Apples, by Richard Milward, takes Milton’s Garden of Eden in his Paradise Lost and spins it on its head. Instead of coming out of the pages of Genesis, it is set in today’s brutal world where six teenagers come across peer pressure, drugs, and sex. Adam and Eve are still there – only Eve becomes the popular girl who is chased by the virginal, naïve Adam and becomes hooked on ecstasy, her apple. However, at the same time that it brings forth the gruesome world of today’s adolescents, it captures the absurdity of growing up. Complete with a great soundtrack with only one or two false starts, Apples tells the story of teenagers faced with all the troubles and humor of facing new fears from dancing at a club to pregnancy.

The play opens with Joe Bayley as Adam who gives amiability to the character, even in his attempt to act cool under peer pressure. Lucie Cox as Eve plays her with a perfect mixture of sass and vulnerability. The stage fits Ellie Geldard as the conflicted Claire who convincingly argues with herself about keeping her baby. The audience is held in suspense as she contemplates throwing her baby over the bridge. Josh Entecott as Gary becomes the villainous, arrogant boy that the play depends on to create most of the drama, opening up the problems of rape, drugs, and carelessness. Emily Stewart as Eve’s friend Debbie performs well with excellent diction and stage presence. Overall, all the actors take to their accents with surprising credibility thanks to their voice coach Chloe Cornish.     

The simple stage works well for the complicated drama and the actors do a good job in creating the environments they find themselves in. Although Apples is rich in its drama, it could use a few more moments of comic relief, only receiving a few laughs from the audience in humorous moments. One comical moment that was memorable was when Howard Coase as Burny comes out in a butterfly costume while Adam is sitting by himself at the club, saying he’s definitely not a social butterfly. Apples in all its humour and horror, shows some truths of the growing up process and all the teenage angst that goes with it.

3 STARS

“Posh people pretending to be posh people performing for posh people,” is what Polly Marsden says in her preview of Laura Wade’s POSH at the Oxford Union Debating Chamber. The irony in this cannot be denied, especially as Wade’s political ideas shine through. The audience meets the Riot Club, a club whose original founder was called Ryott. But they don’t make mistakes.

The drama increases as the play continues. At first the Riot Club prove they’re snobs by complaining about a 10-bird bird only having 9 birds at dinner, and making fun of the host at the tavern simply because he has to work for a living. But then they call a prostitute, abuse the waitress, destroy the dining room, and worse, as their morals degenrate shockingly quickly. Yet, they call themselves the leaders of their generation, while discovering that they are simply built for “hiding in libraries.” Susanna Quirke takes a respectable risk in directing POSH, especially at a location where the play resembles some very real truths of the very Union that they make a mess of. But POSH does its job – it entertains and forces you to think hard at the same time.

Although there were some audible troubles and almost too many lines said over others, the actors really showed all the different personalities that a club might have. Everyone held their character and was believable in their portrayals. Fen Greatley as the hotheaded Alistair Ryle carried the show with superb acting and impressive stage fighting. The scene where he forces the host into a chair and throws money in his face, trying to pay him off for the destruction they’ve created, is one of the most horrifying in the play, bursting with pure emotion. Dom Ballard as Chris the host certainly gains the audience’s sympathy, saying he will refuse the money if any of them had touched his daughter. As the current President of the Riot club, Dugie Young creates his character well, with plenty of facial expressions showing us his conflictions between wanting something to put on his resume and regret at their actions throughout the night. Lloyd Houston as the drunken Toby Maitland always got laughs from the audience as he donned a judge’s wig, danced around stage with his sword, and fell asleep on the serving cart. 

The three-sided stage allows the audience to feel like part of the dinner party. The scene where they trash the dining room is exciting to watch so close to the action – feathers fly everywhere, paintings are shattered on heads, and the actors jump on the table breaking plates. The lighting design by Douglas Perkins is very effective, placing the stage in the right amount of eerie light, Sarah Chesshyre’s set design is perfect for the style of the stage and the costumes by Bronya Arciszewska and Izzy Station fit well for the “posh” atmosphere and characters.

POSH is a great evening of theatre with the hard-hitting power to make people think about their actions towards others. 

5 STARS

“Hi, I don’t want to sound petty, but please could people not take posters for plays and other events down? Posters can cost quite a lot of money to make in mass and whatever the event, people have put a lot of effort into it and it is very disheartening to come back from putting posters around Oxford and find they have been taken down.”

That was the note I wanted to put on my college’s Facebook page after coming back late at night from an intense technical rehearsal to find posters for the play I’d put round college taken down from notice boards. I stress the word ‘wanted’, as I didn’t end up posting the comment as I’m too scared; instead I sent a request to my JCR president asking him to put a note about it in the next JCR email. Oh dear, I am cringeing as I am typing this – what a prude I have become!

This week has only just started but it definitely doesn’t feel like it. Saturday involved an afternoon rehearsal of the kidnap scenes with a staff writer from the Oxford Student sitting in, so no pressure. Sunday started early in the morning with me dragging a trolley suitcase full of pancakes for an all day rehearsal to the Simpkins Lee Theatre. Early this morning a few cast members and I ( along with the lovely Philippa Baines from the film society to do the filming) filmed the protest scene, getting some confused looks from passers-by as we shouted, “No Blankers in our schools” and the lovely expression, “Blankers are Wankers!”.  Tonight consisted of a tiring technical rehearsal where I became an angry despot ranting and grunting at the actors from the lighting box: it’s most likely that the actors either hate me or are slightly afraid – either way it gets the job done.

A few weeks ago I went on a National Express coach that stopped in the middle of the dual-carriageway due to a petrol leakage, resulting in all the passengers (including me) waiting for taxis to come and drive us to the next nearest station. Nevertheless I managed to reach my destination and I guess it’s easy to draw a parallel between a toilsome journey on public transport and putting on a show. Despite the strong possibility of encountering delays, traffic jams, breakdowns- you get all the whole obstacle thread – the ultimate goal makes it all worth the bother. Well, let’s hope so anyway.

In January 1975 Keith Jarrett sat down at the Cologne Opera House’s Bösendorfer piano and spontaneously improvised a seamless stream of music that seemed to absorb everything from French impressionism to gospel. The recording, The Köln Concert, has gone on to sell 3.5 million copies, marks a classic milestone in 70s jazz and indeed has been responsible for many years for providing an accessible path for curious listeners towards more adventurous free music. Köln was the first jazz recording that I listened to, and through its production via the excellent ECM label, opened up a wealth of strange and wonderful listening for me. Whether or not they’re to your taste, most of Jarrett’s improvised solo concerts since the 70s have been landmark events within contemporary music. So where do we find Jarrett in 2011?

Bearing in mind the neutral, minimalist ECM-art covers that have adorned Jarrett recordings since Köln, the raw splashes of colour on the sleeve-art of this year’s Rio presented something of a surprise when it landed on my desk. And of course musically Rio and Köln couldn’t be further apart. Recorded live in Rio earlier in the year, this recording marks further solo concert experimentation within a particular path adopted by Jarrett over the last few years. Stemming from 2005’s Radiance, Jarrett has rejected the hour-long marathons that so distinguished his recordings since the 70s, in favour of a more compact, episodic approach.

Rio is stretched over 15 improvisational sketches, springing out in ‘Part I’ with loose, uncertain lines set over stuttering chords, before settling in ‘Part II’ into typically glowing textures, all underpinned by a kaleidoscopic harmonic sense. It is an experience that runs the full gamut of Jarrett’s sound world, from bursts of free jazz through to extended passages of impressionistic, textural play. It owes as much to the ill-documented free playing scene that Jarrett was involved in throughout clubs in Paris and New York in the 60s, as it does to his early solo concerts. Interestingly Jarrett has always named saxophonists, rather than pianists, as his inspiration. And indeed his cascading runs of notes, never once percussive, are all on display here. Moments of pure glory come with the beautiful points of emergence that Jarrett sets up, shifting from twisted melody and nervously pulsating chords in ‘Part V’ into unabashed lyricism.

Jarrett has described the unpremeditated solo performance process in the past as being a fusion of ‘spontaneous composition’ and ‘free improvisation’. It’s an approach that clearly explains much of the knowing classical references that litter his recordings from the 70s through to the 90s. And I must confess that I have not maintained complete affection for that body of work – with 1988’s Paris Concert’s descent into half an hour of crossover remaining a memorably excruciating moment. The taut variations he has worked to since 2005 has conversely allowed for freer playing – ‘letting go’ musically while also maintaining a stronger sense of structure over the whole concert. Of course I still find the idea of listening to and reviewing recordings of pure improvisation slightly problematic, given that so much of the beauty comes in the elusive music of the moment. Nevertheless, Rio is one of Jarrett’s most coherent recordings and is highly recommended listening. 

The art world’s most prestigious award, The Turner Prize, is also, to many people’s minds, the most powerful symbol of its lunacy and pointlessness. Founded in 1984 to celebrate new developments in contemporary art, the way it works is that nominations for artists are invited each year, four are picked by a crack-team of art nuts to be exhibited before a winner is chosen to take home a cash prize which today stretches to £40,000.

Since the very beginning the Prize has polarised a nation. There are those who think it represents an increasingly rare forum for the most relevant and powerful stuff that the human imagination is capable of, and there are those who think that the whole thing is generally more arsey than the Rokeby Venus. The Prize temporarily disappeared in 1990 whilst people in white drainpipes and massive jumpers squabbled over the rules, the prize money, and whether the whole affair was just a waste of time. The debate has not stopped since.

What is all the fuss about then? In 2007, exhibition-goers would have seen a winning two hour film of artist Mark Wallinger dressed in a bear suit wandering around the Neue Nationalgalerie in Berlin at night. In 2008 Mark Leckey give a winning lecture on cats. In 2002, Fiona Banner exhibited her magnum opus, a piece entitled Arsewoman in Wonderland: a wall-sized blow-by-proverbial-blow account of a porn film in massive pink type. Sadly Miss Banner missed out on the prize that particular year, though evidently undeterred, she crashed into the press again last year by exhibiting an upside down aeroplane at the Tate. 

This year, we have two painters shortlisted, George Shaw and Karla Black. But before you traditionalists breathe a sigh of relief, know that one works in airfix paint, the other in lipstick, bath bombs and bronzer. Also featured at the exhibition, this year at the Baltic gallery in Gateshead, is the work of Martin Boyce, who creates installations based on urban landmarks, and Hilary Lloyd, whose display consists of video screens and projectors showing scenes including construction sites.

If on paper much of the material may strike the sceptical reader as justifying that perennial wail of ‘I could’ve done that!’, remember that all that can ever really be said in reply is, ‘Yeah, but you didn’t.’ Both perspectives are valuable.

The furore is as important to the identity of the Turner Prize as the unmade beds and transvestistism. The art world is more sophisticated today than in the days when all you had to worry about was not getting Monet and Manet mixed up.

In a society increasingly characterised by a mania for all things monetary, modern art is not contaminated by, but thrives from, its interaction with the marketplace, asking important questions about the value of creativity, the nature of investment, and, most problematically, what makes art art.

Divorced from an environment in which these questions are asked, two cheap plastic blow-up sex dolls with a dildo placed in the 69 position would amount only to the coffee break creativity of a bored Ann Summers employee, rather than the 2003 prize-winning entry. The consternation, the media din, the bookies’ bets, the Stuckist protests, the hefty price-tags: these are what make the Turner Prize valuably baffling and unique.

This year’s Turner exhibition is at the BALTIC centre and runs until the 8th of January.