Monday, May 5, 2025
Blog Page 1534

The Oscars: Who Gives a Sh*t?

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For those of you who couldn’t be bothered to sit through 84 hours of the American film industry’s most self-indulgent piece of self-congratulation, Cherwell Film&TV brings you the ‘important’ bits of what you missed…

The sheer masturbation of it is pretty clear in the winner of Best Film over the last two years, two films which celebrate film itself: The Artist (#omghowgreatisfilm?) and Argo (#omghowpoliticalandgreatisfilm?). That Hollywood is an important part of the giant cultural structure which is the Great American Mythology is clear, but the inundation of America-Fuck-Yeah cinema this Awards Season was something to behold: would the Academy celebrate its abolition of slavery? Its CIA heroes? Or the rogue team responsible for the capture of Bin Laden? Argo got the Best Motion Picture award, “a middle option between the tubthumping patriotism of Lincoln and the hot potato juggling of Zero Dark Thirty” (Guardian).

So, all this aside, essentially here’s what you missed: Jennifer Lawrence fell over on her way to the podium, but was still easily the bestest person in the room; Ben Affleck charmed us into almost forgetting the horrors of Jersey Girl; Adele cried. And Seth MacFarlane was a tit, albeit one with quite a decent singing voice.

Actually, Seth MacFarlane was much worse than a tit – his spiel consisted argely of odious fratboy bullshit, from jokes about the Kardashians’ facial hair to a song  named ‘We Saw Your Boobs’ (even if it was given a framing device so it seemed  to be laughing at itself.) Haven’t we had enough easy jokes about Chris Brown and Rihanna? Are jokes about a nine-year-old getting with George Clooney funny? Was it Gervaisesque? Was it even entertaining?

It was not only distinctly not funny but among the weirdest Oscar ceremonies of all time, a lot of singing and dancing around the point. What the point was remained obscure. There were redeeming moments (Jennifer Hudson and Adele’s performances among them) as well as Daniel Day-Lewis’s acceptance speech (for his third Best Actor Oscar), and Tarantino’s ever-perplexing sense of his own identity somehow enabling him to finish his acceptance speech with a heart-felt “peace out”.

Ceremony aside, other news involves people wearing clothes of various descriptions (the fact that clothing comes in different forms perpetually seeming to astound certain commentators), awards for filmmaking being handed out to people involved in the filmmaking industry, each of whom got up to the podium and said some stuff.

The results are interesting enough, but the ceremony itself seems a real waste of the hours invested. Why not watch the 90-second highlight instead and use the time to actually watch one of the films…or read. Of course the film industry needs critics and awards, but the shows of self-importance and celebration, especially in comparison with awards in other media such as books, is somewhat distasteful.

That said, there was something really human about the multiple thanks given to spouses by this year’s winners: it reminded us that the players in this blindingly sparkling game have lives off the red carpet as well, and maybe even real life feelings outside of the uniformly gushing gratitude of acceptance speeches.

Rather wonderfully, this year a toilet flooded the foyer of the venue minutes before the ceremony was due to start. That and the bottle of Windex (surface cleaner) reportedly provided in the Oscars goodie bag seemed to top off the whole thing with an oddly suitable sense of banality.

Cooking with Poo

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After two-time winner of the Booker prize Hilary Mantel was criticised by David Cameron this week for her speech which supposedly attacked Kate Middleton, the spot­light has been placed on a lesser known, but equally interesting literary accolade. It is the time of year for the Diagram Prize, celebrating the oddest book title of the year, to be awarded.

The shortlist for the Prize, to be awarded in March, scans the literary world for the most in­triguing titles out there, from How to Sharpen Pencils to How Tea Cosies Changed the World. The judges will have to decide which book can live up to 2012’s winner, Cooking with Poo; Poo be­ing the slightly unfortunate nickname of Thai cookery author Sayuud Diwong.

The award is run by the Bookseller magazine and although the winner will not receive the £50,000 prize granted to Booker recipients, they do at least get a “fairly passable” bottle of wine and more widespread recognition for work that might have otherwise stayed under the radar. Previous winner Michael Young, who wrote the ground-breaking manual Managing a Dental Practice the Genghis Khan Way said that the accolade had given his work more credibil­ity and drastically increased sales of his book.

The Diagram Prize was first conceived by founder Bruce Robertson as a way to alleviate boredom during an especially dull day at the Frankfurt book fair in 1978. Yet despite its light­hearted nature, Horace Bent of the Bookseller magazine is very serious about what he de­scribes as a “prestigious award”. He has often had to reject submissions for being too old, such as Sketches of a Few Jellyfish, which was published in 1880. Titles which seem to be deliberately created to be funny are also turned down. The prize is also more democratic than the Booker, as since 2000 the winner has been selected by the public instead of a panel of judges. Some of the winners are also more popular amongst read­ers than Booker titles: 2007’s winning book, If You Want Closure in Your Relationship, Start with Your Legs received more votes than the Best of the Booker Prize, won by Salman Rushdie for Midnight’s Children.

There has been some controversy surround­ing some of the winning titles. 2008’s The 2009–2014 World Outlook for 60-milligram Containers of Fromage Frais turned out to have been writ­ten by a computer, and its ‘author’, Professor Philip M Parker, had already penned 200,000 books. Since the public have been in control of voting, ruder titles have also won more fre­quently than before, something lamented by Bookseller staff.

Most arts students have come across a slight­ly bizarre book title on their reading list at some point in their university career, but these pale into insignificance when faced with the likes of Bombproof Your Horse and How to Avoid Huge Ships. The good news for readers keen to delve into any of these works is that they can all be requested from the Bodleian’s closed stacks…

Bye bye Baby

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A tree stands in Frederiksberg Gardens, Copenhagen, covered with children’s dummies, pictures, and letters of goodbye. Hanging a comforter on The Pacifier Tree at the age of three is a rite of passage for Danish toddlers. It helps them to make a difficult transition, and produces a beautifully strange homage to early childhood, right in the center of the city. 

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*CHERWELL ARE RECRUITING* 

We are looking for new photographers and photo editors, see cherwell.org/recruitment for more details!

 

 

Grappling with Grayling

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Professor A. C. Grayling tells me that he doesn’t really under­stand the term ‘public intel­lectual’: “These are labels other people stick on one.” Stuck on or not, he is surely one of the most prominent examples of a think­er who, via numerous books and “thousands of words” written for the newspapers, has en­deavoured to engage the public in a way more typical of intellectuals in countries like France.

His latest work, The God Argument, continues the recent cultural onslaught against theism also associated with figures such as Richard Dawkins and Christopher Hitchens. He might not be as pugnacious as some of the other ‘new atheists’; indeed, he has been described as the ‘velvet version’. But he is no less keen to tackle the beast. Is there a need for another book?

Religion, he says, is a very difficult thing to pin-down. “Fighting it is like boxing an enor­mous lump of jelly, because when you punch it in one place it just bloops out in another.” He also wants to move the debate on, “the ques­tion now is, what’s the alternative?” For him it is Humanism: “it’s not a doctrine, but an attitude, premised on the most generous and sympathetic understanding of the human con­dition.”

But it is not for his books that Grayling has sparked a furore of late. In a country like ours, a philosopher has to do quite a lot to make himself controversial. We are sitting in his office at the top of the New College of the Hu­manities (NCH) in the Bloomsbury district of London. His new institution is set in a beautiful 18th century terrace overlook­ing Bedford Square. I mention how, as I clambered up the staircase to the Mas­ter’s office, I had been put in mind of a small PPH, a sort of secular St. Benet’s Hall. “I always say, I will found our department of theology right after I set up our department of astrology,” he jokes.

He is keen to emphasise that the majority of press coverage has ac­tually been positive, but far more noticeable have been the vitriolic attacks. Terry Eagleton, a man for whom Grayling evinces little fond­ness, penned an article titled simply: “AC Grayling’s private university is odious”. Somewhat rich, the philoso­pher points out, when it transpired that Eagleton himself has teaching commitments at a very expensive private American outfit.

Why such apoplexy on the left? Be­cause Grayling will be charging students £18,000 a year for their education, which is “a marriage between the liberal arts model and the Oxford tutorial model.” Grayling dismisses the equality com­plaints as a “fetish” and highlights the fact that one third of his students re­ceive full or partial help with fees. But this rings somewhat hollow when you consider how socially exclusionary a col­lege where two thirds of students can afford to pay £18,000 a year up front must necessarily be, even before the exorbitant costs of living in London.

Far more defensible is his desire to raise an endowment which enables full needs-blindness. Within 10 to 15 years he hopes to have enough money to admit people “purely on their intellectual merits. I explored trying to start it as a charitable foundation from the outset and raise the endowment first. But that would have taken so long…we don’t have that culture [of charitable giving] in this country that they do in the United States.”

I am left wondering why he has not laboured this point more before. The caricature of NCH as a capitalist venture, advantaging the off­spring of the indecently rich, holds less water if in the end the college will be no more so­cially exclusionary than Oxbridge or the top of the Russell group. Grayling is passionately supportive of the idea of expanding high qual­ity educational provision for undergraduates, and of giving academics research opportunities without the restrictive demands of the Research Assessment Exercise. Even if the fees situation at present is frankly unjust, as a long-term concept his arguments in favour of NCH become more compelling.

But Grayling feels that his oppo­nents have not been willing to give his case the time of day from the off. More than once he describes the behaviour of the The Guardian, for which he wrote for many years, as “such a deep disap­pointment.”

Indeed, he suggests that its coverage of NCH amounted to dishonest journalism. “This is the first time I have spoken about this publicly…I was told by two separate Guardian-related peo­ple, one of them a very very senior columnist at the Guardian, and one of them one of the let­ters editors, that they’d had a meeting imme­diately after the announcement of the college. The Guardian decided that they were going to run negative stories, or attack stories every day…they asked the letters editors to look out for things that The Guardian could use a hook for a negative story.”

The whole treatment of his new institution has made him lose some of his former faith in the probity of the broadsheet press. “They made up their mind that they were going to have a go, not on the merits [of the issue], but on principle.”

Perhaps it is his lack of relish for the bloody-mindedness of public argument that makes him so ambivalent about the idea of being a ‘public intellectual’. He speaks with real pain in his voice about the treatment dished out to those who stick their heads above the parapet. “You become a figure of such vilification. Peo­ple have no idea about you, how much you love your children and your dog, how hard you work or how sincere your aspirations are, in a way that makes you not want to be out there in the public domain. I would rather be an en­tirely private individual and just not have to put up with that sort of thing.” Does it hurt? His voice rises, “I am a tiny bit thin-skinned about these things. It does hurt a bit.”

When his eyes really light up are when he enthuses about working every day with young minds opening up to the new per­spectives which education enables. “I jump out of my bed every morning.” The whole experience has been “exhilarating”, he says.

His passion for the humanities is unbridled; missionary. To really flourish as a person, “you need to know something about how you got here and your society got here, you need to have had your insight into the human condition expanded and educated a bit by looking through the windows of lit­erature at other lives, other choices, other possibilities. You need to have challenged your assumptions and thought a little bit about the con­cepts that we live by.”

This is where he is happiest; he lets our interview overrun by half an hour, holding off his next appointment in order to migrate with me across the expanses of human ideas which we end up discussing.

A. C. Grayling is a fiercely intelligent man. His speech is peppered with references to Bruegel, Chinese proverbs, contemporary French philosophers, Plutarch and Aristo­tle. How did he gain such an extraordinary breadth of knowledge? He smiles. For once his answer comes out in a soundbite. “I read.” He would have all of us do that sort of thing a great deal more.

This is the way I live now

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These last few months have seen me follow the quite remarkable journey of an old friend waiting desperately for a heart trans­plant. Will Pope is now 20 years old. I remember him clearly as a fresh-faced teenager: funny and immediately likeable, musically talented, and above all perfectly healthy. My most vivid memories are of his relentless guitar playing on the school bus which – despite being annoy­ingly good – was greeted with unanimous frus­tration by the number 854 faithful.

Will moved schools, at which point I sadly lost contact with him. However, my parents remained close with his and it was through them that I discovered the horrific news in March 2009 that Will – aged 16 – was suffering from catastrophic heart failure. His condition was thought to have been triggered by a vi­rus and was totally unexpected. Having com­plained of breathlessness and after visiting his doctor days earlier, Will had actually been sent home and told to pop back if he still felt unwell in a week or two. As his dad, Philip, put it, “‘Be­cause of his age and the fact he’d always been so healthy, I don’t think the doctor even con­sidered that he might be suffering from a con­dition normally seen in much older patients.” He was just extraordinarily unlucky.

It was the matron at Will’s school who first made the call to his mother Rosie, telling her that he needed to go to A&E immediately. After being rushed to hospital by ambulance and hav­ing his heart exam­ined, Rosie was told that Will was “very seriously” ill. In fact, one doctor lat­er noted he’d never seen anybody in that condition still able to walk.

Two days fol­lowing ad­mission, Will underwent open heart surgery in which a pump was inserted to sustain his blood flow and support his heart, allowing it to recover its function. To give some sense of the scale of the operation, the pump was driven by four batteries – each the size of VHS tape and weigh­ing considerably more – that had to be carried around in a bag at all times. The procedure was fortunately successful – in no small part due to the brilliant team at the Harefield Hospital. Combined with continued drug therapy, it al­lowed Will’s heart to recuperate sufficiently for the device to be removed later that year. Will and his family very much hoped that the worst was behind them; but in the long term, the prospect of a transplant always remained.

Will had dropped a year but went back and completed school, followed by his first year at Bristol University studying Classical Civilisa­tions. He kept fit, riding his bike around Bris­tol and rowing, and sang in a jazz band. He joined the Revunions, a Bristol comedy group. Life was good. Then, last summer, Will em­barked on the notoriously epic Mongol Rally; the stunning six week road trip from London to Ulaanbaatar that every slightly insane stu­dent – myself included – dreams of complet­ing. However, at the very end of the trip, Rosie received what must have been a terrifying call from her son, who, thousands of miles away, was feeling very ill. Will managed to make the long journey home and once again was imme­diately admitted to Harefield Hospital.

It was now clear beyond doubt that Will’s best option was a heart transplant. But in spite of being prioritised on the Urgent List, Will spent 122 days in hospital waiting for a do­nated heart, to no avail. This time was a deeply intense personal challenge for Will, as he laid bedbound, facing the agonisingly stark reality of his future without a transplant.

Yet, in a November documentary on ITV about Organ Donation, Will made a remark­able statement: “It’s a possibility that I won’t get a heart. It is a little bit terrifying, but at the same time I’ve managed to come to terms with the thought of loss, and that’s fine. I’ve made my peace with that. But for my fam­ily it’s very difficult.” Hearing someone my age calmly state that they are “at peace” with dying is something I found profoundly stirring. As Philip eloquently put it, “Will’s had to confront his mortality in a way most young people nev­er have to.”

These arduous months undoubtedly put immense strain on the Pope family, as they witnessed Will gradually weaken. Listening to his parents on the same programme made me realise how crippling powerlessness is on the psyche in such tragic scenarios. There is of course absolutely nothing you can do; only wait and hope that an appropriate heart becomes available. This is a bizarrely conflicting situation to find oneself in; as Rosie put it, “It is tragic that our son’s sur­vival depends on some­one else’s sad demise. But we would also feel incredibly grateful that our son had been given a second chance through someone else’s gen­erosity, because he has so much to offer.”

Eventually after waiting for two months, the surgeon told Will that he was “head­ing for a cliff.” His other organs were failing and he was now becoming too un­well to undergo a transplant. Some­thing needed to be done, and fast. A new­er, smaller pump had recently been tested and was proposed by the surgeon, in order to buy Will some time. But once he had the pump, he would no longer be on the urgent’ list, so the prospect of him getting a transplant would be greatly reduced. The operation was scheduled and performed, yet despite a long time trying, the pump failed to work properly. Another bout of surgery and another pump also failed. With Will extremely ill, the final decision was made to use a temporary external pump in the hope he’d recover enough to allow a transplant. But this would be if – and only if – a heart became available. Christmas Day was spent in hospital. This was an excruciating phase to watch at a distance; one can barely begin to imagine the stress placed upon Will and his family during this time.

Then, on New Year’s Eve, Will’s family were told that a heart had been found; it was time. The window for using a donated organ is des­perately short; not much longer than three hours. It’s amazing that any successful trans­plants are performed at all. After an extremely complicated operation and ten days spent un­conscious, Will woke to discover he had a new heart.

One in five people on the transplant list die waiting for organs. A recent survey suggests 70 per cent of us would accept a transplant – un­surprisingly so – yet roughly 60 per cent have not put themselves on the organ register. This raises the question, “if we’re prepared to receive an organ for ourselves or a loved one, then why are we not prepared to donate one?”

Writing this account has one very simple purpose: to make more people consider or­gan donation. It’s been absolutely terrifying watching someone I know – someone young, fit and healthy – be struck down and almost die, completely out of the blue. By contrast, how­ever, I have found it indescribably uplifting to watch this same person emerge from the very depths of illness because of the amazing gift of a donated heart. More so, I have found it truly inspiring to observe Will’s family con­duct themselves with such grace and courage throughout a time of utter desperation. They have campaigned tirelessly to promote aware­ness for Will and others like him, showing that simply signing the Organ Register can save someone’s life.

This is not a case of greedily desiring some­one else’s demise. I know for a fact that families on the receiving end of a donation find it both confusing and saddening to know the cost at which it has come, especially considering their conflicting joy at its arrival. This is a mat­ter of offering your organs as a free gift in the unfortunate circumstance of your own death. You won’t be using them any more. So what a wonderful blessing it would be to maybe spare another person’s life: as one life extinguishes, another can be reborn.

Statistics suggest that roughly 90 per cent of people are happy with the idea of organ dona­tion, but only 30 per cent actually sign up. This is absurd. Around 1000 people die every year waiting hopelessly for a transplant; but many of them could be saved.

It really is unbelievably easy to register – just pop on the Register link below, and you’ll be done in five minutes. And if you do so, please remember one thing: tell your family. Approxi­mately 40 per cent of families refuse permis­sion for their loved one’s organs to be used even if they are already on the register.

Will was very lucky to receive a heart trans­plant; he had very little time left. His post-op­eration journey to recovery has been fraught with serious complications; a telling reminder of just how desperate his condition was prior to the transplant, because of his long wait. He suffered a life-threatening cardiac arrest and for weeks his motor nervous system shut down, leaving him totally paralysed. He was trapped, unable to communicate, connected to a ventilator and unable to move. This must have been terrifying. Having been critically ill and sedated for so long, Will has “neuropa­thy,” meaning that he now has to re-learn how to move his muscles. He is incredibly thin and weak, a mere shadow of his former self.

Slowly but surely, Will is on the mend. He has a long and difficult road to recovery ahead of him, but each day, his strength grows. He recently made a huge breakthrough; for the first time since the operation six weeks ago, he walked with an aide. Yet undoubtedly, the best news of all is that he now has hope for a future life.

Will appeared in the ITV documentaries “Waiting for a Heart” and “From the Heart”, the focused on his story and the current sad state of organ donation in the UK. Will and his family agreed to participate in these programmes in order to raise awareness for organ donation. His friends at Bristol have been campaigning for Will and others in position.

As a result of this campaigning over the course of just a few months, the number of registrations has almost doubled in a year. The aim of the campaign is to make organ donation normal, so that others in Will’s position can have that second chance. It would be fantastic to help them make a real difference. Whilst still very weak in bed, Will was asked to describe what it feels like to have a new heart. Slowly and quietly, yet full of purpose, Will responded, “it feels better than anything in the world. I didn’t know I’d had it for ten days after the operation and then it came as such a shock, in such a good way. I can’t wait to go home and sit by the fire and have homemade food and see my brothers…and be normal”. He was asked what he’d say to the family of the donor of his heart: “I’d like to say thank you so much- its such a wonderful gift and you have no idea how much it means to me. And that anyone could be so generous is fantastic”.

Follow Will’s progress on www.willpope.co.uk and on YouTube.

Become a doner yourself, at www.organdonation.

Preview: Phèdre

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Cherwell’s verdict: “drawn-out drama of trauma and death”

In the strikingly dramatic atmosphere of Merton College chapel, Jean Racine’s Phèdre is to be played out (in translation) next week. The script is highly stylised and comes across as a mixture of Greek tragedy and Shakespeare; a tricky combination pulled off by the majority of the cast with style with only the occasional slip into modern intonation in the more highly-wrung phrases, (a slightly wooden declaration at one point that “such unexpected terrors choke my soul” seemed delightfully comic more than anything).

The director successfully exploits the stark bareness of the chapel as an acting space so that the only props are two wooden chairs and a table: the audience sit either side of the actors creating an intimate atmosphere which works well to balance the overtly formalised acting style. At one point the young lovers Hippolytus (Hugh Johnson) and Aricia (Clara-Laeila Laudette) play out a love scene up in the organ box. This proved extremely effective in bringing to mind a Romeo-and-Juliet-esque balcony scene, although the less flexible members of the audience should be advised to sit as far away as possible to save them from the possibility of neck injuries obtained from craning up at strange angles.

The heroine herself, Phèdre, is played by the beautiful and youthful Bridget Dru, a far cry from our conception of an old and twisted step-mother (although admittedly incestuous love didn’t quite make it into most of our childhood renditions of Cinderella and Snow White). The result is a quasi-maternal relationship between Phèdre and Oenone the ‘nurse’ (Grace Brockway), and an audience that is much more likely to turn away from the brilliantly stubborn and narrow-minded King Theseus (Jonathon Oakman) to sympathise with his inherently traumatised wife.

The only quibble that springs to mind as I watch this play is that, in the depths of a freezing chapel, the tendency for elongated speeches becomes a test of our concentration as well as our circulation. However clearly this is a fault of a speech rather than the casts who deliver the lines well, apart from an occasional lack of the utter articulatedness which is required in the echoing chapel from Theseus. But fear not – I am later informed that there will be heating! Perhaps bring eskimo suits just in case… and brace yourself for some intense but well-acted tragedy. 

Focus on… Oxford Acapella

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The Oxford a cappella scene is one of the oldest and most developed in the country – and so even if the idea of a bunch of well tuned and ferociously cheerful young men and/or women slamming out a mashup of Katy Perry hits is your idea of hell, it’s unlikely that you will have been able to avoid it. With the jazz-fuelled Oxford Gargoyles recently making it onto BBC Choir of the  Year and all-male sensation Out Of The Blue gracing the semi-finals of Britain’s Got Talent back in 2011, it seems that a cappella in Oxford is going strong and here to stay. Its strength is due not only the abundance of musically minded and vocally-acrobatic participants, but also to the spirit of friendly competition between the groups which comes to a head at the end of Hilary as the ‘Voice Festival UK’, affectionately termed ‘V-FUK’, arrives in town. For the uninitiated, V-FUK is as close as it gets to Glee, with regional rounds pitting local groups against each other before the cream of the crop head to London to compete in the national final. I had the privilege of being welcomed into a rehearsal with Oxford’s oldest group, the mixed-voice Alternotives, to find out how they were preparing for the a cappella event of the term.

Witnessing an a cappella rehearsal from the outside is an experience like no other; the buzz-words, injokes and “technical” terms come thick and fast and there is a lot of debate and collaboration. It would perhaps be cruel of me to repeat all the best quotes from this rehearsal verbatim, but a few favourites include “No, it’s Italian vowels for this one”; “And when the sopranos come in, they can just be… you know… ethereal”; and finally, whilst Musical Director  Jessie and song arranger Slade make a final few edits to their opening song, “Oh no, they just cut the bit we can sing”.

Despite the rigours of their preparation, the Alts still found time for some one-on-one chats. Group veteran Dom Burrell, now in his third year of a cappella, gave an insight into his time in the group: “It’s changed a lot in three years, and I’ve been lucky to be a part of that.” The Alts have definitely branched out in recent years. When I first saw them they were clad in “black with a splash” and had a sort of geek chic charm. Last year they jetted off to the USA in their now signature hand-dyed purple, and they’ve developed a gutsy, soul-tinged sound without losing their sense of fun and comedy which sets them apart from the rest of the Oxford crowd. Dom’s attitude to voice festival is pragmatic but optimistic: the group as a whole, he says, is looking forward to having three songs perfected and also seeing the others at the top of their  game.

On the whole, the group seems reluctant to rate their chances in the coming competition, but the atmosphere at the end of the rehearsal was definitely one of quiet confidence – and rightly so. When asked for one word to sum up how they were feeling about the impending challenge, answers ranged from “pumped” to “intrigued”.

Ed Crawford, however, who will deliver the solo for the set finale, was unable to confine his feelings to one word. Tasked with delivering the sexy, seductive ‘Can’t Take My Eyes Off Of You’, his thoughts on the challenge he faces to help propel his group to success were concluded thus: “I hope there is a female judge… or at least a gay man.”

The alts set promises to be musically impressive, wittily delivered, beautifully sung and of course outrageously flirtatious. You won’t want to miss them. They take to the stage this Sunday in the Oxford Town Hall.

Fear of Flipping Burgers

After studying at Keble from 2006-09, Barney Norris returns to the Burton Taylor and Oxford in 9th week with his touring play Fear of Music. Now working for a professional company, Norris’s interest in drama was ignited by the Keble O’Reilly, which he believes is a great opportunity for Oxford students. “It allows you to programme a space 20 years before you’d usually get the opportunity to do so, as well as being a place where you can take full creative control.”

Despite being threatened with removal from the university for poor academic performance, Norris was already writing plays during his degree, including Fear of Music. It was during his tenure as Drama Officer in 2010 that the first reading of this play was performed at the Playhouse, but Norris himself admits, “It was not very good; more of an interesting relationship between two boys than a story. But I continued to improve it.” 

Fear of Music has been a long-term project for Norris, his initial exploration into the relationship between two boys later developing into a plot about two brothers, one of whom is leaving in the near future to go to university and trying to prevent his younger brother from joining the army like their absent father. Norris included the army in Fear of Music after seeing an MoD advertising campaign with the slogan, “I want to do more with my life than flip burgers.” He says, “It seemed pretty rough to me because the army marketing department targets areas of least social engagement, where people are unlikely to find great jobs. It belittles people into joining the armed forces.”

The play is set in 1988 Andover, chosen because of its many parallels with today. “Just like then, education’s getting more expensive, jobs are getting harder to get hold of, benefits are being cut, and social isolation for those not born into happy, middle-class families is a big problem. Most theatre now is boringly irrelevant as it is about people who own their own flats at 25. We’re in a middle ground which nearly everybody inhabits but isn’t talked about – where people are fine but when political waves wash over them their lives change.” 

The most important topic the play deals with is social isolation. “We make ourselves lonely through a need for security – isolation is safe. There’s nothing to disrupt you on an island. The need to connect with another person requires, at some point, overcoming shyness. In Fear of Music, they can’t speak about their dad, they can’t speak about their mum, and they can’t even talk to each other. 

And then one of them has got to leave as he’s got a place at university, and that is what the play is. Most of us live our lives feeling shy and insecure. These brothers are people who want to engage with life and music, but can’t quite.”

Norris goes on, “I hope people can connect with it in the same way I do with good theatre. It is a room which I am able to go into, and if it is a good play I feel the need to call someone. When I enter, I am quiet for an hour and consequently I can engage with my own life through the medium of someone else’s. That is it.”

Preview: Eight

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If someone had chanced by the room where Eight’s press preview was taking place and peered through the windows, they would have seen a very puzzling scene – five people paying rapt attention to a single actor, unadorned, in the centre of a nondescript room. I had the pleasure of being inside that room,
and knowing what all the fuss was about. Eight combines a brilliant script,  ambitious directorial pair, and a crack team of first-class performers. Even in its present infancy, it could take to the stage tomorrow and put on a hell of a show.

The focus of this inspired piece is crisis, and directors Jessica Lazar and  Tommo Fowler have designed their production to bring out the universality
of panic. A total of eight monologues make up the play, with the script flitting between different locales and personalities: from the brash American Wall Street asshole who is the sole survivor of a London bomb blast, to the Scottish mother who cannot afford to give her children a memorable Christmas. The five night run will be split into halves – four of the monologues will take place on the first two nights, and the other two nights will showcase
the other half of the show.

Audience votes will dictate the four speeches that make it to the final night. Lazar and Fowler have assured me that the monologues will be carefully arranged for thematic purposes, and if the preview is to be any indication, their curative decisions are something to look forward to. Convincing accents add to the work’s global feel, and Hickson’s writing zooms from place to place with remarkable confidence and precision – when Miles (David Shields) talks about the snack stand at Kings’ Cross station, I thought of the time I bought cigarettes from that exact shop, and when Bobby (Phoebe Hames) describes a plush Christmas party, I could’ve sworn the room got noticeably warmer. Assured directorial hands milk a preternaturally accomplished script for all it is worth.

Monologue-driven performances are difficult because they give actors so little to work with, but I have full confidence that the cast will be able to spin straw into gold come opening night. The odds were stacked against them in this press preview: both actors were not off book, and to make things worse, the Worcester college geese were having a noisy and raucous party outside the room. The moment that Hames let loose her character’s energetic Scottish brogue, however, I instantly forgot all those distractions. Shields is just as good, keeping up a quintessential American brashness while subtly showing the cracks in his character’s traumatised psyche. Both actors possess a powerful magnetism that works well with the script’s uncomfortable intensity; it was difficult to watch them perform, but it was downright impossible to look away.

Any criticism I can make can be put down to minor instances of a lack of polish, wholly understandable for a preview held this early. For example, Shields’ relentless manic energy is every bit the coked-up banker, but he could vary it a bit more to suit the complexity of his character. I have complete confidence, however, that Lazar and Fowler will tweak every detail until they are satisfied. This is already a work that leaves most student productions in the dust. I’ll be making the trip to see Eight, and you’d be a fool not to do likewise.