The Flowers of War is a harrowing historical epic directed by Zhang Yimou, the man behind Hero, Houses of the Flying Daggers and the 2008 Beijing Olympics opening ceremony.

The Flowers of War is fictitiously set in 1937 Nanjing, China, in the midst of the Sino-Japanese war in which Christian Bale plays John Miller, an American mortician who is summoned to Nanjing to bury a deceased priest, only to take on the role of defending young schoolgirls along with an ensemble of prostitutes and escape from the invading Japanese army. On the surface, this may be a story of redemption since Miller arrives on the scene as a lazy drunkard and opportunist. Yet, when faced with the catastrophe of the Japanese invasion, he becomes a man of integrity and source of hope for the innocent schoolgirls and ‘fallen women,’ eventually ‘saving’ both them and himself. The story is narrated by one of the schoolgirls. Indeed, they symbolize the innocence of humanity, and also of China, and therefore must be preserved.

Rather than on focusing on the politics, the film is ‘more a movie about human beings and the nature of human beings,’ Bale highlighted to the BBC. The Nanjing massacre of 1937 was a terrible conflict that resulted in nearly 300000 Chinese civilians being slaughtered by the Japanese army after capturing Nanjing, China’s formal capital.

The story is one of many emotions, of courage, of life and death amidst savage atrocities. Nevertheless, one disappointing note is that the film takes a rather simplistic and narrow approach and fails to view from alternative angles. Unlike Yimou’s approach, Lu Chuan’s more nuanced and sombre City of Life and Death (2009), however does attempt to examine the impossible choices faced by the Japanese army during this infamous massacre period.

Overall, Flowers of War is visually impressive like most of Yimou’s films, from the striking photography to the frenetic battle scenes shot and staged with notable verisimilitude; the cinematography is indeed breath-taking at times. On numerous occasions, Yimou’ use of colour is immensely powerful: the women’s exotic qipaos and the bright stained glass window, moments in which colour shines through the jaded blur of war, ephemeral glimmers of hope which contrasts markedly to the shocking streaks of red on tips of bayonets. Yimou has achieved a credible and poignant job of retelling an incredibly difficult historical period through his trademark use of artistic cinematography.

4 stars

Two words: Diamond heist. Yes you read right, that is what this film is about. In the trailer it’s sold to you as a pacy action epic with a clever weave of plotlines and the kind of acting you can rely on to keep you on the edge of your seat. Unfortunately, the actual film didn’t quite match up.

The movie is about Nick Cassidy, an ex-cop desperate to clear his name after his conviction for stealing a diamond owned by Mr. Englander, an incredibly sinister property developer. And what does Nick Cassidy do to clear his name? Don’t laugh now: our ex-cop enlists the help of his brother and his girlfriend to steal, yes steal, the diamond to prove that Englander had it all along! Meanwhile Cassidy distracts everyone by pretending to be contemplating suicide on a window ledge. Pure genius. Although they put a lot of effort into it: there’s absailing, an explosion (which no one seems to notice) and a rather amusing scene involving a skateboard, this has more the effect of an extended episode of BBC 1’s Hustle than a real action thriller.

The problem is it’s just a little bit to formulaic. We start off with the mystery of the tough quiet escapee, there’s a car chase with a ridiculous stunt which no normal human being would ever survive, the police have no clue what it is going on and in order for the inevitable romance element, the negotiator has to join the ‘suicidal man’ on the ledge!

Despite all this, there were good bits. Regardless of its predictability there were some tense moments in there with Joey Cassidy struggling to execute his brother’s plan, the scene with ‘the jump’ and the shots of the sheer height of that hotel. A balance was provided by the amusing pairing of Jamie Bell (as Joey Cassidy – think Billy Elliot, Tintin, Jumper) and American actress Genesis Rodriguez (as Angie). Fortunately the comedic aspect did not detract from the urgency of the storyline. Also the best move by the makers was to cast Sam Worthington (Avatar, Clash of the Titans, Terminator Salvation) as he embodied the sense of his character’s desperation and soon the audience were all about ‘Team Cassidy’.

Overall a very predictable action movie carried off by a well-chosen setting and a varied cast. Although Worthington played his role well, he should be setting his sights higher. Worth an Orange Wednesday but definitely not unmissable.

3 stars

Seeing as this is Oxford, and we are all over-privileged geniuses, you’d think interesting things would happen more often. Well, on Friday 22^nd January 2012, ground was broken, a trail was blazed and sacred cows were exploded, by Matthew Cliffe of Merton College.

Through an incomprehensible feat of technology, Mr. Cliffe showed all twenty-two James Bond films. At once.

As foreplay, Mr. Cliffe (lavishly bow-tied) treated us to an introductory lecture, featuring a pie chart of ‘Bond villains by nationality’ (‘Bond villains who are foreign’ versus ‘Bond villains who are not foreign’) and his top five Sir Roger Moore facts. (Did you know that Sir Roger received an Oscar for Best Actor in 1973, after Marlon Brando refused his and Sir Roger took it home by mistake? Or that Sir Roger used to collect towels from hotels until a newspaper branded him a ‘towel thief’?) That’s not to mention the free martinis kindly laid on, and shaken, by Merton MCR.

Our first warning was the rattle of our seats as the T. S. Eliot Theatre trembled in front of the combined roars of twenty-two MGM lions. Then it began. A shifting wall of innuendo, sharks, explosions, chest hair, Bernard Lee’s disapproving face, glinting metal teeth, phallic symbolism, and Bond constantly coming round from one kind of unconsciousness or another. A Rubik’s Cube of wrestling gypsy girls, gambling, things built into watches, cats, more sharks, lasers, rockets and rubber pythons.

The sound rotated between the films every thirty seconds and frankly saved my sanity. The sight of twenty-two James Bond films at once is something not meant for this plane of existence, but mind and body could be kept together by focusing on the audio and the moments when it would switch from innuendo (‘I love an early morning ride.’ ‘I’m an early riser myself.’) to a fist fight, an explosion, a shootout, more innuendo, a curious accent (‘I am an outstanding pistol marksman, take my word for it, ja?’) or an inexplicable period of bird song.

The first walk-out was quarter of an hour in. About a hundred and twenty-five minutes later, On Her Majesty’s Secret Service and Casino Royale were still hanging on. As, indeed, was what was left of the audience. Finally, as we emerged red-eyed into the cold Oxford air, we swapped wordless glances and walked into the night, each knowing that our life would never be the same again.

Still, at least it was better than Quantum of Solace.

The Lincoln Players’ take on the classic musical modern retelling of Romeo and Juliet plays homage to the perfect blend of Bernstein’s music and Sondheim’s lyrics. The cosy Michael Pilch Studio seemed an unusual and challenging setting for a large cast production, a far cry from the West Side Story we imagine from the film. Only two boards stood on the black stage as the audience entered, adorned with the scrawl of the two gangs, a marking out of territory, and setting the atmosphere for a sparse production that used the intimacy of the venue and minimal props to allow the cast the space to move and dance with ease, and showing a high quality of direction from Laura Knight. The other challenge was squeezing a band into the studio as well as an audience, but the musical director, Joe Mason, did an excellent job of reworking the score to suit a small five piece band.

The leader of the Jets, Riff (Cameron Cook) gave an engaging performance, and was well supported by his lively gang of Jets. A particular highlight was the rendition of ‘Gee, Officer Krupke!’ which was performed with all the energy it deserves. From the opening prologue the antipathy between the Sharks and the Jets was clear, with some nicely directed hostile interplay. The dancing choreography was generally effective, especially as the show progressed, with the lively Mambo at the gym leading into the surreal but touching meeting between Tony and Maria. Henry De Berker made a charming Tony, giving an excellent vocal performance and hitting a highly impressive note in ‘Maria’, while Ellie Parkes gave an enchanting performance that climaxed with an intense, heartbreaking final speech, which undoubtedly caused some welling up from the audience at the least. Mitch Byrne’s Bernardo was suitably tense, with an impressive accent, the chemistry between him and the excellent Anita (Daisy Fannin) another highlight of the show. The rest of the cast were all impressive, including the few but menacing Sharks, Doc (Patrick Reid), Shrank (Howard McDonald), and the Shark Girls whose ‘America’ and ‘I Feel Pretty’ were suitably lively and fun. 

For a show that clearly had a limited budget, a very limited space, and had been put together in just five weeks, West Side Story didn’t attempt to do anything spectacular or be anything bigger than it could, but in doing so it became an enjoyable and intense production which I wish I could see again.

Impresario, dilettante and businessman; while Sergei Diaghilev (1872 – 1929) rather defies a single label, he remains best known as the founder of the hugely influential dance company, The Ballets Russes. Embracing all things modern and avant-garde, Diaghilev aspired to create new ballets instead of repeating classical favourites through the synthesis of dance, music and art. As a melting pot of artists, musicians and dancers who lived, performed and travelled together (touring Europe, the United States and South America) the company cultivated an international reputation that attracted stellar collaborations with the likes of Jean Cocteau, Igor Stravinsky, Coco Chanel, Pablo Picasso, Natalia Goncharova, Vaslav Nijinsky and Henri Matisse.

It is perhaps no wonder that the V&A launched the centenary celebrations of the company’s first London tour with a sumptuous, interdisciplinary exhibition, ‘Diaghilev and the Golden Age of the Ballets Russes 1909-1929’, that ran from September 2010 to January 2011. Diaghilev-fever seeped into the glossy pages of October Vogue with the ‘Russian Dolls’ feature, demonstrating the company’s enduring influence on women’s fashion by introducing an exotic individualism with harem pants, turbans and dramatic black kohl, encouraging a more androgynous sensuality in fashion.

In its contribution to the celebrations in April, The London Coliseum offered the Maris Leipa Charitable Foundation’s ‘Les Saisons Russes XXI’ performed by the Kremlin Ballet Theatre and St Petersburg State Academic Symphony Orchestra under Alexander Titov. Seven reconstructed and newly produced ballets were presented over three nights, opening with ‘The Blue God’, a short, one-act ballet set in an ancient Indian shrine. The original 1912 production was a combination of Mikhail Fokine’s choreography with music by Reynaldo Hahn, a libretto by Jean Cocteau and designs by Léon Bakst; yet the details of its initial performances in Paris have been lost, with only photographs, designs and the musical score remaining. Since the ballet was never hugely popular in its time, Andris Liepa seized this opportunity not to revive, but to recreate the ballet for ‘Les Saisons Russes XXI’, setting the libretto to an alternative score and employing artistic director of the English National Ballet, Wayne Eagling, to choreograph the piece. The choice of ‘The Divine Poem’ and ‘The Ecstatic Poem’ by Russian composer, Alexander Scriabin was apt since the works were intended for performance in India with the idea of movement and lighting appealing to Scriabin’s aesthetic; whether it lent itself to the libretto and Eagling’s more modern style of movement was another matter since the contemporary choreography appeared more athletic than balletic. The exquisite and sensual pas de deux between the Blue God (Nikolai Tsiskaridze) and Goddess of Lotus (Ilze Liepa) almost redeemed the repetitive movements which characterised much of the performance.

The recreation of Bakst’s costume and set designs is best summarised in the words of my theatre companion: ‘nuts’. Whilst the costumes were identifiably Bakstian with their gaudy colours and strangely convincing Indian-meets-Russian-folk aspect, the giant snake projecting laser beams seemed, if not inauthentic, a little kitsch. ‘The Blue God’ was followed by a rendition of more eminent ‘Firebird’ which in contrast, was composed and choreographed simultaneously as Stravinsky and Fokine collaborated closely from its inception, resulting in an uniquely embodied performance. Whilst this integration of music and movement made for a much more satisfying second half, there was still something compelling about the unapologetic bizarreness and audacity of the former.

The events of the last eight months have brought this enigmatic dance company back to the fore, demonstrating its relevance through its legacy. Though celebrations are coming to a close, The National Portrait Gallery is showing the evocative ‘Ballet In Focus’ exhibition, featuring the photography of Bassano Ltd., Hoppé and Bert that captures the leading ballet stars of the twentieth century. It is worth even a short visit as you’ll still leave mildly infected by Diaghilev-fever.

This is an intriguing production in many ways. Heavily cut down and reconceptualised, Corpus Christi Owlet’s production of Othello sidesteps the question of race and instead concentrates on ‘the enemy within’; hence why it has been translated to a Cold War (German?) state and takes the appearance of a murder inquiry into the death of Desdemona. It’s a nice idea, although without the set it’s hard to get a feel of the aesthetic that I hope such an interpretation will conjure up. Particularly notable however is that Iago dictatates his speeches to a female typewriter sitting at a desk on the side of the stage whom he often interacts with. I am not sure whether it quite works or not, I didn’t get to see enough of the play to find out how it all ties together, and whether it is just a one trick pony used in the scene I saw, and then forgotten about for the rest of the play. It’s either genius or completely unnecessary. Time will tell.

Nevertheless, the cast is good, especially Sophie Ablett who plays Desdemona and Amelia Sparling as Emilia, who demonstrate a strong command of the script and of on stage chemistry, giving thoroughly enjoyable, moving and charming performances. Alexander Stutt as Iago also gives a menacingly wily twist to the famous role, which successfully becomes increasingly aggressive and haunting as the play reaches its climax. The same however can not be said for Othello himself, played by Moritz Borrmann. He can at times be electrifying, especially in scenes with Desdemona. In others, particularly those moments where he descends into madness, his characterisation becomes all too shouty, giving his audience little more than a shallow and unimaginative performance. The direction probably doesn’t help; there is a lot of walking around in circles, people squeezing past each other and crowds standing in lines. Borrman however, needs to show more purpose on stage and make us believe that Othello really is a commanding military figure. To really succeed he needs to entice his audience through a more carefully nuanced portrayal. Hopefully this will come with an extra weeks practice. 

3 stars

Lars Sorken, director Ed Bell solemnly informed me at the beginning of this press preview, is a Norwegian theatre academic who uses his theatrical nous to solve mysteries. A dead body lies sprawled across the stage as I enter, and the director debates with his cast whether or not they ought to use the “sex harness” in the preview.  I confess, I saw about twenty minutes of the play, and despite having the basic plotline explained, I spent many of those minutes rather bewildered, which really, is only right and apt: the play markets itself as a classic Noir piece, “searching for a truth when there may not be any”. The writer was clearly heavily inspired by the filmic genre, and several classic Noir elements have been retained, from the accompanying music to the use of several stock characters that wouldn’t be out of place on the silver screen.

The actors were generally well cast, and though the production occasionally strayed into the realms of the unpolished, I am sure the majority of small qualms I had will be resolved by opening night. Dan Draper as Lars Sorken was a delight, and exhibited a real commitment to his characterization. Watching Lars swan about the stage winding up the rest of the cast, in a most cutting, disparaging manner was enjoyable, and even his mumbled asides in Norwegian, which had the potential to be rather cringe inducing, were nicely pulled off.  Chemistry was good with seductress Sofie Heller (Carolin Kreuzer), the perfect noir leading lady. Antti Lane’s Andrew Guardian also did a good job, and with his conniving and snarling demeanor, was among the most enjoyable of the cast to watch.

While most of the excerpt that I witnessed, corpse aside, was rather light hearted, I am informed that the play will get darker, which I hope will mean more of the excellent black humor that I witnessed at the preview. The monochrome set and costumes, with the occasional flash of colour, as well as the continued rehearsal of what is already a very slick, impressive piece of theatre will no doubt ensure that Lars Sorken: A Norwegian Noir is something rather special. I guarantee at least that it will be very different to anything else you see at Oxford, which is surely reason enough sit back and enjoy this striking, rather strange play.

Before discussing this production of The Truth, I must make a confession.  I am a massive, unrepentant, card-carrying Terry Pratchett fan; I therefore approached St. Hilda’s Dramatic Society’s production of Stephen Briggs’ stage adaptation with certain expectations.  This goes some way towards explaining me alternating between gleeful, childish excitement as some characters materialised on stage exactly as I had always imagined, and confused disappointment as some did not.  Unfortunately, my reaction was mostly the latter.

This isn’t just because, like every fan, I have my own idea of how the story should appear.  Watching the production, I got the overwhelming impression of a good pool of talent spread too thin.  Really bringing Pratchett’s story to life requires incredibly strong characterization, something the cast just can’t pull off for every role.  The dearth of male actors shows particularly strongly; despite a heroic effort on the parts Rowena Francis and Victoria White, they never quite convince in parts that simply don’t fit.  A few of the performances, however, are truly exceptional: director Dominic Hall doubling as Commander Vimes is excellent, as is Rosalind Gealy as the wonderfully prim Sacharissa Crisplock, although James Phillips as a perfectly executed zombie lawyer Mr Slant stands head and shoulders above them all.  Many others, however, just fall flat as performances.  When the core cast is offstage, the play simply begins to drag.

Part of this is down to the script itself; Pratchett’s work doesn’t translate brilliantly to stage, and at nigh-on three hours it requires a continuous level of energy not everyone involved can achieve.  It’s made worse by the director’s failure to really address the difficulties of the script; the staging is thoroughly unoriginal, and the total lack of set (apart from the toastie machine standing in as a printing press) doesn’t help. With no real sense of dynamism or atmosphere, the more lacklustre scenes really have nothing to fall back on.

Ultimately, the whole production comes across as distinctly amateurish, though in the best possible sense of the word.  Lighting cues are missed, props are lost, but the cast holds character, rectifies the problem, and the audience laughs along with them.  Enthusiasm and a friendly crowd can only go so far though; for every laugh and every golden scene, there is a corresponding period of dull, tedious exposition.  You can almost feel the cast rushing through these scenes, so they can get to the comedy, to the bits they really enjoy.

This is quite obviously not a recipe for a professional standard of theatre.  But St. Hilda’s Drama Society almost succeeded without really trying – with all its flaws and unfinished feel,   The Truth is just about watchable, and frequently enjoyable.  It survives only on the strength being based on the work of Terry Pratchett: but if you are a Discworld fan, come with an open mind, and not too many high expectations.  If you’re not, just try to enjoy the jokes.

 3 stars