger to projects made over extended periods of time, Linklater’s Before trilogy (Before Sunrise, Before Sunset and Before Midnight) were released at 9-year intervals following the same two characters as they grew into middle age. Boyhood displays the same temporal nous as the other films: beginning with Coldplay, and ending with Arcade Fire’s The Suburbs via the likes of Soulja Boy and High School Musical, Linklater subtly uses music to indicate how far through the film is of the 2002-2013 period covered. Other milestones that the audience passes along with Mason are the midnight releases of each Harry Potter, Gameboys, the invasion of Iraq. For a viewer of university age, Mason’s adolescence will be perfectly in alignment with their own, giving the film a nostalgia factor unlike anything else. One gets the impression that this is a film that will be watched in the future as a record of what 00s America was like.

By turns, the film is funny and sad, tense and playful. To maintain the tone over 12 years of shooting is a gargantuan task in itself, and one to which Linklater proves more than equal. With subject matter ranging from kissing girls, to smoking weed, to leaving home for college, the film would become contrived or clichéd in the hands of lesser directors, but instead Linklater presents a series of highly evocative developmental moments – when Mason’s voice breaks one feels like a grandparent who has blinked and found their grandchildren grown up. The interplay between film and reality also offers some pleasingly prescient moments, like when Mason and his dad wonder aloud if another Star Wars film will ever be made, and when his dad warns him that no good will come of the Iraq invasion. As for Mason himself, it’s hard to find enough superlatives to describe Coltrane’s performance. He constantly surprises, turning from a nervy young boy into a self-assured man. At fourteen or so, he suddenly appears not to be able to deliver any lines, and one worries before realising it’s just Coltrane playing a perfectly-observed teenager. The risk the director took in casting him at six pays off many times over; whatever Coltrane goes on to do next, he’s one to watch.

Despite the film’s title, though, Boyhood isn’t just about Mason. His sister Samantha, played with breathtaking consistency over the 12-year period by Lorelei Linklater, the director’s daughter, is an almost-parallel study of girlhood. Hilariously precocious, we see her at eight, singing Britney Spears into a hairbrush, at fourteen, with dyed hair and a fierce pout, at twenty, with her new college boyfriend. Changing by turns, yet spookily recognisable from the opening years of the film, her chemistry with Coltrane is as palpable as one would expect from two actors who have grown up together on-screen.

The separated parents of the family, played by Ethan Hawke and Patricia Arquette, present their own duality, in that their reactions to events around them seem familiar to the audience, yet these situations are filtered through the eyes of their children in a way that manages to evoke one’s own childhood so accurately that at times it’s almost uncomfortable. The two are phenomenal, beginning as worn-out, uncertain young parents, and ending as worn-out, unflappable veteran parents. Like his son, Hawke’s Mason Sr. gradually matures too. The boy who first worked with Linklater on Before Sunrise is gone, replaced by an actor of immense, understated talent. Not to be outdone, Arquette has matured on-screen and off. Her own experience of marriage, childbirth and divorce during the filming of Boyhood lends her character a dignified maternity despite the fact that, as Mason observes, his mother is just as confused as he is.

Boyhood is a study of the human condition reminiscent of Terence Malick’s The Tree of Life but rather than drawing that film’s parallels between childhood, creation and religion, Linklater keeps the subject matter decidedly mundane. As a result, the film loses beauty but gains poignancy, and mundanity becomes universally relevant. One of the most striking things about Boyhood is how similar being young is for everyone, and how alike experiences of growing up are. It’s impossible not to be acutely aware that the story is happening every day, everywhere. As one of the best films about childhood, perhaps ever, what Boyhood represents in filmmaking terms is a landmark, a project in which art is no longer hostage to practicality and thus can find full expression. It is not to be missed.