I have spent many an hour roll­ing up and down the spine – mine and others – and even more rolling along the floor. It took two weeks to perfect the art of walking at one sixty fourth of the average walking speed – an art I have learned best not to practice on the tube during rush hour. I am the flame, the tree, the microbe. I have touched my fellow course mates in places a third date wouldn’t warrant.

We roam the corridors like an army, each one in black – you can never have enough black – all armed with a bamboo stick, a yoga mat and an energy drink. The cafeteria is not allowed to sell any dairy or refined sugar. This is of little worry when the majority of your lunch breaks are spent in the local pub – that is, if your director remembers to give you one at all.
But Central obviously has good intentions to improve our level of wellbeing, and at first I am excited to see a Friday massage class appear on my timetable. But I soon realise that a drama school “Fri­day massage” involves walking on backs, a lot of walking on backs. At 5”1 and 95lbs it is hardly de­sirable to have a 6”3 male standing on my poor spine, however “But oh” it may be.

I spent my secondary school years as an over-achiever with a scholar­ship and yet I am struggling to in­habit the mentality of a lemon. Our library closes at five and we write one single essay per year. That said, I have never been so over worked or so mentally drained; turns out it is easier to write an essay then prepare a cheetah for animal studies – who would have thought? My classwork involves running until I collapse, hardening my shell, being constant­ly criticised, constantly exposing and stripping away all that makes me – well me, and through all this somehow realising how grateful I am to be one of those special few. But I take comfort in the thought that however much they push me, how­ever stupid the task, however futile – be it nudity or bin bag or the classic sour lemon – to know I am one step closer to becoming an approved per­forming monkey. Well, let’s just say it makes the bin bag cum leotard worth it.

The Maids is a perplexing and perverted depiction of familial and servile relationships. The Maids tells the story of two sisters so disgusted by the excesses of their mistress that they seek to ruin her life and then kill her. Christopher Ad­am’s interpretation of The Maids ful­fils all expectations of eccentricity. The proximity of the actors in the Mi­chael Pilch Studio is not only unnerv­ing but also enticing, drawing you in to the strange and sadistic games of the sisters, Solange and Claire.

The relationship demonstrated by Zoe Bullock, who plays the role of Solange, and Hannah Gliksten, who plays Claire, is fascinating and disturbing. They illustrate perfectly the unconditional love that the sisters have for each other and the deep hatred that they share for their mistress, and paradoxically for each other.

Particularly unsettling was how close the actors came to each other when indulging in their role plays. Gliksten and Bullock often came face to face and seemed to be continuous­ly stroking or beating each other. At points during the preview the actors played on the ambiguity between love and hate, creating an air of in­cestuous sexual tension between Claire and Solange. This atmosphere of corruption was both intriguing and distressing and kept a structur­ally simple play interesting.

Although the preview only showed me a couple of scenes and the play was still at an early stage in rehears­als, it was clear that The Maids has the potential to be a thoroughly stimu­lating play. The tension between the characters is presented exception­ally; the acting superb.

Personally, I found the ability of Gliksten and Bullock to play the mistress and each others’ characters remarkable. Not only was Gliksten able to demonstrate the differences between Claire and Madame but she also skilfully exposed Claire’s de­cline into panic and chaos. Alice Por­ter was also convincing in her por­trayal of Madame. Porter juggled the flagrant deficiencies of her character with obvious vulnerability and hints of kindness beneath the cruelty.

Unfortunately, as the cast are still two weeks away from their first per­formance, I was not able to see the set in all its glory. The Michael Pilch Studio is due to go through a trans­formation before eighth week, with many more props yet to arrive or even be made. The director enthused about the web that will be draped around the stage and infiltrated with props that hint at the devilish actions of the maids. Adams also ex­plained that a huge flour circle that will be created in the middle of the stage.

Even with an incomplete set, it was clear that the play had potential. With the addition of extra props to emphasise the themes of betrayal and suspicion the play will be capti­vating for its audience.The Maids will be a t hought-pro­voking play, but be warned, it may haunt you afterwards.

FIVE STARS

I am a ridiculously nervous audience member. Pavarotti could walk on stage before me and I’d be waiting for him to miss a note, and John Cleese could whip out his parrot and I’d be praying people laughed. So, sat in the front row for The Awkward Silence’s latest Laughter Track evening, the irony of the comedy duo’s name was certainly not lost on me.

 However, as soon as the hosts/comperes/all around funnymen Ralph Jones and Vyvyan Almond took to the stage, their assured performance, comedic chemistry and variety of style let the audience know we were in for some fun. Which is what you want at a comedy night, really. Laughter Track, a regular event at the Port Mahon, takes the form of a comedy showcase featuring stand up and sketch, interspersed with material from the hosts. The format is a solid one, throwing in slapstick, wordplay, and that opiate of the masses, observation, to keep the crowd engaged and willing to respond to the performer in front of them.

 Despite my passive aggressive reference to observational comedy, the first two performers won their fair share of laughs, albeit the polite, scattered kind. Jack Barry is an endearing chap whose self deprecating, self-referential style was entertaining if well worn. Indeed he was so observational that one of his jokes had been made in the bar ten minutes earlier. I laughed at the coincidence more than the comedy. Following him was Matt Hobs, a comedian with glimpses of the surreal which were sadly negated by everything else he did on stage. But alas, we were gifted a post-interval Paul Fung, a Laughter Track regular. Confident and cool, he’s the type of comic you want to befriend, whilst simultaneously making you hate yourself for fitting the character in a joke he just made. See his material on students and their misuse of irony…

 However, it was the art of sketch which won the crowd in the end. (Hurrah!) The sometimes tricky form was realised brilliantly by a brief stint from The Oxford Revue, and by the hosts themselves. The Revue were both witty and silly, but above all, polished. Good jokes, good timing, and very fresh. It was clear however that ‘The Awkward Silence’ are a comedic cut above. Written by Jones and performed by both he and Almond, every sketch was a hit, the audience breathing a sigh of relief whenever they came back on stage. From a scene with a wonderfully macabre door to door hummus salesman, to a tonally terrific conversation between Bob Dylan and his father, the sketches are innovative and quite simply, very, very funny.

‘The Awkward Silence’ are a pair to keep an eye on, bringing together a myriad of influences and their comedic peers to present us with an evening and a fiver extremely well spent. Now be sure to get yourselves down to their next shindig.

 FOUR STARS

When I studied Jane Eyre at school, I was particularly taken by the references to fire in the novel, and their symbolic representation as love, passion and unrestraint. My teacher was quick to tell me that I was wrong; fire, I was told, was an insignificant aspect of the novel. It’s pleasing to go to a play where  Eyre’s fiery intensity is given its due importance. 

However, the success of Jane Eyre extends far beyond that. Perhaps what most sets the play apart is the innovative presentation of Bertha Mason (Joanne Murray), who is portrayed in the beginning of the play as an invisible alter ego to Jane Eyre (Chloe Gale), and spends the rest of the play gesticulating, scowling and screaming at the back of the stage, locked in her Red Room. The play thus explores the relationship between Bertha and Jane Eyre in an original, entertaining fashion, by shedding a more sympathetic light on the character of Bertha than Bronte herself grants her, while serving as a depiction of Jane’s inner thoughts as the play unravels. This reaches a powerful climax towards the end of the play as Alex Stutt’s wonderfully interpreted St John sermons Jane as Bertha simultaneously sets fire to Thornfield. In addition, Chloe Gale’s transition from the young, uncertain Jane Eyre to the confident woman that she becomes is both convincing and admirable. 

Bronte’s novel is a hard one to adapt to the stage, and thus Polly Teale’s success in doing so is impressive. However, there are parts in the play, where, through an attempt to include all the details in the novel, the scenes sometimes seem fractured, and often there is insufficient time for real relationships between the characters to develop. Moreover, in a play which sticks relatively faithfully to the original text, the use of modern music sometimes came across as out of place, and quite frankly, repetitive. 

A strong performance by Phillip Gemmell presents Rochester in all his volatile, cruel and manipulative nature, while his softer side is also skilfully portrayed. Lucy Shenton shone in her brilliant transformation from Mrs Reid to Mrs Fairfax, two very different characters which she approached with confidence, while Alice Inglis, gushing with youth, gave life to both Adele and Helen Burns. Finally, Adam Diaper authoritatively depicted both Mr Brockelhurst and Lord Ingram with humour and energy. 

Overall, an impressive, all-round performance by the cast in a play which is hard to to put on but which is tackled skilfully and creatively to produce a refreshing and engaging presentation of Bronte’s novel. Definitely worth seeing. 

THREE STARS

Alex Darby’s new piece, Vagrant, tells the story of Lara, downtrodden ideologue and student who hates the pressures of her bourgeois existence: finals, finance and family – its overwhelming.  Lara transfers (online) her money to Oxfam, and with resolute affectation joins the ranks of Oxford’s Homeless. Add a pinch of sex, a generous sprinkle of drugs and an hour and a half later she’s back at her dinner table quaffing elderflower.

The play intends to give voice to the marginalised, but this “marginalised voice” appears to be little more than a reflection of the moralist discourse of the good and great upon those poor and drug-addled Homeless. The play starts and ends with typically middle-class scenes. Lara sits with her pinched and yuppy sister. An iphone acts as a paperweight. In the intervening scenes Lara has been ‘damaged’, a state which renders her uninterested in finishing her degree and uninteresting in conversation; nevertheless we feel she’s learned something, but has she? Should she’ve endured her privilege with more grace? As a member of the middle-class, can I learn from her mistakes?

The play had moments of especial efficacy. The narrative was interspersed with interviews of the three Homeless characters; in each, the character’s voice was gradually replaced with a recording and through interpretive dance  they re-enacted the history their voiceover was recounting. The physical dynamics were powerful and symbolic, the intelligent use of space added depth to the otherwise wooden, truncular dialogue. It was a shame to lose Zoe Bullock half way through, who sensitively navigated love, hate and emotional freedom. Eliza Easton had a tough task and fared fine. Barney Fishwick’s psychedelic jittering was apt in some moments, in others overdone. As Isabelle, Lara’s sister, Bridget Dru was rigid and inattentive to tone; as the neglectful mother she was compelling.

Darby’s earnest portrayal of his subject matter was brave, his slips into a more literary language were ineffective and mistaken. The creative physical dynamics and assured movements of the characters suggest that where the script lacked, Darby’s strong and imaginative directing was recompense. 

Entering into the O’Reilly stage space, and clapping eyes on the giant pink and yellow X built into centre stage, it was obvious this production had a clear vision. The marketing had been effective, and everyone entering the theatre was aware that this production was put simply Ben Jonson meets Sex Industry. So that, the brilliantly lascivious heart-shaped bed that sat smugly in centre stage really did fulfil our expectations of a 1980s porn den. Not only was the staging suitably striking but the spaces that had been created around it were intelligently considered. Alexandra Clark’s design allowed for a gallery and stairs that added a variety of levels to the performance space, providing characters with an opportunity to bounce all over the shop. Although it would have been nice if the elaborate upper gallery could have been used for more than just entrances and exits, by and large the space was employed imaginatively.

Even with such an elaborate set, Jonson’s comedy moves rapidly between a large number of locations, not all of which could be evoked with set design alone. What was perhaps most impressive about the show was the way in which the actors engaged with the static set to impress upon the audience the movement to an office, or a court room. When Volpone emerges from his bedroom into the streets of Venice, the actors marching rapidly across the front of the stage beautifully created the impression of a busy thoroughfare.

Perhaps the most important question with this particular production is how the team have managed to cohere Jonson’s comedy and their own personal vision. The lighting and sound for this production really were the glue that held this production together. Dougie Perkins and Nathan Klein, who created the lighting and the music respectively, added a slick, polished feel to everything. The live funk band that intermittently piped up immediately lifted the energy; I will say now that, yes there is dancing, no it is not always in time, but at least it’s all very gung-ho!

With so much going on in this production, it is easy to let the acting fade into the background. Ben Cohen, as Volpone, had the unsettling charisma and ever so slightly cringey dance moves that I imagine are a prerequisite of any diehard porn king, and his energy and gleeful amorality were thrilling to watch. There were a few issues with diction, when he got a bit overexcited… and I’m sure a few good jokes were lost as a result, which is a pity. Voltore, Corvaccio,  Corvino, played by Megan Cullen, Will Stanford and XX respectively  sparkled as the hoodwinked trio and as an ensemble perhaps stole the show, there was not a weak link, and to be honest their dynamic performance was my favourite element of the play. Mosca was an interesting one, Beatrice Xu seemed to lack a certain Machiavellian ruthlessness that makes the character so compelling. Equally, there were moments when Xu seemed to not quite grasp the implications of what she was saying. Her performance was spirited, but the finer nuances of the character were notably absent in a production of such high calibre.

Nevertheless, by the final dance piece (Yes that’s right, more dancing), it was clear that the cast were having a jolly good time. The overwhelming impression from the production is the polish and cohesion of all the separate elements. This is a thoroughly enjoyable play, and I had a great time, anyone that has a free evening in 7^th week should make sure they don’t miss this excellent production.  

FOUR STARS

It might only be November but that doesn’t stop Cherwell deciding that a thorough(ish) round up of 2012’s musical offerings is in order. Oh no sir-ee.

It might only be November but that doesn’t stop Cherwell deciding that a thorough(ish) round up of 2012’s musical offerings is in order. Oh no sir-ee.

While 2012 has seen strong follow up albums for well established artists (Radlands from the Mystery Jets, Battle Born from The Killers) we’ve also seen an excellent wave of new music in the form of Alt J’s An Awesome Wave (a deserving Mercury Prize winner) and Django Django’s eponymous debut album. So who said the age of the album was done, dead and buried?

Choosing just one album out of the scores of deserving ones is an admittedly gargantuan task. In fact, it’s pretty much impossible so in offering Clock Opera’s debut album Ways to Forget I’m choosing one of scores of worthy albums. In fact in one week’s time this will probably be no longer my favourite album; I’m fickle that way.

Kicking off with opening track ‘Once and For All’ and its exultant climax, there remains something heart-wrenchingly uplifting about this album. Guy Connelly’s raw falsetto retains something of an angelic purity in the midst of frenetic synth and electro-keyboards.

Meanwhile ‘Move to the Mountains’ is a humble, quaint and gentle tale of leaving the city in the return to nature, and its staccato beat is ridiculously infectious.‘Man Made’, on the other hand, is suffused with a synth-heavy euphoria and layered up sound. While none of this distinguishes it massively from other music floating out there, Clock Opera’s Ways to Forget represents a gloriously idiosyncratic variety.

You’ll probably think there are ‘better’ albums out there (and you may well be right) but the dynamism and innovation underpinning Ways to Forget surely marks it out as one of the year’s triumphs. And music is all about the subjective anyway, right?

The New Pornographers are one of my favourite bands. They are a Canadian supergroup, featuring members of many other notable bands (including Destroyer and Neko Case), and they possess a seemingly superhuman level of enthusiasm and energy. They are also an indie band, but without the snobbish, cooler-than-thou aspect that many artists under that description seem to enjoy flaunting. The music they make is joyful and accessible, but unfortunately they didn’t release anything this year.

Thankfully their frontman, Carl Newman, released a solo album under the name of A.C. Newman. Shut Down the Streets is a more chilled-out affair than his New Pornographers output. Where albums such as Twin Cinema or Together were organised chaos, this is all strummed acoustic guitars, boy-girl vocal lines and chamber-pop flutes.

I admit that this description makes the album sound like a mixture of Belle & Sebastian and Jethro Tull, but I assure you that it’s better than that. Quirky lyrics, lush orchestration and passionate singing haul the basic material from the trap of kooky-folkiness into the realms of respectable and, crucially, exciting music. Newman is a talented and genuine artist in his own right, and this album proves that he is more than just a component of a supergroup.

My only regret is that I haven’t seen any of the songs performed live. ‘I’m Not Talking’ would be an excellent crowd pleaser, and I can imagine that the stomp of ‘Hostages’ would translate well to a stage. Sure, there’s a chance that the slower songs on the album could dissolve into iPhone-aloft sway-alongs, but that’s true with any album.

Although there have been some strong contenders, including Channel Orange by Frank Ocean and What We Saw From The Cheap Seats by Regina Spektor, I think this album is the best that 2012 had to offer.