★★★☆☆
Three Stars

Upon taking my seat for Creation Theatre’s production of Aladdin and the Magic Lamp, my expectations were low to say the least. Childhood memories of pantomimes replete with excruciating slapstick, ageing TV actors in drag, and ruthlessly enforced audience participation, had lent the form a hefty stigma in my mind. Thankfully Creation Theatre were able to alleviate my prejudices and, most importantly, stage an enjoyable two hours of pantomime.

The success of Aladdin and the Magical Lamp lies in its simplicity. The small but strong cast of seven are afforded roughly equal stage time and thus divided the jokes, melodrama and songs between them. Consequently, the stale parade of pantomime stereotypes such as the hero, dame, village idiot et al is avoided; instead each character is given a little freedom to develop. Refreshingly, familiar characters assume new depths: the Genie of the Lamp remains mystical but is also hilariously deadpan, the Sultan is regal but also quaintly camp and Aladdin himself begins the play as, by his own admission, “a wretch, a good-for-nothing and a murderer”. The comedy too is effective in its subtlety; time after time the melodrama is escalated by extravagant language and overblown theatricality, only to be brought sharply to Earth by a witty, deflating punch-line.

The production’s musical numbers, often used successfully to aid the run-up to a punchline, are generally successful but work best when the entire cast is involved: the Princess and Aladdin’s duet strikes a rare bum note. Both actors were flummoxed by the suddenly empty stage and sterile melody, substantiating the Sorcerer’s subsequent remark that “love is a cheap illusion”. Indeed, as is often the case, the villain’s role is the most intriguing and Timothy Allsop seizes this opportunity with aplomb. His Sorcerer dominates the beginning of Act Two as a deranged megalomaniac, expressive eyes radiating insanity.

This delectable darkness, however, was swiftly curtailed in favour of a prolonged conclusion that consists of a farcical sequence of betrothals, reconciliations and predictability. We all knew a happy ending was imminent, but surely that should have encouraged a short and sweet finale, rather than this sugary overdose? In particular, the “abject poverty” of the Sultan’s subjects, as sung about in Act One, was instantly forgotten once Aladdin had ascended the social ladder himself. In one significantly ironic blow, both genies are freed from their magical slavery whilst the wage slavery of the peasantry is perpetuated.

Perhaps pantomime is no place for a critique of the feudal system and anyone who expects to find one has clearly just completed eight weeks of his English degree. Nevertheless, transcending that boundary between maturity and simple entertainment is something that Aladdin and the Magic Lamp does well. Yet it raises an important question: who exactly does Creation Theatre think their pantomime is for? The subtlety of its characters and humour was admirable but would probably stretch a primary school-age audience too far. Conversely, whilst an adult audience would enjoy elements of the production, its status as a pantomime is surely enough to discourage a significant number from purchasing tickets in the first place. A pleasurable and unadulterated experience it certainly is, but whether it makes commercial sense is another question entirely.

Aladdin and the Magic Lamp runs till 5 January at the North Wall Arts Centre

★★★☆☆
Three Stars

I loved The Lord of the Rings movies like they were my unborn triplets, so when news of a Hobbit movie broke, I found myself damp with excitement. With Guillermo del Toro signed up to direct, what could go wrong? Well, several years later, what we have is another Peter Jackson movie, though it has del Toro’s fingerprints all over it, which explores Middle-earth in roughly the same manner as his previous three movies (except for King Kong and The Lovely Bones. duh). The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey is like putting on your favourite old slippers and then stabbing an orc in the face with a blue sword.

Martin Freeman takes on the role of Bilbo, and he’s as far away from Slough now as it’s possible to be. He is certainly plausible as a younger version of Ian Holm (who introduces the film in a prologue with Elijah Wood) and seems to enjoy his romp across Middle-earth, even though it mainly consists of him standing frowning whilst the dwarves act like complete dickheads. Which brings me to the dwarves, a seemingly interminable gang of short, fat troglodytes led by the most human-looking member, Thorin Oakenshield. They’re played by a strange variety of British TV and stage actors (the most famous of which seemed to be Ken Stott and James Nesbitt) and are certainly an unusual centrepiece for a major blockbuster, but one that only seemed to grate about 15% of the time.

Sir iMac is back as Gandalf, and seems to be having fun with the role, as he leads his band of misfits towards the Lonely Mountain, via familiar sights like Rivendell (where we get to check in with Elrond and Galadriel – they seem well) and the caves where Gollum lives. Gollum’s return is very welcome, although the ‘Riddles in the Dark’ sequence is dragged out for about fifteen minutes.

Which brings me to The Hobbit’s central problem. For a film that is only one third of a very slender book, it’s colossally long: about 2 hours 45 minutes. You’ve got to wonder whether anything at all was left on the cutting room floor: every piece of superfluous detail is kept in, meaning you’ll be hard pressed not to feel that this could quite easily have been 45 minutes shorter.

But that’s a small(ish) price to pay for the technological advances that this film marks. The 48pfs 3D marks the demise of ghosting that has made previous 3D experiences so frustrating (James Cameron must be kicking himself). It might grate on the eye to begin with, because of our familiarity with the motion blur of 24fps, but once you give it a chance then you’ll find that this is the most immersive 3D experience this side of SeaWorld. Though it has all sorts of problems with it, if there was ever a movie that’s worth the admission fee (plus a Coke to keep you going throughout the film, so you don’t have to resort to drinking your own piss for survival) then this is it.

This film should both delight and frustrate Lord of the Rings fans, leaving them champing at the bit for the next two instalments.

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Brasenose Lane, Trinity 2012

These photos were all taken in Oxford and on my various holiday trips over the past year, using my Polaroid 300 camera. The photos are always a slight surprise – I’m never sure if they’ll come out or how the light will affect the print. Waiting the few minutes for them to develop in front of you simply add to the childish excitement of these cameras! 

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Snow last Hilary in Christ Church Meadows

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Spring travels; Washington blossoms and the Rococo Gardens in Painswick

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Punting on the Isis and summer sun in Brasenose’s Frewin gardens.

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Summer at Highclere Castle (aka Downton Abbey) and hilltop days at home with friends 

★☆☆☆☆
One Star 

Does anyone remember Kurt Cobain’s suicide note? It finished with a quote from a Neil Young song: “It’s better to burn out than fade away”. Perhaps Green Day weren’t paying much attention in ’94, or perhaps they don’t own any Neil Young records. In any case, they have thoroughly failed to learn the lesson that once something is no longer relevant – once it has jumped the shark – it has no chance of regaining its lost prestige.

The honest truth is that Green Day have not been relevant, interesting or any good since American Idiot, a record that came out in 2004 (a fact which should make all of you feel old). Incidentally, that record was considered something of a career revival for the snot-nosed punk band that had been grinding out albums like Nimrod and Insomniac, both entirely devoid of vim or vigour. The follow up to American Idiot, 21st Century Breakdown, was both an artistic and creative disaster, spawning only one vaguely hummable single.

In response to lukewarm popular and critical reception, Green Day decided to create a trilogy of albums, Uno, Dos and Tre. These are supposedly the result of a purple patch, where the band became incredibly prolific and created a whole load of songs which Billie Joe Armstrong (increasing becoming the embarrassing uncle of alternative rock) reckons are some of the best they’ve ever written.

He can dream on. The entire thing feels insubstantial, and poorly conceived. If they had enough material for three albums, it was not the result of an incredible period of inspiration, but poor quality control. The lyrics, whilst never historically Green Day’s strong suit, are quite laughable. For example, “I gotta know if you’re the one that got away / even though it was never meant to be” sounds less like Green Day and more like Kelly Clarkson or some equally bland popstar.

Billie Joe’s adenoidal whine fails to convey any emotion or enthusiasm (as if it ever did) and the instrumentation just batters away in the background. However, whilst in the past we may have marvelled at Tre Cool’s drumming skills or whatever it is that Mike Dirnt actually does, the musicianship has been toned down in the mix and seems to be rather ineffectual. The message is clear – they’re all about BJA now.

Even some hysterical attempts to update their schtick with a “dance” number (‘Kill The DJ’, which pales in comparison to MCR’s ‘Planetary (GO!)’) and some rap (no, really) on ‘Nightlife’ cannot resuscitate the lost cause that is Green Day’s career. It’s a pity they took the title Dookie for a far better album. It would be far more accurately applied here.

Like all the greatest rock stars, the best British comedic dramas have historically died young: Fawlty Towers, The Office; even Monty Python’s Flying Circus properly lasted only three series. Peep Show fully deserves to number among these classics, but, now bucking the trend, is in its eighth series. With the show, and its characters, now almost a decade older than when it all began, you could be forgiven for expecting a certain level of classiness or maturity: Mark (David Mitchell, who Cherwell interviewed earlier this year), after all, now has a child and has asked his long-term girlfriend Dobbie (Isy Suttie) to move in, turfing Jez (Robert Webb) out.

But, thank goodness, nothing has become sacred: even last rites. Mark seethes as Dobbie tends to the sickly Gerard (Jim Howick). One evening Mark manages to persuade her not to rush to his bedside – “But Dobs, it’s the Apprentice tonight, I think there’s going to be someone we both really hate” – and, hilariously, Gerard kicks the bucket. Corrigan remains a master of the acutely awkward observation, the cynical retort and the withering put-down; and what a relief it is that while the material feels so fresh, the central conventions of the show have survived intact: it is comforting to see Jeremy’s inane reasoning (“I’d make a great therapist. Look at all the pussy I bag”) and Mark’s sardonic wisecracks (“Is that a quote from Freud or Jung?”) continuing to manifest in their characteristically outrageous fashion.

Jesse Armstrong and Sam Bain, the writers of Peep Show, deserve medals for crafting a script that manages to place authentic, pitch-perfect, toe-curling awkwardness into poetry: “I never stone alone; I’m just high on pie”, is how Mark declines a spliff. A useful one to remember. All that said, the format is predictable. Jeremy says and does stupid things; Mark pursues eminently sensible goals, but typically fouls up just as badly as Jeremy. Jeremy remains an infant in a grown man’s body: a perennial failure with occasional flashes of jealousy. Hearing that Mark has published a book (albeit with the suspiciously named ‘British London’) Jeremy panics: “What next? He’s found a director for his film? A builder for his cathedral?” Mark loves to berate Jeremy for his failings, but in reality is consumed by a similarly bitter pettiness; acutely conscious of his own under-achievement, Mark patronises Jeremy and jealously curtails even Dobby’s career ambitions.

You sort of know how this is going to unravel just by skim-reading the subtext. But ultimately it doesn’t matter. Peep Show revels gloriously in drudgery; even its most colourful characters lack charisma, instead generating in their comic interactions a remarkable anti-charisma, which itself forms the gravitational centre of the show’s charm and intrigue. Mark and Jeremy can always be trusted to get over their mutual loathing because, after all, the only thing animating the lives of the ‘El Dude’ brothers is each other. The fruits of that relationship, not just the gags, are surely the reason the show has lasted so long. The viewer remains as wedded to the central relationship as Mark and Jeremy are to each other: we remain oddly charmed by how totally aware they are of the other’s naivety and haplessness, while apparently blissfully ignorant of their own. And how deeply they know each other’s quirks: Episode 2’s depiction of Jeremy discovering Mark executing the ‘Velvet Spoon Routine’ (avoiding the obligation of making him a cup of tea) is a highlight.

“I hate living with him, but I never really want it to end,” Jeremy describes living with Mark. In a similar way, I’m not quite sure why I keep watching Peep Show. Its pulling power is akin to popping bubble wrap: it all seems slightly mundane and a little pathetic but somehow instils a deep affection in me. Series 8 has moved to Sunday night from the usual Friday slot, a shrewd move I think: the essence of Peep Show chimes much better with the Sunday night mood: dour, reflective, lazy, mercurial. Series 8 has got off to a cracking start. The next episode sees Jeremy move out of the flat and in with the steadfastly drugged-up Super Hans. Perhaps they should move this one back to Friday.