The characters begin dead and the tribunal appears to be decided before it’s even begun. This sense of futility in Friel’s Freedom of the City hangs over the performance, clouding even the larks of Skinner and Lily as they parade around in the Mayor’s garments. After reading Woolley’s earlier preview, I had high expectations for the Freedom of the City. I was not disappointed. It was a brilliant choice of setting; the intimacy of the Morris Room where the actors emerged from the audience created an intense performance that could never have been achieved on a more conventional stage. Admittedly, some technical difficulties emerged from this choice of setting. For example, it would have helped the actors to have had another entrance to avoid bumping into each other when exiting and entering and the taped music played from the back of the room was a bit intrusive if you were sat beyond the first four rows; however, the realism that this setting brought to the performance was well worth these slight distractions.

The live music was a well-executed addition that again added to the hard realism that Sayers and Levinson appear to be aiming for. Although the three leads, Ballard, Furey and Wynn-Owen gave admirable performances, it would have been nice to have seen them relax into their roles a little more. The strength of the accents also required the lines to need a slower delivery than was assigned to them; indeed, Furey delivered her lines at a speed that was incomprehensible at points. The real highlight of the piece for me was the strength of the tribunal scenes, particularly the relationship portrayed between the judge and the Irish characters. The sociologist, the priest and the journalist were also played extremely well, all this helped to construct Friel’s palimpsest of this fateful event in Irish history. Overall, the whole concept of the play was brilliantly unpacked and it truly offered a theatre experience that you would not receive at the Playhouse. 

The Get-Out is the best piece of student writing I have seen at Oxford. Like all new plays it had that moment, about ten minutes in, when you nervously think “is this going to work?” – occurring in this case because Flanigan makes use of two unashamedly over-worn motifs: “talented small-town boy leaves for the city” and “corporate fat-cats try to shut down the charitable underdog”. But it works because it’s funny.

The play is built on two complementary asymmetries: one between the three adults running the theatre group and the teenagers in it, and the other between the “the morning after” – the first half of the play – and “the night before” – the second half of the play, after which the stage, characters and plot were left with a lovely sense of closure, because every detail – post-its, pillows and cigarette butts – was put exactly where it began. The direction (Josie Mitchell) shows impressive range: as clear and dynamic in the tense and silent scenes, as in the scenes of cacophonic revelry.

The acting was consistently strong and entertaining – if a little self-conscious at the beginning. The accent-coaching the actors are rumoured to have received evidently had paid off; and, if their intonation was at times imperfect, this was probably best for the intelligibility of the performance. Particularly notable was Ella Waldman who managed to maintain her Northern Irish trill while giving a quite lengthy and vehement speech. As a group the ‘adults’ (Waldman, Lloyd Houston and writer Mary Flanigan) gave mature performances with subtle and life-like interactions, each betraying moments of weakness through comically strong personalities, creating variable degrees of likability and an invariable humanity. 

Most impressive – because so easily got wrong – was the acting out on stage of adolescent drunkenness. Flanigan gets away with reminding the audience their own most embarrassing and least genuinely witty memories because each her characters diverges sufficiently from their stereotypes to enable original and yet recognisable parody. (Kudos should here be given to the costumes, which brought back vivid gold-hooped memories of school.) I was especially impressed with Luke Rollason, whose short-but-sweet drunken protestations were executed to delightful comic perfection, despite The Get-Out being his thespian debut (excluding a short stint in a nativity in primary school).

The real success of The Get-Out is to offer an obscure situation – a Northern Irish youth theatre group – and render it intriguing and entertaining without reducing it to its universal bones. As a Londoner with a extremely superficial knowledge of Northern Ireland, I was drawn in and educated by the more culturally specific aspects of the play (the charming slang, for example); a distanced positioning which cleverly mimicked the experiential gap between the adolescents, and the adults running the theatre group.

 The Get-Out was an exciting and professional production, succeeding where so much student theatre fails, because of its unusually considered scope: it was clever-funny and slap-stick funny; political and accessible; well-written, well-acted and well-directed.

Watch this space.

Richard Elliott’s latest production might be set in the midst of a culture clash of 1960s USA, but it certainly does not pull any punches when it comes to good old-fashioned Elizabethan violence. With a body count that exceeds that of the notorious Hamlet, Titus Andronicus is not one for the weak stomached – this became clear early on as the usher advised that we avoid the front row for fear of being splattered with blood.

Other than overwhelming tragedy, the stage was dominated by Katie McGunagle whose wild passion and energy in the role of Tamora made her a highlight performance of the evening. Every bit the Queen of the Goths, the simple dramatic pause before her first line lent her the power that was maintained until the end. Andrew Laithwaite also gave a strong performance in the role of Aaron, successfully combining remarkable comedic timing with chilling, lip-biting menace, and growing more vulgar to the audience’s delight in the presence of the laddish Demetrius and Chiron (Matt Broomfield and Anirudh Mandagere respectively). Other notable performances included that of Edward Lewis as the gentle Marcus Andonicus and Lara Panahy as Lavinia whose violent desperation in the scene of her rape is easily the most disturbing moment of the show.

Shakespearian English was the cast’s own language, with the dialogue flowing smoothly and without the reluctant enunciation that is a common pitfall for amateur plays. Even the limitations of the set had their own bohemian charm – substituting paper planes for arrows and stamps for LSD drew appreciative chuckles from the audience. Whilst setting the action in the post-revolutionary Washington DC should have worked well in highlighting the play’s modern relevance, in my view there should have been more emphasis on the period. After the first debate between Bassianus and Saturnius (which seemed to hint at the recent Romney-Obama campaign) the 1968 theme seems to be remembered in costume only, which made the sudden blasts of Nancy Sinatra and Jefferson Airplane serve as reminders of the setting, rather than harmonizing with it.

This slight chronological incoherence detracted little from what was a wonderful rendition of a Shakespearian classic – a credit to both the creativity of the cast and the imagination of a playwright whose love of blood, guts and drama has stood the test of time.

FOUR STARS

In a startling reworking of a Shakespearean tragedy, Christ Church performed Hamlet the Musical involving adapted lyrics to dance-floor favourites, Claudius suffering from alcoholism and the usually demure Ophelia rendered a brazen and bold temptress.

After an opening scene of Hamlet’s father shouting, Hamlet the Musical proved an entertaining if irreverent romp where lines extracted from the original play were presented in an entirely new fashion. This was especially so in the case of Rosalind Brody’s Ophelia, where the line ‘Lord Hamlet, with his doublet all unbraced’ became the start of a passionate retelling of an erotic moment to the horror of Tom Perrin’s Polonius. The cast deftly injected modernity into the Shakespearean text and the archaic speech ran as natural from their confident deliveries. 

Constance Greenfield shone as Gertrude embodying the society wife from false smile and nit-picking to bleeping BlackBerry. In an inspired moment of physical comedy, Gertrude revealed her anxieties over Hamlet’s temperament to an unconvinced Claudius (Luke Howarth), all with Hamlet (Charles Morton) attempting to slay his uncle. An element of pantomime was sustained with frequent breaking of the fourth wall and self-aware references to Christ Church but even these were mocked in a joke about the ridiculous fallacy of the ‘quiet aside’ in Shakespeare.

Despite no musical showstoppers, snippets of songs kept the atmosphere light-hearted. Kanye West’s classic ‘Gold Digger’ was reworked as ‘Grave Digger’ for Ophelia’s funeral. Here the cast made jibes at Ophelia as ‘Shakespeare’s most over-rated female character’, all accompanied by exaggerated sobs and dabbing at eyes. 

Luke Howarth carried an excellent scene alone of explaining the poisoned chalice in a drunken stupor before the final ‘cleansing of the court’ scene allowed the whole tragedy to descend into melodramatic farce. Gertrude advised Hamlet the best place to slay her so as not to fall over the other bodies and Hamlet’s ghost father returned to agree that the best plan would be to kill himself and be done with it. The body-laden stage sprang back to life for a final number, the surprising but nonetheless cheering ‘Always look on the Bright Side of Life’ from Monty Python’s Life of Brian.

Overall, Hamlet the Musical provided an enjoyable half-an-hour of comedy and with costumes essentially pared down to black clothes, the actors allowed their skills in manipulating the language for humour to shine. The iconic scenes of Yorrick’s head and the murders meant the audience could follow the narrative fairly easily and the show had the atmosphere of high-energy theatre threatening but never acquiescing to chaos that means the audience are fully engaged throughout. 

St. Anne’s Wonderland, written by David McShane, is a delightfully snappy rendition of Lewis Carrol’s Alice novellas. With only weeks to assemble and perfect a condensed play, each aspect of Wonderland is just as near flawless as one could expect. Packing the entirety of Carroll’s world of Wonderland into a twenty-minute time slot is no small feat. Each handpicked, slightly altered line of dialogue must perform both a comedic and narrative role, while also ringing true to the whimsical rhyme schemes of the original. Wonderland does just that and with an effortless flow that never feels rushed or spotty.

The expected clunky transition into and out of Wonderland is made smoothly with the clever idea of both opening and closing the Cuppers performance with verbatim poems from the novellas in an enchanting chorus. Jabberwocky, with its nonsensical wordplay, zips one down the rabbit hole with plop onto a world just as queer as the poem. Likewise, the closing recital whirls one up and wakes one from the wonderful dream the play creates.

Singling out any one role as captivating or alluring would be an insult to the other performers, as each part was a remarkably selfless and unique embodiment of Carroll’s fantastical creations. In such a condensed space as was offered, it is the colorful will of the performers to not only peel their parts from page to stage, but to tastefully embellish each oddball along Alice’s path with their own fitting personality, that makes the play superb. Alice herself never loses flavor and treads through Wonderland, picking at each actor and actress with pomp and curiosity.

Despite a lack of props, Wonderland was able to do more than expected with simply five fold-up chairs and a table. The costumes and makeup were exceptional for such a small production, and the presence of each performer on the small stage throughout created a tangible outline of the play. Interpretations of Carroll’s tales have a tendency to be gaudy or overdone, see Tim Burton’s recent film remake, but such is not the case for the Stanners. In fact, the most unfortunate aspect of Wonderland is its brevity. 

Any negative critique of the play would come in the way it stuck too close to the original storyline. Of course, this is combated by the unique and creative appeal of each role. If there are slips in dialogue, they are covered quickly by a supportive, instinctive cast. And when the lights do finally come up, one is but itching to dive back down the rabbit hole of St. Anne’s Wonderland.

 FOUR STARS

“You can’t start with a pause” remarks one of the critics Birdboot and Moon seated in the audience as the Exeter performance of their adaptation of The Real Inspector Hound opens. Luckily, he was one of Stoppard’s overblown affected critics and their antics had the audience tickled from the start. Not only did they begin by throwing chocolates around the auditorium – never a bad way to start – but succeeded in rooting us in the play-within-a-play idea even before the real drama began.

The critics captured well a pretentious disinterestedness in what was unfolding before them. In a way, however, you can’t really blame them. The meat and bones of the whodunit are sadly lacking, judging by any standards, let alone Agatha Christie’s. But this is part of the beauty of Stoppard’s production and Exeter played into this, never taking themselves or the action too seriously. 

The murder mystery all begins when the housekeeper of Muldoon Manor discovers the news that a madman is on the loose. Naturally we are reminded by Birdboot to watch out for the ‘outsider’ (of which there are plenty to choose from) and so the play begins. The love triangle between Simon Gascoyne and the two friends – Cynthia Muldoon and Felicity Cunningham – was well played and Cynthia’s insistence that she still loved Albert coming straight after her passionate embrace with Gascoyne brought much laughter from the audience.

Not all the actors were equally strong, some struggling to really get into character but one notable performance was that of Mrs Drudge – witty yet practical, she gave us the breath of fresh air we need among the chaos of a murder mystery where the victim lies unnoticed throughout the majority of the play. She used her comical script to full advantage, in particular reminding us frequently that the fog was coming in more and more flowery terms as the play came towards its climax.

It’s never easy going last – Trinity performed an adaptation of the same Stoppard play just two days before – especially with such a precedent as Stoppard’s. But Exeter weren’t intimidated and I thoroughly enjoyed their interpretation. (Plus, I got a chocolate into the bargain – what more could you want?)

Christopher Durang’s The Actor’s Nightmare poses the question of what would happen if a man should wake up on stage and inexplicably be informed that he is expected to understudy an actor he has never met, in a play he has never heard of. Brasenose’s Cuppers team (one of two entered this year by the college) provided us with the answer: thoroughly entertaining comedy.

With one character continually present on stage, the challenge of The Actor’s Nightmare is that it relies on being carried by a lead with the energy and variety of performance to keep the audience engaged during a frantically-paced journey that encompasses Noel Coward, William Shakespeare, Samuel Beckett and Robert Bolt. Fortunately, here Brasenose did not disappoint. Armed with impeccable comic timing and a perpetual expression of bewilderment, Harley Viveash dominated the production with his central performance as the accountant-cum-actor George Spelvin, whilst simultaneously succeeding at the unenviable task of making a cuppers audience laugh at 2.15 in the afternoon.

Whilst the supporting cast had a far less prominent onstage presence than that of the blundering Spelvin, they were by no means simply playing the ‘stooge’ to his antics, and the double acts that emerged were consistently entertaining. The set and lighting were minimal, yet tactfully employed, with a sudden descending spotlight on the hapless Spelvin proving a particularly effective moment in what was a production full of brilliant touches, and one that provided this reviewer with a reminder of the wealth of untapped talent in oxford drama that the cuppers competition helps to shine a light upon.

Apparently, Google doesn’t just know I like to image search “cupcake” every now and again. The Googleplex knows my name! My age! Where I live! And, judging from some crafty chalk-on-pavement guerrilla advertising, the fact I cross St. Giles every morning. I was impressed by the publicity for this original St. John’s piece, but the lack of plot, clumsy dialogue and bizarre casting choices meant it didn’t quite manage to live up to its own hype.

Google knows where you live portrays the search engine as a present day Big Brother, and it’s pretty much all 1984 from thereon out. We opened with “Julia” riffling through various documents in an official manner, to the sweet revolutionary sound of Muse’s “Uprising”, and interrogating (invisible) “comrades”. I spent some time considering whether she was a schizophrenic, partly due to the “dialogue” and partly her odd costume- probably supposed invoke Moneypenny but in reality giving a more Confused Emo vibe. I was relieved from my pondering by a bit of audience interaction- fervid whisperings from a guy in the front row wearing a Russian bear hat and conferring the extent to which we were all controlled by the Googleplex. Eventually, “Julia” and “Guy” acknowledged that they were the only two actors in the play and began to discuss their reasons for hating “the machine”, which climaxed in Guy’s monologue calling for a revolution of new drsm codes and comparing life without Google to Fairtrade chocolate.

This was actually quite funny, but the subsequent debate over whether or not Google’s manipulation of reality was to blame for the fact we and Guy couldn’t see the “comrades” pushed the audience too far. Casting your invisible friends is rarely a sensible artistic choice, and unfortunately this was no exception.

When a BT theatre techie rushing shouting “Who are you? Get the hell off the stage!”, I couldn’t help but wonder how the actors had been allowed on there in the first place.