‘It’s about worrying and science and faith and miracles and love and memory’. In one breath, Rachel Barnett sums up the themes that run through her new play ‘The Law of Inertia’. The plot centers on a man who survives and near-fatal car accident and is left with questions of luck or destiny and begins to see danger lurking behind every corner. Barnett says that she came up with the idea in the midst of running her theatre company for children, Peut-Etre Theatre, and writing for theatre for education pieces for schools across the country. She refers to ‘The Law of Inertia’ as a ‘grown up play’ and its staged reading as a important step in the writing process.

The story of Barnett becoming a playwright raises the same questions of luck or destiny as her latest work. Writing her first play which was short-listed at a national festival at only 12 years old, young Barnett vowed not to write another play until she was 20, because, as she says ‘I was too young to know anything’. After taking it up again in university, Barnett applied to the Central School of Speech and Drama for a course in dramaturgy but was placed instead in the playwriting course. Since then, she says, she’s been writing plays to ‘pay the bills’. It seems that the combination of children’s theatre, TIE writing and the occasional ‘grown-up play’ has enabled Barnett to circumvent the stereotype of the starving artist and she is the first to admit that, ‘I am incredibly lucky that I’ve been able to support myself on my writing for the last four years’.

Barnett adores the world of children’s theatre, saying that it is very communal and ‘simply lovely’. New writing, however, she perceives as often a competition between who can be the ‘most hip’ new playwright: ‘I’m a geek.’ she says. ‘I’m not cool. I wear cardigans. My iTunes playlists are all from before the 1940s. I’m not political and I’m not with-it. I’m happy. I’m not hungry. And I’m not pretending to be hungry’. If this is why she doesn’t identify as a new writing playwright, it is to her credit; Barnett exudes contentment, warmth, and a down-to-earth quality which are rare in a playwright who can actually survive on playwriting.

Her advice for young playwrights that would like to follow in her footsteps is twofold: ‘Write a play and don’t expect people to put it on. Why should anyone put on your play?’ And, ‘Have a giggle’. With these adages, maybe playwrights would have to sacrifice high-brow artistic aspirations for writing children’s theatre and theatre for education. But maybe they would be better at paying the bills. And having a giggle.

‘The Law of Inertia’ is having a staged reading at the Burton-Taylor Studio, Wednesday August 25th. See www.oxfordplayhouse.com for details.

It was with a strange uneasiness that I made my third annual pilgrimage to the Big Chill. My previous two festivals had both been fantastic experiences, but it was not simply the weight of expectation that troubled me this time around. The festival brand was sold last September to Festival Republic, who are perhaps best known as the organisers of Reading and Leeds festivals. In the light of this I had certain anxieties as to whether one of the finest and most vibrant bastions of trip hop and ambient counterculture could withstand the onward march of the indie machine. One festival featuring acts such as Massive Attack, Bonobo, Roots Manuva and Morcheeba was not enough to confirm my fears. But my enduring feelings after the event were that the reference to the event as a ‘Chill’ amounted to almost criminal false advertising, and that a better outcome might have been served in allowing the Eastnor deer to enjoy what for the rest of the year is their exclusive pasture.

Now, before I’m accused of being a misery, I’m not trying to suggest that there was no fun to be had at the festival this year. It remains an excellent weekend, with a fantastic line up, weather (the sun always shines on Eastnor on the first weekend of August) and the best balance between site size and capacity of any festival I have been to. The site and its surrounding are beautiful, with the arena nestled in a part-wooded valley within sight of the Malvern Hills, one of the oldest mountain ranges on the planet. The festival has a tradition of curious artistic installations that shows no signs of retreat: one side of the valley was dotted with enormous flashing balls; the Starburst stage faced onto a field of brightly lit towers of water containers; and on Sunday morning there was the mass naked photograph organised by Spencer Tunick, without which any festival is incomplete. Nor was this year’s event by any means devoid of those great unifying moments that festivals rely upon for survival – Thom Yorke’s harrowing rendition of ‘Reckoner’ and a stage invasion to the tune of M.I.A.’s ‘Paper Planes’ in particular come to mind. But even these were somewhat tainted by the festival management: no sooner had the party begun on the Deer Park stage than the sound was cut and the ravers escorted from the premises.

The essence of the problem with this year’s festival seems able to be reduced to one factor: Festival Republic. Given the fantastic endowment of site, scenery and history passed on with the rights to the festival brand, it would have been remarkable if the festival had actually become a bad one, though clearly every effort was made in this respect. Instead it appears that the changes made to the existing formula were exclusively malign, but thankfully there were not enough of them to completely spoil the event. A reorganisation of the arena access shut off a path with a wonderful panoramic view of the site and surrounding hills, discouraged lounging and sun-worshipping on the adjacent slope and also denied access to the woodland that usually provides such a welcome variety of landscape. Other minor annoyances included the absence of screens next to most stages, including the main stage, and the failure of the famous Big Chill sign to stand upright for longer than ten minutes at a time. However, the single most efficient enjoyment sap of the weekend undoubtedly was the security policy. New ownership meant a new security firm whose personnel, either from habit or on orders, enacted the most intrusive and least ‘chilled’ treatment of paying customers I have seen at any such event. Gainsborough Security insisted on checking every wristband at every gate, regardless of the direction of travel. This led to bottlenecks and long queues of very frustrated festivalgoers, only partly placated by the apologetic smiles of the friendly Oxfam stewards. The new addition of campsite CCTV was creepy at best, and the supposed criminal activities of individuals that it was claimed had been caught on camera seemed a pretext to search any tent within the postcode. Tobacco, cigarette papers and alcohol in containers that were permitted were all arbitrarily confiscated from those with adult wristbands and confirming identification, and the experience of a friend working as a steward confirmed that these confiscated goods were seen as bounty by the security personnel. Given the inevitability that drugs will be taken to festivals, it seems abundantly clear that resources should be focussed upon controlling the substances that pose the greatest risk to all of those present. Refusing somebody entry to the festival because of possession of a cannabis grinder, despite having no cannabis, is a completely inappropriate way to treat a person who has spent upwards of £120 on a ticket to the festival. It was this level of intrusion that left such a bitter taste in my mouth at this year’s festival.

I was searched comprehensively twice in two days, was party to a run in with two undercover policemen, and either witnessed or heard countless reports of needless aggression, often aimed at those under the age of eighteen, on the part of the security personnel. It may be unfair to blame Festival Republic for all of this; to some extent Gainsborough Security may be responsible, or else new restrictions put into place by Herefordshire Council. If the council is to blame, I hold little hope for the future.
It seems there is a race on, a race to destroy festivals as a cultural expression. On the one hand we have the monopoly power of the music promoters. Companies like Festival Republic cannot help but trample on the autonomy that is so necessary for festivals to coexist as independent and distinct entities. On the other hand we have the creeping parasite that is council and police regulation, which places stringent security demands upon organisers and offers little or no funding, making such policies difficult to execute, and impossible to do so with any subtlety. This approach was employed to a ridiculous degree in the case of Glade Festival by the local authorities, and many suspect quite reasonably that it was done deliberately to drive the festival into the ground. Until festivals are seen as something other than an excuse to traffic and deal lavish quantities of Class A drugs, I cannot see the Big Chill being able to live up to its name. And until Festival Republic relinquishes its monopoly grip on the festival market, I fear that Eastnor is sliding towards becoming the third Carling Weekend.

At the press conference for Edgar Wright’s new film, ‘Scott Pigrim vs. The World’, Jason Schwartzman walks into the room with black markered writing on his cheek, with something red underneath. He is joined by Michael Cera (who plays Scott), a beefy Brandon Routh (Evil Ex #3, the diabolical vegan Todd), and Satya Bhabha (Evil Ex #1, Matthew Patel).

Nearly fifteen minutes pass before anyone – okay, it was me – asks him about this. Schwartzman, who plays arch-villain Gideon Graves in the film, has clearly been longing to be asked, and reveals that Cera had autographed his face and planted a big kiss underneath. “It’s a symbol of the ‘Scott Pilgrim’ experience,” he explains with a half-sincere wistfulness, “the times we had… like smoke from a birthday candle that just got burnt out.” Riiiight. “Sorry, we’re on Moscow time,” he offers as a further non-explanation. Clearly, the boys have been enjoying their stint in London.

From there, the conversation turns to the actors’ preparation for their roles. To my complete non-surprise, none of them had read the comics previously, nor do any of them play video games, which may have something to do with the fact that they are interesting people with cool jobs. Cera notes that he “watched a lot of Cassius Clay” on YouTube to prepare for his fight scenes. As Brandon Routh talks about learning to play the bass for his role, all I can think about is how incredibly large his biceps are. Each is roughly the size of Cera’s head. I’ve never applied the words ‘brawny’ and ‘strapping’ to a member of the opposite sex without a heavy dose of sarcasm, but Routh fits the bill.

By all accounts there was little room for improvisation: the storyboards and dialogue were largely taken directly from the source material. Schwartzman notes that Wright had spent ‘six or seven years’ on the adaptation, and the effort to get every detail comes through in the film. The slightly defensive tone of his words and the solemn nods of the other panelists are the first oblique hint to the film’s lackluster performance in the States.

With blood in the water, the journos make their move: ‘Who’s the audience for this film?’ one asks. The actors laugh too loudly and shift in their seats when Cera responds with “People who like fun? People who like movies? If you hate movies, stay at home.” Bhabha takes up the ‘functional members of society don’t want to see a movie about video games’ issue head-on, adding “people don’t talk about ‘The Matrix’ like, ‘Oh, I can’t fly, I won’t enjoy it.” I find myself rooting for Bhabha, and wanting to lob my pencil onto the reporter’s bald spot and see a ‘Scott Pilgrim’-esque score float above when it sticks. The movie isn’t about video games at all – they’re just a source of visual inspiration.

The first half of the conference ends on this slightly wounded note, and the second panel – consisting of Edgar Wright, Mary Elizabeth Winstead (Ramona) Kieran Culkin (Scott’s roommate, Wallace), Anna Kendrick (Stacey Pilgrim), and Ellen Wong (Knives Chau, Scott’s other love interest) – enters the room. Gone is the fraternal group dynamic – Culkin spends much of the time twirling a loop of fabric around his hands, and Kendrick pulls her knees up to her chin and toys with her hair. Wright and Wong (an unintentional pun) get most of the attention.

Discussion turns to the casting process – Wright comments that he had a strict ‘no Brits’ policy for casting the film, but that Bhabha had put on a convincing North American accent and snuck through. Culkin, whose hair needs washing, speaks with a note of detectable irritation at having had to read for Wallace more than once. I find it difficult to stifle a laugh when he goes out of his way to insist that he’d never have wanted to play the lead. He’s hilarious in the film, but I don’t think he needs to worry about those pesky leading man roles being forced upon him.

Wong, the newcomer of the cast, is completely adorable and clearly ecstatic to be doing her First Big Publicity Tour. The younger male reporters throw her some easy ones just to hear her speak, and honestly, I don’t blame them. Sadly though, the questions never pick up much momentum. Toward the end of the session, a reporter asks Wright if he planned to use game-inspired visuals in future projects (see what I mean about the questions?). Wright immediately laughs it off, shaking his head and saying ‘Yeah, maybe the next one could be Jane Austen with Mario noises all the way through.’ He trails off, still laughing. But you could tell he was sort of considering it. Dude. I’m so there.