For the next jewel in the crown of his new career, ‘Smoking Aces’ actor turned ‘Gone Baby Gone’ director Ben Affleck has gone for the holy trinity: co-writing, directing and acting in his latest film ‘The Town’. This is clearly no mean feat: there can only be so many Clint Eastwoods in Hollywood. It is certainly a risk for Affleck, who has seen his credibility plummet in the past; he has only recently got back a respectable reputation, and for that reason the attention is fixed, possibly unfairly, on Affleck and what he brings to the movie.

As with ‘Gone Baby Gone’, ‘The Town’ is set in Boston, this time in Charlestown, which we are told produces more bank robbers and criminals than anywhere else. It is difficult to see how Affleck feels about his home turf of Massachusetts; on the one hand it seems to inspire a lot of his films, but on the other he never shows it in a particularly flattering light. Here, Affleck plays Doug MacRay, a local hero who, along with his best friend Jem, played by Jeremy Renner, and two other nameless crooks, robs banks and robs them very well. The opening scene shows the group skilfully and professionally steal from a bank in the heart of Boston. They wear frightening masks, wield heavy-duty artillery, microwave security tapes and bleach all traces of their DNA; these guys know what they are doing. But when one of the bank workers pushes the silent alarm, the crew are forced to improvise and take bank manager Claire Keesey (Rebecca Hall) as a hostage. This leaves her as a loose end: Doug volunteers to execute some surveillance of her to see if she tells the cops anything. The watching soon turns into a conversation and then a relationship, which has Doug questioning whether he has to stay in Charlestown or try and break out again.

The cast is uniformally excellent, with each actor pulling their own weight. The two already well established actors, Affleck and Hall, give great performances; Hall pulls off a convincing American accent while Affleck shows he suits the role of the rugged criminal more than the smooth faced romcom lead. New actors Jeremy Renner and Blake Lively also hold their own, with Renner expertly playing an unhinged thug while Lively goes through an especially impressive transformation in her move to the big screen. From the glamorous Upper-East sider Serena van der Woodsen in the hit US show ‘Gossip Girl’, Blake Lively is transformed into the cheap and thoroughly undesirable Krista Coughlin. There are of course bad guys, and, being a crime film, they appear on both sides of the law. There is the sinister florist, Pete Postlethwaite, who runs the crime racket in Charlestown, while Jon Hamm, best known from ‘Mad Men’, plays FBI agent Andrew Fawley. Both men show little compassion, which instantly, albeit unsubtly, draws the audience into backing Doug.

There are enough excellently executed chase scenes and gun fights to break up the drama between Affleck and Hall. However, on top of this, what makes the film stand out is the intimate, insider’s knowledge Affleck has for this area of Boston; he knows why these men do what they do and how they get roped into it. He understands how these are the types of men whose fathers were also criminals and toast to friends who are in prison. He also takes time to show why none of these men have any money after a $90,000 bank raid. It transpires that, of course, this money can’t be saved or hidden away, but must instead be squandered quickly on gambling, drugs and girls so that the police can’t trace anything. It may be true that the story lacks originality, but having the heart and insight of Affleck puts the film above the crime dramas Guy Ritchie usually regurgitates. The heart also shows Affleck’s true feelings to Boston, which is one of love and acceptance of both its good and bad qualities.

However, there are some aspects of the film that some members of the audience may find difficult to swallow. The plot is frankly nothing that hasn’t been seen before, and Affleck fails to fully develop many of the minor characters. In addition, some might not feel that Doug MacKay is a character worthy of our forgiveness, as some of his actions could be seen as token gestures rather than ones of general remorse.

Yet regardless of these criticisms, they cannot scupper this excellent film. With this skilfully made crime flick, Affleck has shown that ‘Gone Baby Gone’ was no fluke – it would, however, be nice to see him branch out to another genre, or at the very least a different city. Nonetheless, Affleck’s career is rising like a phoenix out of the ashes of bad choices, and with more films like ‘The Town’ it seems destined to soar even higher still with critical acclaim.

The blonde-haired and blue-eyed Lissie Maurus started stealing hearts last year after the release of her EP Why You Runnin’. Since then, a number of successful online covers and on-stage duets with Ellie Goulding have caused the American’s fan base to grow considerably. But whereas Ellie is a soft, sparkling sequin of a singer, Lissie is a true Midwestern country girl, with mud on her jeans and grass in her hair. Illinois-born, she’s two parts Stevie Nicks to one part Sheryl Crowe, with a dash of Johnny Cash, and topped off with a smattering of freckles and a whole lot of tequila.

But there’s more to her than just cornfields and pickup trucks. She also cites Snoop Dogg and musicals such as Blood Brothers and Miss Saigon as influences. It’s perhaps no surprise then that that she seems a little unsure about how to define her music, describing it as ‘indie-folk-rock-soulful-heartfelt kind of music’. That’s probably the best way to categorize her debut album, Catching A Tiger.

From the first clattering notes of “Record Collector” to the final throbbing remnants of the beautiful “Oh Mississippi”, Lissie’s raw, passionate enthusiasm pours out and fills your ears and hearts. She leaps eagerly into the album, saturating the first three songs with emotion and scattering crashing crescendos. We’re granted a brief respite with the gentle “Bully”, before Lissie pulls us back onto the dance floor with the foot-stomping, thigh-slapping, “Little Lovin'”.

The album starts to lose some of its initial momentum after the halfway mark; “Loosen The Knot” ties itself up in a mess of bland and rather generic-sounding guitar, while “Cuckoo” struggles to get off the ground. But thankfully it’s rescued by Lissie’s soaring vocals, which shine through the dreamy “Everywhere I Go”, reflect off the waters of “Oh Mississippi”, and accompany her as she rides off into the sunset.

What would feminist theorists say to the neurological research which shows that it takes the male brain only 0.2 sec to classify a woman as ‘hot’? No doubt a recapitulation of the never-ending Nature versus Nurture debate. But the 2008 study entitled ‘The Chronoarchitecture of Human Sexual Desire: A High-Density Electrical Mapping Study’ reveals that the ‘hot-or-not’ decision is made before the brain is anywhere close to consciously processing sexual desirability.

Scientific studies like this, and the questions they prompt about gender, neuroscience and society,are the driving force behind Louann Brizendine’s most recent book ‘The Male Brain’, the timely sequel to her 2006 international bestseller ‘The Female Brain’. Both books map the neurological, chemical and developmental changes that accompany the phases of life in men and women, and gives the scientific evidence behind such well-known phenomena as the ‘biological clock’ in women, and the lesser-known and ‘sympathetic pregnancy’ or Couvade syndrome in men.

Brizendine is undeniably qualified to produce popular reading on the scientific basis behind sex and gender; her resume includes a degree in neurobiology from UC Berkeley, a doctorate in medicine from Yale University and a residency in psychiatry at Harvard. Her book deftly and accessibly blends research in neurology, biochemistry and psychology to explain some of the most puzzling aspects of masculinity, ranging from the adolescent’s bizarre obsession with computer games to the ‘sugar-daddy’ phenomenon of older men marrying much younger women. According to Brizendine, there is a neurochemical basis to these and other male stereotypes and she has Nature papers cited to prove it.

While any self-respecting scientist will balk at some of Brizendine’s conclusions based on research that does not presume to attribute causation to its findings, her books fill a literary niche in applying science to gendered relationships in easily digestible prose. Brizendine leaves the question of how much of this gendered behavior is innate and how much is learned unanswered but ultimately suggests that with a deeper understanding of the male brain, ‘we can create more realistic expectations for boys and men’.

While few quick reads are as informative for one’s daily life as Brizendine’s books, it would be most interesting to see how contemporary feminist theorists negotiate the scientific research underpinning her claims. For example, gender theorist Judith Butler has been asserting the performative nature of gender since the 1980s, to the extent that her undergraduate lecture students at UC Berkeley, could not tell whether she was a man or a woman), suggesting that every day one must choose whether to be a man or a woman. How can the fact that the area of the brain which governs sexual pursuit is 2.5 times larger in men than in women, be reconciled with Butler’s championing of androgyny? Perhaps this disjuncture in scholarship is symptomatic of some larger impasse between the sciences and the humanities. However, Brizendine has placed the ball in the feminists’ court. It is now time for them to look into some neuroscience themselves before lobbing it back.

Imagine an X Factor contestant taking to the stage, introducing himself to the judges, opening his mouth – and screaming. This would not be unsurprising given the presence of Simon Cowell; yet it would be at odds with music’s general tendency towards pleasantness, or at least orderliness. However, the scream – deeply rooted as it is in primal experiences of mortal danger – is one of the most potent auditory communicators, and this is why it lends itself well to a variety of musical styles (and not just “screamo”). This emotional basis also explains why the sound of fingernails on a blackboard resonates so violently with the human psyche. Similarly, if you ever wake up in the middle of the night as people in the next room are watching Psycho on top volume, you’ll get the feeling that not all has gone according to plan for the lady in the shower…

The scream, an explosion of emotion which words and articulation just can’t match, is incited by all kinds of causes – consider for example the excited ululations and yelps typical of folk music at a barn dance. The shouts and whoops stem from humankind’s love for ritualistic expressions of sheer energy (not to mention the effects of alcohol). The founding fathers of rock ‘n’ roll progressed (regressed?) from excited yelps to ecstatic screams: Little Richard’s short bursts of vocal violence on “Keep A-Knockin” are used to introduce saxophone solos, cymbal-bashing, and carnage on the dancefloor. His trademark vocal drop-offs resemble Michael Jackson’s signature “Owww!” – both are instances of the scream expressing the unbridled joy of rhythmic music. Led Zeppelin took the scream a step further, using it to express eroticism. As he sings “Whole Lotta Love”, Robert Plant’s crude posturing leaves little to the imagination: he builds from moans and groans to a full-on sustained roar, in front of an audience of free-lovers.

In Western Classical music, the scream is noticeably less common; its function is instead assumed by abrupt increases in the singer’s pitch and dynamics (as demonstrated by Pavarotti’s belting top note in “Nessun Dorma”). Its unique rawness is more strongly associated with modern composers such as Schoenberg, whose collection of songs Pierrot Lunaire is definitely not music to wake up to. The singing pitch is only approximated, and interspersed with episodes of jarring “Sprechgesang”, or “speech-singing” (a self-explanatory term). This feature, combined with volatile variations in dynamics and pitch, and a disregard for pretty tunes and harmonies, gives the singer the freedom to express through scream-like sounds the nightmarish world of the songs’ protagonist, Pierrot the Clown.

Far from being the mainstay of the twentieth-century “screamo” band, the scream is a tool for the musical expression of emotion at its limits; unleashed before it can be shaped by melody, lyric or articulation. Fear, energy, eroticism, the unconscious, madness, rage, Simon Cowell – sometimes, all you can do is twist and shout.

Students of composition have cause to be anxious. Despite their great commitment to their work, they are threatened with complete extinction. Every young composer is aware of the dangers of dedicating his or her future to a profession that may not have a future of its own.

There is only one demon to blame for this phenomenon. The ongoing debate over the “decline” of Classical music rages furiously in circles of musical purists, to the extent that it distracts almost completely from any actual compositional activity. As it leaks into the national media, the debate forces us to focus on the sea of grey hair that accompanies every performance of a Brahms symphony or Mozart concerto, and to wonder why young people are unable to appreciate Classical music as they once were. Have they been brainwashed by consumerism? Or has the advent of popular culture taken its toll on more traditional arts? One needs only to glance at the website www.musoc.org to get an idea of how far this argument can be taken.

Of course, none of this is really true. Hordes of young composers are composing all the time; it’s just that a large proportion of self-proclaimed lovers of Classical music are uninterested. Why risk attending a premiere of an unknown work by an unknown composer when you could go just as easily go listen to the London Symphony Orchestra play Mahler and guarantee yourself a great time? Thus a cycle of historical validation is born, in which only those great works of the great composers are cared about; and audiences are left disillusioned over why there are no twenty-first century equivalents of Beethoven or Mozart, all the while unwilling to try to find them. The culture of Classical music has entered a self-fulfilling crisis.

The BBC Proms – the world’s largest classical music festival – is always a good place to witness this phenomenon. The festival never fails to showcase great new works by living composers, but these pieces are generally received with a sense of tolerance, not anticipation. They end up feeling like gaps between performances of the favourites, and suffer from a palpable dip in enthusiasm.

There was no better example this year than the premiere of Mark Anthony-Turnage’s Hammered Out. The piece, so blatantly an orchestrated version of Beyoncé’s “Single Ladies” that any youthful ears would instantly have spotted the link, was scheduled awkwardly between performances of Barber and Sibelius, and was thus ill-suited to the audience. As a result, Turnage’s conscious tip of the hat to youth culture went largely unnoticed by the audience and press alike. This was music written deliberately for young people, and yet the circumstances were unfortunate enough for it to go unappreciated.

We may well complain about young people’s disinterest in Classical music, but in order to engage young people we need to recognise it as an art form with its place in the present as well as the past. It is the responsibility of music lovers to give living composers the attention that they deserve, to provide a platform for the musical present separate from the museum of the concert hall, and to breathe some life into an art form that is so often mistaken to be dead.