The play tells the story of an ageing Classics teacher, forced into early retirement from his post at a public school, based on Harrow, in the late nineteen-forties. Unavoidably, actors had to contend with the difficulties of playing much older characters — a task that lead actor Alex Blakes (as Andrew Crocker-Harris) coped with well, but others actors, such as Ollie Forrest as the school headmaster, struggled with. The difference was palpable in the ease with which Edward Richards played schoolboy John Taplow — a little more work on the physicality of the performances elsewhere would have aided the production immeasurably.

Such awkwardness was not helped by occasionally clumsy blocking, ranging from the slightly incongruous — the movement of actors, for instance, around an (admittedly obstructive) table was somewhat counterintuitive  – to the frankly frustrating – actors faces, for instance Tom Bailey’s, being obscured for much of some scenes. There was just a feeling that with a little tweaking the production could have been much better.

What held it together was the talent of the three lead actors. Blakes’ stellar performance was ably supported by Ellie Page, as Crocker-Harris’ adulterous wife Millie, and Aleks Cvetkovic, as her lover Frank Hunter. Page brought a much-needed energy to the production — her quick movements stood in contrast to her husband’s steady pace and her dominance over the two men in her domestic space was clear, linking her to the sinister presence of Clytemnestra in  Aeschylus’ Agamemnon, which provides a backdrop to the play (the Browning version of the title is a featured translation). Cvetkovic was also strong. With a running time of only an hour, the changes in Hunter’s attitude to Crocker-Harris could have been a little sudden, but he dealt well with the emotional turning points.

Overall, The Browning Version is play without gimmicks which relies on doing the simple well for its success and this was achieved, at times brilliantly, by the central characters. However, weaker members of the supporting cast and the flaws mentioned above, sadly, hamper enjoyment and leave it all a little unsatisfying.

3 STARS

The premise is implausible; the play is a treat. A long-dead Kafka and recently deceased Brod wander unwittingly into 1970s working-class suburbia, to spend an evening discussing Kafka’s works, his struggle with the idea of notoriety, his relationship with his father and his small penis, of course. Yorkshire couple Sydney, an insurance salesman, and his working-class wife Linda are the unwitting hosts of this great of twentieth-century European literature.

 Obsessed with Kafka and his work, autodidact Sydney is currently adding to the huge body of critical literature on the Czech Chekov with an article of his own. The appearance of the couple’s uninvited guests is a dream come true for Sydney, while former nurse Linda is more concerned about how these men are, and whether they have been sent by social services to take care of her aged father.

 This hour-and-a-half-long play is supremely well-acted by the student cast; Alan Bennett’s humour shines throughout as the actors continually have the audience in delighted laughter. The talented group have mastered the comic timing required by Bennett’s script. First performed at the Royal Court theatre in 1986, this cast of student actors appears to be a professional troupe, bringing Kafka back to life to posthumously tread the boards of the Burton Taylor Studios.

 Peter Huhne is particularly remarkable in his role as Kafka’s ‘only friend’ and publisher Max Brod, conveying Brod’s suave egotism to perfection. Huhne deftly allows the audience glimpses into Brod’s feelings of inferiority at being the less famous of the pair, despite having himself been a prolific novelist. Kafka’s uneasiness with the idea of fame contrasts with Brod’s bitterness about not having had the recognition he feels he so richly deserved.

 Brod and the couple must endeavour to hide Sydney’s stacks of critical literature on Kafka, in order that Prague’s Proust does not discover that his best friend betrayed his dying wish that all his manuscripts be burnt. The appearance of Kafka’s father, inexplicably disguised as a policeman, spices up the script with familial conflict and there is a hint of sexual tension between an ill-at-ease Kafka and a slipper-shod Linda.

 The script is sprinkled with literary references, as high-art meets lower class mundanity in an incongruous clash of cultures. Discussions revolve around the trivia of the lives of Kafka, Auden and Proust. Juicy titbits about F. Scott Fitzgerald and Ibsen are thrown in, as the script reveals our keen fascination with the famous.

 There is a wonderfully madcap scene at the end in which Kafka and Max Brod, adorned with glittery halos, find themselves in heaven. This is a heaven studded with literary stars such as Dostoyevsky and Noël Coward, and complete with a despondent Mary, whose legacy of Western Christianity is no consolation for her lack of grandchildren. The cast dances off the stage to the sound of maracas in a joyful finish to this gem of a play.

 Bizarre but somehow always believable; fantastical yet touching upon profound questions, this play is simultaneously witty and serious. The price of fame, family tensions, the suspicion of intellectualism, the hunger to know the tiny details of a famous person’s life are just a few of the issues raised. A tortoise crawling across the floor for part of the play adds a final splash of surrealism to this bizarre biographical re-imagining of Kafka.

4.5 STARS

Zoe McGee and Jordan Saxby, and The writer-directors of Broken Stars are certainly not faint-hearted. When writing new material, the temptation is always to play for laughs, such is the typical Anglophone audience’s almost visceral reaction to earnestness unleavened by comedy (think History Boys for an excellent recent example). More than that, Broken Stars sells itself as sci-fi and unashamed of it. Somehow earnestness is even harder to take if it refers to events that are not only fictional, but highly improbable or even absurd. Nuclear melt-down at Fukushima is scary and serious stuff; the same thing happening on the planet Nebulon IV somewhat less so. In short, the potential cringe-factor is huge.

 That said, Broken Stars itself is undoubtedly a competent and thoughtful production and doesn’t deserve to be dismissed for attempting what is perhaps impossible anyway. A common way (perhaps the only way) of legitimising Serious Sci-fi is to set the action in a dystopian future, which Broken Stars did with some simple but effective set-design: knackered old furniture and the like. Thereafter, the action followed two separate arcs: the over-arching one in which our brave band of morally ambiguous (and sexually charged) counter-cultural revolutionaries study the video tapes (futuristic and retro all at the same time) portraying a couple belonging to a previous civilization known as the ‘Constructionists’. Which would indicate that the present oppressive government are the Deconstructionists, though the methodological implications of this aren’t really worked through. Ben and Alice (JY Hoh and Sophie Ablett), the couple seen in the tape follow a fairly standard love story: boy meets girl, boy likes girl, boy and girl escape oppression on a spaceship, girl turns into wheedling passive-aggressive bitch then dies, boy resurrects girl as somewhat-more-likeable hologram; it’s all textbook stuff. In fact, the love story is the most convincingly written and performed part of what is generally a competent performance all round. When we cringe in these scenes, it’s with our hero the hologram scientist, who generally re-defines the phrase ‘under the thumb’.

 Finally, this is a serious play and hence has a serious message: namely that individuals are more important than ideologies, that the counter-culture can be as ambiguous as the supposedly repressive state. This all comes in something of a rush at the end of the play, helped along by the convenient sci-fi deus ex machine of a nuclear explosion. It’s quite a mature message to end on, and one with which this reviewer has some sympathy. It’s much the same sort of thing Boris Pasternak was trying to do in Doctor Zhivago. The problem is, however, that Pasternak could set his story against the epic backdrop of the Russian Civil War. Trying to achieve the same pathos in science fiction is much, much harder (as anyone who’s had to watch a Christmas special of Dr Who will readily understand) and, unfortunately, the almost inevitable result is cringing embarrassment. Nevertheless, for all these caveats, Broken Stars deserves some serious credit for conceiving of a gutsy idea and executing it with competence throughout.

2.5 STARS 

If you’re a student looking for intellectual stimulation of a different breed, consider the informal book clubs held each month around town, existing outside the familiar realm of the colleges. On November 7, I attended The Oxford Book Club, typically held in Copa on George Street.

There, I found an eclectic group of characters, nearly 40 of them, who ranged in age from late 20s to early 60s. Though I was doubtlessly one of the youngest attendees, I didn’t feel out of place among the others, who attend the meetings with the expectation of conversing with strangers over a pint. Run by a friendly and outgoing employee of Oxford University Press, the meeting was relaxed, with most of the attendees already packing a few years of steady book club attendance under his or her belt.

For the session I attended, we were asked to read The Pearl by John Steinbeck, a book just brief enough to fit  easily into a schedule of required university reading. One of the members remarked that sometimes book clubs don’t discuss the selected book at all, but that was not the case for this club. After ten minutes of chatter (about the hot topic of whether Scotland has more trees than England) and introductions, the organiser called for us to begin discussing.

One of the men at the table shared his controversial, unconventional take on the book, and between that and the comments from the others at the table, including a medievalist who works on a Latin dictionary in her spare time, the discussion moved quickly. When half of the table was asked to switch to the next table, it formed a different mixture of people who asked questions about the interpretation of one of the book’s vital scenes, and disagreed about the portrayal of its characters.If you’re looking for the sort of discussions you’d have in an English literature tutorial, you’re likely not to find it in a book club. These events serve as more of a social function, for meeting the types of people Oxford students wouldn’t normally encounter during the fast-paced terms.

Whereas assigned reading typically leaves you feeling as though you must determine every theme and symbol, the appeal of book clubs is that it’s a roomful of people who aren’t concerned with how in-depth your analysis of the text is. Providing a casual environment where attendees can talk as much or as little as they desire, book clubs should be experienced at least once for their benefits as an alternative type of social gathering.

I have to admit that I have a bit of a phobia of sharks, so much so that as a child I didn’t like swimming in the sea. Or fresh water. Or indeed in swimming pools. So the first time I saw the Headington Shark, diving headfirst into an otherwise normal looking house and stretching its tail 25ft into the Oxford skyline, I was a little unnerved. Not just because I’m still afraid to look at sharks, but rather because it’s an invasive symbol: this powerful and dangerous creature, entering the place in which people feel most secure: the home.

I wouldn’t have articulated it like that at the time, but funnily enough this sense of the unsettling was part of the intention behind the Shark sculpture. In The Hunting of the Shark, Bill Heine (who commissioned the Shark and still lives beneath it) recounts how shortly after moving into his new house in Headington in 1986, American airstrikes on Tripoli started. A few days later, the nuclear disaster took place at Chernobyl. It was against the backdrop of such events that the Shark was formed. After talking art, politics (and aquatic creatures) with his friend the sculptor John Buckley, the idea of a shark in the roof came into being. The sculpture was put up on 9th August, the anniversary of the bombing of Nagasaki, intended as a symbol of the invasion of the personal space of the home, but also as something eccentric enough to intrigue and amuse.

The Hunting of the Shark comes out 25 years after the Shark first appeared. It tells the story of the Shark, from its inception through to finally becoming an accepted part of the Oxford skyline. It was a journey which took almost six years during which Heine had to navigate the bureaucracy of planning committees, a criminal court trial, a public inquiry, an arrest warrant and ultimately an intervention by the Secretary of State for the Environment. The book also brings together various articles and poems about the Shark, letters and comments from famous figures including Philip Pullman and Mohamed Al Fayed, and images of the Shark in all forms, from construction to floodlit completion, from cartoons to artistic representations.

The Shark is now one of Oxford’s (indeed Britain’s) most iconic landmarks, and for this reason alone the story behind it is interesting. It’s also very funny – the sense of humour required to put a shark in your roof in the first place has certainly not diminished over the last twenty five years and shines through Heine’s writing. And it’s also a book that makes you think – what is art? Is it public or private? Can you illustrate a political point in a humorous way? And is a modern sculpture completely out of place in an old city?

Despite the fact that the book sometimes dedicates a little too much time to describing each planning decision, and that it ultimately lacks the power of suspense, as the continued presence of the 25ft fibreglass Shark in Headington speaks for itself on the success of Heine’s battle, it’s definitely worth a read for anyone who has a little, or a lot of, affection for this dreaming tail amongst all the spires.

The Hunting of the Shark (published by Oxfordfolio) is available from Oxfordfolio, all Oxford bookshops and Amazon, £14.99.

“And how are we?”
“Better.”
“Than?”
“Everyone”

Meredith, Imogen, Kerry, Cameron and Catherine glide gracefully through life as social royalty, or at least they seem to glide. The champagne flutes are overflowing with class and classic couture dresses for these five perfectly ‘beau’ narcissists living in the lap of Malone Park’s luxury. But don’t be fooled, life is not as effortless as it looks, these socialites have a busy schedule of manipulation, gossip and all things bitchy to keep up with.

This is a world where manipulation is the new black and a name-drop in Tatler is all it takes to secure a place on the guest list of every party. Naturally the social elite of each school year band together in judgement, to form an all-reigning super-clique of queen bees, BFFs and taggers-on. Together they are fantastically rich and impossibly beautiful and don’t they just know it!

Don’t be fooled that these girls (and Cameron) live an entirely charmed life. They must endure deadly, glamour-threatening maladies such as “mental influenza” and “Fabulous-Induced-Breakdowns” in order to remain gorgeous, popular and 3 rungs higher on the social ladder than anyone else, ever.

These ‘A-listers’ know their way around a social situation; at least they know their own way around a social situation; manipulation. It may look graceful, effortless even; but in reality staying at the top is just as much hard work as clawing your way up there in the first place. There is not a carat of morality here, these girls play to win and they don’t play fair. Melodramatic moments there are a plenty, but real life emotions are hard to come by in this novel. Unless you peer underneath the veneer of vapidity to find that these girls have two motivations; popularity and…oh no that’s just it, they really are that focused? Or is the word self-obsessed?

The dialogue is like as flawlessly applied as their make-up, despite their class they are like still teenagers and stuff. Their speech is like saturated with dramatic hyperbole in like that totally annoying way that teenagers speak, regardless of Daddy’s income and stuff. Infuriating it may be, but Russell perfectly captures teen vocabulary and takes me right back like to my own school days, and stuff, with an overdose of ‘like’ and a smattering of OMG’s.

This is what makes these characters both infuriating and unbelievably believable. Self-absorbed Imogen, self-congratulatory Kerry and cold-hearted manipulative Meredith are absolutely awful to each other, but I’m left in no doubt they really are best friends, who are traitorous and fiercely loyal to the end.

It would be fantastically easy to detest each of these characters and to mock this book endlessly. However, underneath the impression of sugar and spice and all things nice, there is a reality in each of the characters. They frequent cocktail bars and spas like the most sophisticated of adults but ultimately they are teenagers playing dress up. They go through all the stock teenage-girl-problems; from boyfriend troubles to attention grabbing dresses and copied hairstyles, these girls are, after all, just girls. Here lies the iota of humanity in these characters, they are somewhat relatable for small moments of the novel and in those other moments they are just incredibly funny…

‘I was too busy basking in my own radiance so couldn’t reply right away’.

This book is above all light, fun and frothy and even when you hate all of the characters they are undoubtedly fabulously entertaining. Their priorities may not be remotely sane but at least their manicures are flawless.

The worst thing about wrapping up leftovers and putting them in the fridge is that there is usually a reason that they are left over. Perhaps you, glutton that you are, overdid it the first time around; perhaps they are the leftover spuds that no one particularly wanted; perhaps it just wasn’t very good the first time around. Sixteen minutes of the leftovers of Brian Eno and Rick Holland’s ambient-electronica-meets-spoken-word previous exertions provokes a similar response as opening the fridge door the following day. I’m still struggling to stomach it.

It is worth acknowledging at this point that Brian Eno really is very, very good, and that if anyone is to be entrusted with painting a convincing intergalactic electronic soundscape, it is probably him. For the most part, Eno’s contribution is taut and textured as ever, and his background sonics are by no means the worst part of the EP. ‘In The Future’ is the most listenable example. These are as minimal as you might expect – and sometimes so much so as to be rather difficult to engage with. At its best, it is moody and poignant; at its worst, desultory, or even boring. Eno can still do what he has always done, and there are some truly stunning misty moments of crepuscular atmosphere.

So much for the background, what of the words? Lots of people who ‘know’ seem to think that Rick Holland is a reasonable poet. I don’t know whether my failure to appreciate it represents a Philistine tendency on my own part – I can only very barely read – but I’m not feeling it. Even my heartiest attempts at serious engagement with the EP are dashed when I hear the expression ‘sex-face’. Worst of all, I realize that it is all over when I start to make comparisons to the William Shatner covers. 

In conclusion: Eno is good, I don’t really like Holland, spoken word is really weird. The fusion sits a little heavily. I anticipate similar responses from the rest of the uninformed masses – though I suspect that Eno junkies or macramé wearing spoken word fans may see the EP as a glorious sixteen-minute study. For everyone else – you might find yourself, as I did, bored, bothered and bewildered. Frankly, I don’t give a damn.