This production sets Camus’ play around the time of its writings, in Mussolini’s Italy. Although I am always dubious about de-Romanising plays set in Rome, in this case it really worked. Partly it worked because the play itself is such that its themes and messages are universal. But more than this, transposing Caligula in time, this production reflects on the writer himself, and the political turmoil from which his play possibly sprang. We see a world of lavish dressing, old money, and hanging at the side, the hint of the threat of the nouvea riche, and of course, that of madness.

The play opens with the patricians all coming on stage and the direction strikes the delicate balance between presenting them as a kind of classical chorus and as individual characters. When they speak together, they run on one another’s lines, seeming to form a homogenous group, but as the dialogue progresses these witty little individuals who are both distinct from one another, but also linked to each another emerge. There is a real lightness of touch that makes this group of characters both amusing and human. We can laugh at them collectively as a group of pontificating old men, but we can also feel their fear, their desperation at being at the mercy of an out-of-control ruler, and their need to save their own skins.

For me, Caligula will always be John Hurt in I Claudius, so however good this Caligula was, I expected to be a little disappointed. I was not. Jack Powell captures that same mixture of vulnerability and seething threat that Hurt’s performance shows.

First, we see a man shaking, hurting, talking nonsense about wanting the moon, we wonder what these old men are afraid of. When we see him later, he is disconcertingly calm, showing Octavian, one of the patricians, his newly painted nails. It all seems rather sweet and harmless, but moments later we see that this is the facade of controlled mania as Caligula flashes from docile to violent. Caligula is at once the most mad possible, and as Heilcon his freedman calls him, “not mad enough”. This play shows a different side of the famously barmy emperor, as one who is trying to come to terms not with his own madness, but the madness of existence, and of human experience. A play like this depends so heavily on the ability of the lead actor to embody all of these contradictions without appearing ridiculous, and Powell manages it admirably.

Not all of the performances are as strong as they could be, and granted I saw the teasiest of teasers, far from the whole production, but what I saw was a sensitive and intelligent production of a great play – it is both funny and moving, it is lively and engaging, it is nuanced and subtle. What I saw was as yet a little unpolished, but it held the promise of something really and deeply human, a drama that is touching as well as entertaining.

3.5 STARS

POSH is brilliant because of its proximity. The closeness of the subject matter – posh people pretending to be posh people performing for posh people. The boys were nervous – crossing their arms and gripping the chairs for comfort. It was probably just first performance nerves, but this uneasiness created an added dynamic of corruption – like stealing cookies from the cookie jar – the Riot Club members knew what they were doing and knew they shouldn’t have been doing it.

Entrances were key, the door functioning as a spotlight under which each of the ten members could take the stage for an introduction. The formula was simple and effective – open door with a bang and say something controversial within two minutes (expletives encouraged). The newbie wonders whose jizz it was all over his books and the anarchist opens with the epithet; ‘Cocksucking Shitbags’.

The President (Dugie Young) was excellently commanding without being a dick; he turned a rather long pause into a display of authority, which extended to the audience, as they too were made to wait while he processed the payment of the meal. Audience interaction should be encouraged for this gladiatorial spectacle of entertainment whose function is to shock. Indeed George Balfour (James Philips) successfully smashed through the fourth wall when he reminded an audience member that there were ‘no phones at dinner’.

Although all members are united by the club’s rules and traditions, the Riot Club is characterised by a hierarchical structure. There are the novices:  a scared suck-up (Jack Peters) and a cocky cynic (Tim Schneider) and then there are the Elders. These Top Dogs are associated with grandeur in action – shitting in other people’s hotel rooms, and grandeur in appearance – 1952 Triumph Thunderbird motorcycles, barrister wigs and private jets. But perhaps the real grandeur lies with he who is gutsy enough to defend Kingsley Bear, who is not a bear, but a family heirloom or with the charisma of Harry Villiers (Freddie Bowerman) – the play’s piece de resistance. The permanent fixture of his cheeky smile screams the arrogance appropriate to a portrayal of an elite drinking society. His swagger matches his feats – pasting the captain and then receiving a blowjob off his girlfriend while he is being attended to by the physio.

The script is peppered with the club’s profane projects – ‘to boff someone in a burka’, ‘to get shat-oed’ or ‘to get fucked and fuck shitup’. The manager’s strict conformity makes him a foil to the rioters’ anarchism. Chris (Dominic Ballard) executes the outlining of the health and safety measures beautifully with an overstretched smile and excessive Ps and Qs. The tempo of the play goes into triple-time with his departure and the ten man team jumps into action as if reacting to the whistle at kickoff.

POSH is funny to a middle class audience, with close-to-home one liners about Eton mess and – even closer – the VIP section of Camera.  Yet the comedy is more effective, here in Oxford, because it relies on truths dressed up in profanities which, at times, are too close for comfort.

The theatre-in-the-round staging of the Debate Chamber adds to the confrontational experience of the audience. The Riot Club members are the bad guys, but we, as the silent witnesses, are the guilty party.

4 STARS

Director Rebecca Kinder is keen to assure the reviewers at her press preview that Apples – a play, by John Retallack, about a group of 15 year olds on a Middlesbrough housing estate – is not patronising. Her concerns that it could be seen as such are certainly well-grounded. Within minutes of the preview starting the small group assembled to watch the first few scenes are guffawing, presumably only at hearing a Northern accent. Whether this was the intention or not hardly matters but it is an attitude which will surely have to be combated throughout the play’s run.

The subject matter is typical GCSE drama fodder: underage sex, drug-taking, rape, on-stage masturbation, cancer and teenage pregnancy all within the first three scenes. Yet the pace is snappy, the script can be entertaining and, at times, the actors, setting aside the minor hiccups expected at a preview, sparkle in group scenes. Combined with the multiple music, lighting and costume changes this will be a play that commands audience attention and raises a few laughs in the process.

Joe Bayley, as Adam, a romantically hapless boy suffering from OCD, was particularly impressive in terms of his physicality and mannerisms, immediately creating a connection between his character and the audience. Lucie Cox, as Eve (the object of Adam’s affections), was less assured, but had some really lovely moments – the subtlety of her facial expressions will work well in the smaller Buton Taylor. In later scenes, however, Bayley played up somewhat to audience reactions, really spoiling his character’s believability – he should watch that his vocal performance does not venture into parody.

The play has some more bizarre moments, including moments of intervention from a girl from a porn mag who spontaneously ‘appears’ in Adam’s bedroom (Ellie Gelard, who acts well here and as pregnant rape victim Claire), a foetus (Emily Stewart) and, perhaps least successfully, a butterfly observing the girls as they sunbathe (Howard Coase), but my problem with the play was in its more conventional aspects. The raping bully Gary (Joshua Entecott) appears as undeveloped as a pantomime villain – a fault certainly in the direction, as Entecott’s execution was strong. The message seemed to be that, just as the girls needed to be drunk or drugged to have sex, boys were either weak (and therefore partnerless) or violent alpha males – the more sympathetic treatment which had clearly been applied to thinking through the girls’ dilemmas could have been put to good use here.

Apples, despite its moments of darkness, will be a fun production, injecting some life into a drama scene often lacking in comedy. However, there are aspects of the play itself, and its treatment here, which remain slightly dubious, and potentially uncomfortable. 

3 STARS

Like other adaptations of Emily Brontë’s classic, Andrea Arnold’s interpretation of Wuthering Heights focuses entirely on the first half of the novel, sweeping intricate layers of narration and the reconciliatory plot of the second generation aside to focus entirely on the doomed love of Heathcliff and Cathy. Yet the result is not a sensationalist flurry of “dark romance” to feed the appetites of Twilight and Vampire Diaries fans, hungry for their latest Brooding Hunk. Nor is it a comfortable Sunday night period drama; it hardly feels like a period drama at all.

Arnold’s reimagining is stripped down to its bare bones: the majority of the film is spent with the younger couple from Heathcliff’s point of view, whose scrambling excursions across Yorkshire moors see them teetering on the edge of innocent, playful curiosity, threatening at any moment to tumble into wicked sexuality or spitting brutality. The film’s only soundtrack is provided by elemental, natural noises: rushing winds, spattering raindrops, slapping mud – a blunt but welcome opposition to the predictably haunting score underlying most costume dramas. The 4:3 aspect and shaky, handheld camerawork pushes us further into the sensuality of the landscape, completely entrenched one moment in dewy grass, the next lost amongst Cathy’s tangled hair. This simultaneously lends an air of gritty, contemporary documentary to scenes of extreme violence, and there is little concrete sense of setting. The austere dialogue, too, is a radical departure from the eloquence of the novel. Arnold cuts Brontë’s most recognisable lines and inserts some thoroughly modern swearing, while Heathcliff is barely able to speak at all. But it is in these moments of obvious departure that Arnold most captures the spirit of the original work, its stark beauty and brutal savagery translated into something fresh and daring.

After the triumphant performances of Solomon Glave and Shannon Beer, the turn of Kaya Scodelario as Catherine Linton and James Howson as Heathcliff the gentleman, fall flat. The scene of their reunion is bafflingly incongruous with the film’s earlier tone, as the reality of Yorkshire weather is replaced with a hazy summer afternoon, where the now elegant Catherine blandly acknowledges Heathcliff’s return. We are rarely offered glimpses of their earlier primeval behaviour, and in these late stages the lack of dialogue gives way to a inexplicable lack of passion. The film’s final moments thankfully return to the younger Heathcliff roughly pinning down a laughing Cathy, rubbing mud in her face. It is in these instances of fierce affection and blossoming sexuality that Arnold triumphs, arguably creating something more human and genuine than the often melodramatic novel.

4 STARS

On paper it seems like a winning combination; two of the greatest directors working together to bring to life a franchise that has sold over 350 million books worldwide and been translated into 80 languages. With Peter Jackson’s eye for detail and Steven Spielberg’s heart the film should have been an instant classic. However, there is something about the film that lacks the necessary sparkle. Like this season’s X Factor,  David Cameron or a night in Park End, the film promises much, but delivers so little.

The story of The Adventures of Tintin combines three of the original comics together: The Crab With The Golden Claw (1941), The Secret of the Unicorn (1943) and Red Racham’s Treasure (1944). Doing this meant that there was a lot of material to work with, and although the stories seem to merge together almost seamlessly, the sheer volume of original source material has a negative effect. In trying to fit as much as they can into the 107 minutes the writers have included a few too many chase scenes at the expense of really exploring the motives or drive of Tintin. The only explanation given for why he goes on this adventure is that he is a reporter, which is a bit of a lazy excuse. I don’t imagine Jan Moir will go on any adventures just because she is a reporter. The story also ends up becoming predictable, so much so that the girl sat behind me guessed each twist before it happened.

Although the story might have faults, the visuals are stunning. Each frame looks as if it could have come straight out of the comics themselves. The decision to make Tintin an animated film was the right one as it has allowed the film to be full of the fantastic colour palette that was seen in the comics. What allowed the film to pull off this great animation is the use of the same performance capture technology that was used in Avatar. Because of this technology the film has a stronger sense of realism than it would have using more conventional animation methods. The voice acting behind the characters was excellent, with Andy Serkis demonstrating why he is still the number one actor for animated films. The rest of the cast, which include names such as Jamie Bell, Daniel Craig, Simon Pegg and Nick Frost, also bring their characters to life. However the cast member that stole the show was, of course, Snowy. Like every other animated film, the cute animal always wins (just look at Shrek).

Although the film may look stunning to movie-goers it unfortunately lacks the sparkle that is often found in a Spielberg film. Like its CGI star the film looks beautiful, but is dead behind the eyes.

2 1/2 stars

There should be a warning on this film’s tin: if you’re on antidepressants, of a sensitive disposition, considering suicide, or just having a bad day, STEER WELL CLEAR. The plot centres on an alcoholic war veteran Frank (Eddie Marsan), who meets Lynette (Candese Reid), a homeless teen with a feisty attitude, but (surprise, surprise) hidden depths and a sensitive soul. Before you can put the ‘kitsch’ in ‘kitchen sink realism’, Frank’s already begun his fatherly caring for Lynette whilst her violent boyfriend takes advantage of him and turns his house into a crack den of extremely seedy proportions. All fun and games so far!

Junkhearts is like if Mike Leigh had riotous, relentless meth-fuelled sex with one of his film-studies undergrads. To say I found the whole ninety minutes uncomfortable is a wild underestimation. The movie is littered with shock-tactic imagery, descending into all kinds of unpleasantness which every resident living on a council estate must endure according to the British film industry. There’s also an awkward subplot that never really justifies its own existence; again, it’s a succession of adultery, inept motherhood and drug abuse. By the time the two narratives converge, you’ve either guessed how they connect, lost all interest, or have left the cinema to throw yourself under a train. Even the presence of indie film darling Eddie Marsan cannot lift this glumfest above a half-star rating.

If there was something good about Junkhearts, trying to remember it is like trying to remember the eye colour of someone who killed your entire family. Consider your mental well-being warned.

1/2 a star.

First screened in the ‘golden age’ of BBC drama and eagerly followed by a whole generation, for many critics the original Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy was a perfect espionage thriller in which Alec Guinness could do no wrong. The old guard will claim that Gary Oldman’s George Smiley is that much more ponderous, always with a strained down-turn of the mouth, compared to the naturalness of Guinness’ ease, the zen-like chilly calm with which he polishes his glasses. This is half fair. Oldman does remind me somewhat of Kenneth Branagh’s slightly campy perpetual grump in the BBC re-imagining of Wallander, which Krister Henriksson handles with undeniably greater subtlety. In the original, Alec Guinness can smile, he is funnier, he can fantasise about retiring to a small house in the Cotswolds without us ever doubting that he is inescapably tied to ‘The Circus’. For Oldman, there is little joy, except for the occasional, bracing, ice-cold swim in Hampstead Ponds. We almost trust Oldman too much; Guinness looks like a sweet old man, but he’ll slip out of a second hand bookshop by the backdoor, checking his back when unbolting his door like a geriatric Jason Bourne.

The new Tinker, Tailor film is slow-paced; it is no use to criticise it for not being quite as slow as a 1970s, seven-part TV series (which, incidentally, does not always sustain the tension it pitches for; the sequel Smiley’s People, also starring Guinness, is deadeningly dull). It isn’t that the new film makes the original more exciting; Mark Strong’s character, in the opening minutes of the new film, is shot and seized neatly with only two shots being fired. The opening of the BBC series feels like the opening of a series of 24, with a small army of communist machine gunners chasing Jim Prideaux through a forrest, after blowing up his car and eliminating his driver.
To some extent, the film has to try a lot harder to be slow and thoughtful but it is in a climate in which this is a more of a treat; it’s hard to blame Alfredson for relishing it.

The film cannot help being a reinvention, it is part of its strength. The character of Smiley is a result of constant reinterpretation, having appeared in Le Carré’s early thrillers only as a peripheral character, later fleshed out for Tinker, Tailor. His cult now transcends both the book and the original TV series.

The film is about the old guard, the pre-war generation (the hats are a give-away); its about patriarchy, old school tie, friends and debts. All dues are paid to Guinness, his signature black gloves and glasses are passed on to Oldman. But we can’t just keep on watching re-runs of the TV series. The new film places the action firmly in the past, but just as firmly in the ‘now’ with Oldman, Firth and Cumberbatch now running the show; we are reminded that espionage, corruption, distrust and austerity were not just a 70s thing.