Not that many people will have noticed, but the legendary horror studio Hammer has been resurrected quite suddenly for the first time in 25 years, determined to reign supreme over horror once more. Yet if anyone is expecting heaving bosoms, creepy castles and Christopher Lee, prepare for disappointment. Instead, Hammer have chosen to concentrate on some decidedly un-camp vampires with Let Me In, signalling their newfound desire to be taken seriously. Unfortunately for them, the film is a remake of a Swedish original – Tomas Alfredson’s Let the Right One In – that just so happens to be one of the greatest movies of the decade, and as a result, no matter how good the intentions of its makers, it is a film inevitably inferior to its foreign parent.

It tells the story of Owen (Kodi Smit-McPhee), a lonely 12 year old boy living with his mother in New Mexico. Frequently bullied by his classmates, his isolation is ended with the arrival to the apartment building of an old man accompanied by a young girl, Abby (Chloe Moretz). The two children gradually become close, but in the process, it becomes clear that Abby may be slightly less innocent than she appears.

Writer/director Matt Reeves has announced publicly how much he loves the original, so it seems a curious decision to try and re-do a film so lacking in flaws. Still, his fidelity and enthusiasm show throughout as he sticks fairly closely to Alfredson’s film in both pacing and tone; indeed, it is somewhat frustrating to see Reeves so reluctant to give his film a more distinctive, individual feel, and at certain points, it begins to feel like little more than a pointlessly loyal translation. Yet while there are certain interesting additions, the only major change Reeves makes in his adaptation is for the worse, as he systematically excises the mysteries and ambiguities that made Let the Right One In so successful.

This essential, fatal flaw totally hobbles Let Me In; it is full of unnecessary simplifications showing an insulting lack of respect for the audience. The most glaring is the decision to tell us exactly why Abby lives with an old man. This move is utterly typical of the film’s timid and infuriating tendency to spoon-feed its audience with answers, and the result is a hollow, un-scary and thoroughly forgettable experience. Seek out the original on DVD instead.

Silence is highly underrated, and Mike Leigh knows it. In his newest film, Another Year, he shows certain characters constantly competing to fill gaps in conversations with words, no matter how ill-thought out or banal they might be, and any solitary, silent contemplation comes as a welcome relief. At times, it makes for an uncomfortably realistic watch, and is made even more so by the semi-improvised script that is Leigh’s trademark. Yet though Another Year lacks any rigid or strict plotting – aside from the distinctly seasonal four act structure – this is a film brimming with ideas as well as emotions, offering profound and melancholic meditations on life, death and loneliness.

The film follows Tom (Jim Broadbent) and Gerri (Ruth Sheen) – they have learned to live with the joke – a happy couple approaching retirement, whose only regular pastime is to tend to their allotment. Around their contented existence orbit several, usually lonely, souls, including their perpetually single son, Joe (Oliver Maltman), an old alcoholic friend, Ken (Peter Wight), and, most importantly, Mary (Lesley Manville). Hers is a heartbreaking character, as Manville expertly communicates her intense isolation and desperate need to find someone, both in her frantic, fill-the-silence monologues and her quieter moments, staring into space. She is a character desperate for acceptance, and could easily become irritating, but Manville’s beautifully judged performance prevents this, and instead, with her enormous eyes perpetually threatening to spill over with tears, she is the film’s greatest strength.

Leigh is famous for his unique filmmaking process, which begins without a script and instead allows the film to take shape over a six-month rehearsal process with the actors. This commitment pays off dividends here, as every character is fully formed and utterly real, for which credit must go not only to the performances but also to Leigh’s subtle and skilful direction.

He knows exactly how long the camera should watch a face, and always finds the moment when the façade breaks down and we see the heartbreak or happiness underneath.

Thankfully, we are never forced to spend any time with a protagonist as irritating as Poppy, the perpetually, insufferably positive heroine of his last film, Happy-Go-Lucky. Instead, this is a film populated by very real, familiar characters devoid of gimmickry, and is all the more effective for it.

Leigh’s films regularly show fascination with the less glamorous, often banal sides of life, and even seem to celebrate it. This certainly true here, and despite the Vaughn Williams-esque soundtrack, Another Year is thankfully lacking in artificial emotion ready-made for audience consumption. Instead, Leigh allows his actors and their carefully crafted, uncomfortably familiar characters to communicate their most secret thoughts and feelings, often without ever saying a word. The film begins and ends with a heart-breaking close-up of a character wrestling with their own loneliness, and each moment is filled with far more emotional power than any swelling strings or tearful confessions could summon up. It is a phenomenally mature, understated film that simultaneously overflows with all the emotions of life, presenting joy and misery in equal measure, and shows that the sexagenarian Leigh still remains one of Britain’s greatest living directors.

In 1944 Lucien Carr stabbed David Kammerer to death in a park on the Hudson River in New York. These names may not be recognisable but it was a crucial moment in the formation of the so called Beat Generation, which influenced almost all music, art and literature which followed.
The beginnings of the Beat Generation can be traced back to Columbia University where the likes of Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg, Lucien Carr and Hal Chase formed a tight-knit group of friends who enjoyed discussing philosophy and indulging in ‘actes gratuits’, actions with no conceivable reason nor point. Added to this group were two older men: William Burroughs, a Harvard graduate, who lived a life of leisure and narcotics and David Kammerer, a man who was obsessed with the young and brilliant Lucien Carr.

The death of Kammerer was the spur for both Kerouac and Burroughs to start writing properly. In the year after the incident they wrote together, providing alternate chapters for And the Hippos Were Boiled in their Tanks, a fictional account of the murder. They failed to have it published but the impact of the event is clear, especially as Kerouac returned to it in two further novels, The Town and the City and The Vanity of Duluoz.

When Carr was released from prison two years later, he, the original shining light of the group, withdrew to join United Press with whom he stayed for the rest of his life. The others remained, living a life of excess which fuelled their writing. Burroughs in particular was known for his drug taking and wild lifestyle. He became addicted to heroin, the substance which inspired his novels, Junky and Naked Lunch and wrestled with his sexuality. Although he knew that he was gay, he lived with a woman called Joan Vollmer, who he shot in a drunken game of William Tell at a party in 1951.

Many of the people and experiences of the Beat Generation can be found in Jack Kerouac’s seminal novel, On the Road. Written in an intense three week period in 1951 on a continuous, 120 foot scroll of tracing paper sheets that he taped together, it was to become one of the most important works of the 20th Century and is considered the essential Beat work.

The influence of the Beats can be seen everywhere, from the novels of Hunter S. Thompson and Bret Easton Ellis, to the music of Bob Dylan and Tom Waits. This article is just a taster of what they have to offer; I don’t have space to talk of Ginsberg and Corso, of Tangiers and Paris, of the San Francisco Renaissance and the later Beatniks. But I urge you to find out for yourself; it is one of the most fascinating and inspiring groups of people, full of murder and intrigue and most importantly, amazing writing.

There have been moments when the contradictions at the heart of the American dream have been too much to bear. These moments of political, social, and cultural crisis take different forms. Sometimes the discontent, like blood, spurts violently, and sometimes it oozes. It’s too early to tell where the Tea Party, and the new culture wars of this new century, will fit into the pattern. Maybe Philip Roth will write something to help us make sense of it all.

In three books – American Pastoral (1997), I Married a Communist (1998), and The Human Stain (2000) – Roth traced the agony of these contradictions through the second half of the last century. If the American dream says that through great struggle and hard work, each individual can transcend not only his own past but the whole society he lives in, and be free to make his own world for himself; Roth chronicles the tragic and inevitable failure of that ideal for each of his protagonists.

All three men follow similar arcs, from success to hubris to defeat. Swede Levov, in American Pastoral, had gone from high-school hero to successful businessman, a nice house in the country, marriage to a Miss New Jersey; ‘a shiksa. Dawn Dwyer. He’d done it.’ It is the war in Vietnam – in which young men and baseball stars are forced to fight for humanity’s right to be successful businessmen and marry beauty queens instead of living in a communist dictatorship – that brings ‘the Swede’ down. War as a social crisis, and a crisis of imperial confidence.
I Married a Communist deals with an earlier crisis, the McCarthyism of the 1950s. Ira Ringold, radio star, communist, destroys himself against the rocks of an American establishment. ‘Don’t let him fill you full of Communist ideas, kid. They’re all lies. Make money. Money’s not a lie. Money’s the democratic way to keep score.’ In other words, only a certain type of freedom is allowed, which is perhaps no freedom at all.
The Human Stain’s backdrop seems like an anticlimax in comparison to Vietnam and the Red Scare: it is Clinton and the Monica Lewinski scandal. But of course, the anticlimax of American development is partly Roth’s point. In this book the background of historical events is more muted, but deeper. It’s about race, and sex, and transcendence: from law, from decorum, from community, from past. It holds up the triumph of the individual, the stuff of the American dream, not just to scrutiny but to ridicule.

That same sense of the ridiculous has stalked the Tea Party since its creation. But, as in Roth’s stories, there is pathos too. The people who march for their freedom – freedom from state-funded healthcare, from the right to choose, from sexual equality, from welfare – have been trapped and duped by that powerful dream, that through hard work they can make their own worlds for themselves. The irony is that their collective action shows the opposite: we must make one world, all together, for each other.

World War 2 was over, and the American Dream was dead. So it goes. A generation of hard-eyed young men had arrived back in the States with crushing poverty, grim stubble and thousand-yard stares. Reality sucked, and these young men took refuge from it wherever they could find an escape route. Whiskey, the old favourite. The newly discovered Lysergic Acid Diethylamide – LSD-25. And, increasingly, science fiction.
You won’t find Kurt Vonnegut in any anthology of New Journalism, but Vonnegut was as fierce as any journalist in using a mixture of reporting and literature to attack the American malaise. ‘All this happened, more or less’ – the opening words of Slaughterhouse-Five – was the closest thing the New Journalism had to a motto.

Then New Journalism happened. Like differential calculus, it came to several people at once. Nobody really knows where it came from, but all of a sudden bored features writers started turning their interviews and law reports into short stories. Experimentation went viral, spreading through magazines and papers. Writers everywhere began using society pieces, sports reports, hell, brother, even news as springboards for their frustrated literary careers.

Esquire, The New Yorker, The Atlantic Monthly, Gay Talese, Terry Southern, Tom Wolfe – all the big names were at it, trying to work out just how far they could push the boundaries of reporting before they pissed off their editors. Hunter S. Thompson took a giant leap forward with his masterpiece of deranged gonzo writing, The Kentucky Derby is Decadent and Depraved, satirising high society, the racing world and himself with trademark irony.

The American Dream might have died, but the American Hallucination was in full riotous swing. Next, the novel. Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood. Norman Mailer’s The Armies of the Night. Gay Talese’s grossly underrated Honor Thy Father, which tells the true story of a mafia family in every detail except the crime.

The New Journalism was irresistible. Your life, your ordinary American life, turned into a novel. Who could refuse?

But sometime after 1980, the new journalism died a lingering and painless death. The literary techniques were gradually phased out, like morphine from a patient with some terminal illness. But its impact was to last, and no American novelist today is wholly free of its influence. All of this happened, more or less, all of this actually happened, brother – the idea has a force entirely its own, and who could rule out its return?

Like the small craft in the title, Brian Eno’s latest offering of tasteful ambient electronica spends most of its time drifting around aimlessly. In contrast to most of Eno’s albums, Small Craft On A Milk Sea consists not of a handful of extended suites, but of sixteen disparate miniatures. Earlier works like 1978’s Ambient 1: Music For Airports were unified by recurrent motifs, but this is more of a haphazard collage.

The nature of the album’s genesis will therefore come as no surprise. Eno’s stated ambition was to make an album that resembles a film soundtrack in its ‘incompleteness’: each track is in effect a tableau that evokes a shifting cinematic landscape, to which the music is no more than an accompaniment. To achieve this, Eno built some of the tracks from his rejected soundtrack to Peter Jackson’s The Lovely Bones, others from randomly generated chords, and others yet through improvisation.
The result is inconsistent. Some of the tracks are as atmospheric as the ozone layer: best of all is ‘Written, Forgotten’, a Johnny Greenwood-esque arrangement of brooding strings set against barely audible whispers and animal cries. Others are dated experiments in electronic textures: opener ‘Emerald And Lime’, which sounds like the underwater music from Super Mario 64, is as glossy and lifeless as the name suggests.

Small Craft is Eno’s first release on Warp Records, a label that owes a lot to the artist’s pioneering electronic music of the seventies and eighties. The album certainly fits into the Warp catalogue: it sounds like early Eno refracted by Aphex Twin and Radiohead. As rough in conception as its production is polished, it is an imperfect but worthwhile update of the ambient Eno sound.

British music is on fire. There’s so much good stuff at the moment and it’s all in the charts’. Amen to that. 2010 has been something of a golden year for British music: the breakthrough of genres such as dubstep, bassline and funky into the mainstream has led to ‘a sound that you’d never hear anywhere else in the world – a sound which is distinctly British’, reckons Annie. ‘I like the fact that you can’t define the 2010 genre’. Indeed, the current music scene is arguably the edgiest it’s ever been – and Annie Mac is right at its centre.

Since taking over from Pete Tong’s prime-time 7-9pm Friday slot on Radio 1, the nation’s foremost music radio station, Annie Mac has established herself as the mistress of new music. Her mere two hours of needle time have catapulted her to fame and recognition: in 2009 she won ‘Best Female’ at the Drum and Bass awards for her promotion of the genre.

But it hasn’t all been plain sailing. ‘Not long ago I had three jobs, worked for loads of different stations, went to interview bands in my lunch break then came back and produced my own show’, Annie says. ‘I spent two years pounding on the doors of the Radio 1 offices: it’s a tough business to crack’. She finally got her break while working as assistant producer on Zane Lowe’s show – her demos and determination impressed her Radio 1 bosses, and she was given her own show.

Over the last few years, Annie has built a covetable reputation as a UK new music maverick. She is far from pigeon-holed: her innovative dance remixes, which receive nationwide acclaim, are influenced by jungle, dub, garage, rock and indie. Annie’s success as a DJ is mostly due to her unique and overwhelmingly popular sound.
It is the same eclecticism that Annie looks for when scouring the country for new talent. ‘Originality is the key’, she muses. ‘I’m always on the lookout for something fresh, something imaginative. Half of the music I play could be pop music if Radio 1 really pushed it’. Trailblazing DJs such as Annie are the reason why artists such as Oxford’s own up-an-coming producer Totally Enormous Extinct Dinosaurs (T.E.E.D.), who is supporting her on her current tour, have become iPod essentials this year. ‘Local man T.E.E.D. is a really good producer and songwriter’, she enthuses. ‘His music is very exciting’.

Radio’s influence over the popular music scene is not a new phenomenon: it has always been a dominant tool in the industry. In the 1960s, entrepreneurs and music enthusiasts set up hundreds of pirate stations just off the British coastline, in order to meet the high demand for pop music not catered for by BBC Radio. The radio dictated its audience’s taste: if the presenters didn’t like a track, the country didn’t hear it. Pirate radio was outlawed before long, and in response to the ensuing public demand for legal pop stations, the BBC founded Radio 1.

The enduring power of radio is undeniable, and Radio 1 in particular continues to mould the charts. It is because of audacious DJs such as Annie that the mainstream has embraced something more experimental than regular doses of Derulo. Perhaps a definition of the ‘2010 genre’ can be found in this popularization of a wide range of genres. ‘I love this sound so much, I’m just going to keep playing and playing it’.

The ukulele – a small, four-stringed member of the guitar family – is becoming ever more ubiquitous in modern popular music. It’s difficult to separate the instrument’s ascendancy from the rise to fame of The Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain, an eclectic octet of musicians formed in 1985. I went along to meet them before their recent gig in London, with the intention of finding out what exactly it is that makes the sound of the diminutive chordophone so contagious.

Sitting in on the sound check with their manager, Jodie, is almost as entertaining as the show itself. As we watch the band members jibe each other playfully and launch into occasional impromptu solos, Jodie confides that “the ukulele is an approachable instrument”. While admitting that she doesn’t play the ukulele herself, she extols it virtues as if she did. “It’s rewarding… you can achieve a high standard in a shorter amount of time than with other instruments”.

She tells me how the ukulele has opened up the world of music to people who wouldn’t otherwise have had the confidence to pick up an instrument. The orchestra has a markedly inclusive approach: it has performed to a sold-out Royal Albert Hall at the BBC Proms in 2009, but has also shared a far smaller stage with a group of ukulele-playing pensioners who “just played a C if they weren’t too sure”.

Our conversation is abruptly cut off by the beginning of the rehearsal proper. I soon realise that, for all the self-deprecating banter and easy-going attitude, these performers have considerable musical talent, and moreover are very attuned to each other. The diverse individual voices blend with the twang of skilful strumming and plucking to create a melodic, wonderfully arranged sound. Set highlights include a cover of The Who’s ‘Pinball Wizard’ (in the style of a sea shanty), ‘Teenage Kicks’ by The Undertones, Ennio Morricone’s theme for The Good, The Bad, And The Ugly, and a fantastic mash-up that includes everything from Handel to Frank Sinatra, via Gloria Gaynor.

Backstage after the sound check, I am invited into a dressing room to have a chat with the band’s two female members, Hester Goodman and Kitty Lux. The others are off changing into their trademark black tie dress code; they are an orchestra, and like to dress accordingly.

I ask how, after more than twenty years together at the forefront of the popularisation of the ukulele, the performers’ attitudes toward their instrument has changed since the group’s foundation. “People used to laugh. No one knew what it was”, Kitty recalls, explaining that the warm reception the ukulele enjoys today has not always been the norm. In the past, support was contained mainly in “small pockets of enthusiasm”. Hester recalls one angry letter they received from someone who had taken offence at their version of Eric Coates’s ‘The Dambusters’, mistaking their playful attitude for outright disrespect.

The UOGB is indeed good at deflating the pretentiousness and injecting whimsy into the music that it covers. During their evening performance, they somehow manage to sing the words “I am an Antichrist” (during their version of ‘Anarchy In The UK’) and come off sounding clean. I wonder whether there are any songs which they consider “too sacred” for the ukulele treatment. “You can make anything ‘go’ on the ukulele”, explains Kitty. “But some things seem to work better and are more worthwhile to play… probably because they’re just better written”.

Their appearance at the Proms last year was a career high, and the fulfilment of a long-held dream. Their performance was the first and only late-night Prom to sell out entirely; what’s more, in a ground-breaking show of ukulele player solidarity, they were joined by a thousand audience members for an ecstatic rendition of ‘Ode To Joy’. When I ask Hester and Kitty how it felt to fill the Royal Albert Hall with Ukuleles, a smile passes between them: “It was a real accolade”, grins Hester. “There was a moment where people started waving ukuleles above their heads… it felt incredible”. Yet their career hasn’t peaked just yet. “We’ve sold out the Carnegie Hall in New York for the second of November!”, they exclaim. Not bad for an instrument that, until recently, was often mistaken for a toy guitar.

As the play opens one is presented with a somewhat bewildering array of actors littered across the stage and the mood, set by some well-chosen music, is convincingly sombre. If I had to describe the opening atmosphere in a word it would be ‘lugubrious’, which, to my mind, is something of a testament to Director Tatiana Hennessy’s skill.

One realises immediately that this is a play without ornament or gimmick and so relies heavily on its cast. In the face of such pressure, this cast perform admirably. The dynamic achieved between Jack Peter’s Hark and Timothy Coleman’s Dido is utterly convincing but some of Dido’s camper moments leave a little to be desired. Aidan Russel’s Seph, however, deserves special mention: that a character, even when not speaking, can be so believable, is a triumph. Lucy Fyffe, a talented actress as it is, has a pleasing resemblance to Sinéad O’Connor, which, although by a perhaps somewhat asinine logic, gives the feeling that she is right for the part. Moya Hughes too looks the part but also has couple of moments of endearingly real performance.

Indeed the entire cast, when there are moments of cheerfulness, succeed in making it look forced, which, rather than being a veiled criticism, is genuine compliment because their characters would surely have had to have forced themselves to be cheerful. Furthermore, if there was one character whose cheerfulness seemed more genuine, it would be Dido, which again works well with the commentary that the play attempts to achieve. The staples of good drama such as a slap and the all-important kiss are polished and well-executed, even if the slap might have been overplayed to the detriment of Jack Peter’s face and the kiss underplayed to the detriment of the voyeur.

One cannot escape, however, the political element to this play: set in the aftermath of Bloody Sunday in Derry, there are striking parallels drawn to the events surrounding the release of the Saville Inquiry. Some may remember the ceremony where the victims’ names were read by relatives who finally felt as if they had some closure, which contrasts sharply with the limbo-state the characters find themselves in. There are deeper truths to be found in this play too: as the director put it, ‘The play has some pretty powerful things to say about facing up to the truth – all of the characters are in some way lying to each other and to themselves, and ultimately what makes the play so redemptive is that they all come to appreciate the importance of facing up to things – ‘living with what you’ve done’, as one of them says. I also chose it because I think it deals powerfully and beautifully with the way we as individuals deal with grief, balancing raw outbursts with humour and even poetry and song.’

This production of ‘Carthaginians’ promises to be a highlight of the Michaelmas term, and the entire cast and crew are to be commended.