In the frantic fortnight following the release of A-level results, the national papers are warning us that millions of pupils will be left without a place at university, doomed to wander the streets in feral hordes or to get a job at Krispy Kreme Donuts to fund their rampant mephadrone addiction. But spare a thought for Dragonette.

The irresistibly likeable Canadian disco act have already been turned down twice by the UK, and now they’re back again.Third time lucky? Will these deserving foreign students get a place in our hearts? Cherwell takes a look at their UCAS application…

QUALIFICATIONS (with teachers’ comments):

First album – Galore, 2007

Music: instantly catchy tunes with an unerring ear for pastiche ranging from Bollywood to 50s pop (A*)
English: cheerfully inept (‘Goodness I like this / Being your mistress’) but with a certain Patsy Clineish class (B)
Chemistry: mostly effervescent – saccharine-based with some acerbic compounds (A)
Food Technology: good command of texture, and everything leaves a juicy and strangely satisfying taste (A)

Second album – Fixin to Thrill, 2009

Music: Country and Western for the synth-pop generation, pure ‘n’ simple. A few cringeworthy dud tracks, but ultimately this is a cracking record. Best use of the banjo this side of the millennium in Gone Too Far (A)
PE: obsessive focus on dance. Even sex seems to be the horizontal expression of a vertical desire (A)
English: frankly not much improvement (Executive access to upper classes / So run and get me some of ’em big sunglasses’). But this is pop, so what the hell (B)
Performing Arts: the only word that comes close to describing Dragonette’s stagecraft is ‘electric.’ These guys might have supported Basement Jaxx back in the day, but right now they look capable of headlining a tour of similar magnitude (A*, assessed August 28 at 93 Feet East, Brick Lane)

INTERVIEW NOTES

Candidate (Martina Sorbara) seems candid, articulate and confident but without arrogance. And, this Oxford don cannot help adding, really quite sexy, in an American sort of way.

Asked about her lack of success with previous applications in the UK, she seemed to feel let down by her representation: ‘It’s the worst! It really is! They didn’t really have any idea what do do: they were like ‘okay, where do we put this?”

She was eager to differentiate her group from well-groomed public school applicants: ‘our records are made in a spare bedroom in my house. I consider them homespun.’ The candidate pointed to previous success in America. ‘Being the kind of band we are, we get surprised – everything grows without our knowledge. I guess you could call it a Kinder Surprise career – we’re never quite sure what’s going to be inside the egg.’ And everything is coated in sugar, I don’t reply.

The candidate admits to being adrift from contemporary music. ‘I live in oblivion a little bit. I have to force myself to listen to music. I fill up my iPod with history podcasts and stories. I got fascinated by the Dark Ages last month.’ Confesses to idiosyncratic and conservative musical taste: ‘when I get home, I just want to listen to the old records I know off by heart – Talk Talk, Nick Lowe, a lot of country. Most of my lyrics have their origins in country.’

At this point conversation spun out of control as the interviewer could not hold back any longer from asking about the band’s name. ‘We just thought it sounded like a fun word,’ said the candidate. ‘But then we discovered it was a kind of fish.’ [NB: a dragonet is a brightly-coloured fish that lurks in the mud at the bottom of the sea. We did not pursue the analogy.] When the interviewer suggested that Dragonette was a Pokemon, the candidate seemed confused and replied that Pokemon had probably stolen the name off them.

VERDICT

As much talent and charisma as previously successful scholars such as La Roux and Lights. Some might say more. For pity’s sake let’s offer them a Rhodes scholarship before they give up on Britain altogether…

‘Film is dead.’ So proclaims Will Self, the infamous intellectual and novelist, in an article for The Times on 28th August promoting his new book, ‘Walking to Hollywood’. As opening lines go, it’s a fairly bold one, no doubt intended to spark the reader’s interest and outrage, but, upon closer inspection, his argument actually turns out to be rather less histrionic and self-evidently incorrect than this.

He is quick to qualify his claim by explaining, ‘I don’t mean that people aren’t making films, or that other people aren’t watching them – it’s just that film is no longer the dominant narrative medium, its near century-long hegemony over the imaginations of the greater part of the world’s population has ended.’ To paraphrase, Self didactically informs us that film is no longer the central monolith of popular culture; its role in people’s lives and imaginations has diminished considerably, and its dominant cultural position has instead been replaced by a salmagundi of different institutions. He laments how, ‘When I talk to my older children… [and] their friends, I have no sense of film’s centrality for them; instead they are at the vortex of so much full-motion imagery – on TVs, computer screens, games consoles, CCTV, 3G phones – that the silver screen hovers only in their mid-distance, a ghostly presence unless animated by the next big, novelty spectacle.’

To give Self his due, his isn’t an unusual or unique position, as he proves by asking all those he comes into contact with whether film really is dead. According to his accounts, everyone from Daniel Craig to Jonathan Coe agrees wholeheartedly with his self-assuredly pessimistic mortician’s report, and he then sets about walking to Hollywood (via Heathrow) in order to track down the killer. His belief that film’s ‘cultural primacy’ has been lost would, one might assume, lead him to examine why the rise of DVDs and the internet has been so meteorically successful, as well as examining where exactly cinemas – rather than filmmakers, as Self acknowledges that ‘good – even great – movies are still being made’ – have gone wrong. Disappointingly, such an examination is nowhere to be found. Instead, his article is more of a vague eulogy for a more mythical time in movies, when one big release might define a generation: ‘Without a common horde of film references… it’s difficult to see how my generation would cohere at all. We’re stuck together by Steve McQueen tossing a baseball against a cell wall, Lauren Bacall putting her lips together to blow, Anthony Hopkins sucking up invisible fava beans…’

The first thing to notice about this last quotation is just how diverse the films that supposedly unite his generation really are; respectively, he references ‘The Great Escape’, ‘To Have and Have Not’ and ‘The Silence of the Lambs’ as cultural touchstones for people of around his age (Self is forty-eight, going on forty-nine), yet the release dates for these films span from 1944 to 1991. The second is just how recognisable these references are to any generation – he cannot seriously claim these iconic moments loom large only in the mind of the middle-aged. It is also somewhat frustrating to find oneself being spoken for in this article, as he confidently observes how those in their late teens and early twenties are no longer united by film. This observation must either be wilfully selective or else be made in phenomenal ignorance of youth’s diversity. If his children and their friends do not have film as a cultural centrepiece to their lives then fair enough, but one should take exception at his attempts to extrapolate this across the entirety of today’s youth.

Even more important is a point which Self appears to ignore entirely: the question of whether or not film remains the most significant facet of modern culture presupposes its previous dominance. While Self argues that McQueen, Bacall and Hopkins unite his generation, I am utterly certain that huge swathes of forty-eight year olds would disagree, and perhaps even fail to recognise which three films he is referring to. It is wrong to claim flatly that film has been the cultural centrepiece of the twentieth century – for many, its primacy has never been the case. With this in mind, it becomes clear that the subsequent argument – that film (or film’s primacy) has died – is equally subjective. The friends and colleagues he encounters may agree with him, but for many – including my own group of peers – film has never been more of a potent and unifying force in culture.

I fear also that Self may be viewing cinematic history through a lens darkly distorted by nostalgia. While he writes of growing up with such undisputed classics as ‘Chinatown’ and ‘Apocalypse Now’, he unfairly contrasts these with three lacklustre releases of 2008: ‘The Incredible Hulk’, ‘Wanted’ and ‘The Love Guru’. In this way, he is pitting the best that the cinema of his youth has to offer against the worst of today’s – an unfair and transparently selective technique. In fact, in my experience, 2008 was a year that proved once again film’s cultural primacy; this was the year of ‘The Dark Knight’, a film that seemed to define the summer. Going further afield, one only has to glance at India’s Bollywood to see a film industry that dwarves Hollywood in its production rates and that has ensured that films have become a unifying and staggeringly popular force all across the country. His belief that film’s cultural primacy is dead cannot really be disproved, but it can be challenged. I cannot personally think of any other cultural medium that unites people in the way that film can – it is rare for a book or video game to be so widely experienced and discussed in the way that certain films are. Film is the most democratic and inclusive of experiences, and it is yet to be bettered in this way.

Ultimately, however, Self seems unsure of exactly who or what he is attacking. He flips between lamenting the rise of choice in our lives (wistfully recalling the days of ‘three terrestrial television channels’) and attacking the current state of films and their quality. The first point is hardly fitting of a riposte, except to condemn it as nostalgia at its most simplistic and tiresome, while the second is, to labour the point, subjective. I would argue that, with films such as ‘Synecdoche, New York’, ‘There Will Be Blood’ and ‘Let the Right One In’, quality cinema is most definitely alive and well, though I will happily acknowledge its current health cannot be objectively assessed (unless done so financially). If Will Self believes that films ain’t what they used to be, then so be it, but I can only pity him for being unaware of, or stubbornly ignoring, the masterpieces that the universally inclusive medium of film continues to produce.

This is a special one. A real, real delight. Unheard of until it surprisingly picked up the Oscar for Best Foreign Film, ‘The Secret in Their Eyes’ has since left the borders of Argentina and is now finally brought to us all around the world. Having not seen the other contenders for that award, and knowing that both ‘A Prophet’ and ‘The White Ribbon’ were also very well regarded, this reviewer cannot fairly say whether it deserved to win. All he knows is that it has warmed his heart in the strangest but most sincere of ways, by being a film that is both touchingly romantic and an exhibit of aching injustice, all through the eyes of a man too gentle to deserve the tormenting of his soul for over twenty years.

That man, Esposito, never got over one of the crimes he once had to investigate when working as a federal agent, and now, as a nostalgic old retiree, he’s intent on writing a book about it to try and free himself of its pain once and for all. Through flashbacks, we learn of his life and what he went through. The crime bugging him was a rape and homicide case, in which a young, just-married woman was taken away from her lover, and the authorities then immune from real notions of justice blamed the crime on whoever they could, closed the file and moved on. As Esposito explained to his senior and then love-interest, what aggravated him so much about the case and what compelled him to fight on was the look in the eyes of the man who had been deprived of justice. The woman’s husband spent most of the next year of his life sitting on a bench in the city’s main train station, looking out for the man both him and Esposito suspected of having really committed the crime. For his sake, he fought on, reopening a case and story that continually surprises in the emotions it stirs.

It’s solemn, but it’s not all as grim as it sounds. There’s plenty of quiet humour here, especially in the film’s early stages and between Esposito and his work partner, a clumsy alcoholic who actually provides the biggest breakthrough in the case by noting that regardless of a man’s ability to change his location, relationships and work habits, no man can change his passion. Letters sent from their seemingly invisible suspect thus lead them to a football game, and in dedication to the husband’s train-watching, they spend months scouring the explosive crowd, an activity that ends up leading to both a breakthrough and one of the film’s best sequences.

It’s not possible to say much more, for it is in the context of becoming absorbed by these characters and truly caring for them that the film’s unforeseen events, when revealed to us, have their most powerful impact. You’ll just have to take this reviewer’s word for it: it’s perfectly done. A touching tale, that couldn’t have been told, acted or written much better than it is.

There was something about the first cinematic instalment of late author Stieg Larsson’s Millennium Trilogy that made ‘The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo’ that little bit better than most crime-related mysteries. That film felt fresh, frighteningly cold in both its storytelling and setting, and it gave us a ridiculously intriguing female protagonist that remained stunningly elusive throughout. That small, leather-wearing, short black-haired cyberpunk with a history of violence and sexual abuse returns here, and when embodied by a little-known Swedish actress named Noomi Rapace, Lisbeth Salander ensures that at least whilst she’s on screen, ‘The Girl Who Played with Fire’ feels as distinctively funky as the film that preceded it.

It’s a shame, then, that this second effort in the series somehow loses the magic of its predecessor in every other respect. The solid, stern-looking investigative journalist that Lisbeth accompanied on a project in the first film – Mikael Blomkvist – returns too, but now he’s working alone to help clear her name of a triple homicide charge, whilst she goes on the run and retraces her past Bourne-style in an attempt to uncover who is setting her up.

The problem is that the list of new names is so lengthy and the strands of plot so convoluted that the film, in attempting to remain loyal to the lengthy novel, just ends up displaying an awfully messy bundle of crimes. Filmmakers don’t have the privilege of detail that writers do, and when they fail to remember this most basic of lessons, the result is muddy water of the kind so clearly present here. When added to the dull, television-thriller quality of the visuals, warning alerts start sounding loud and clear.

There are mild sources of interest, most notably in the shape of a new blonde, block-like German villain. He’s like a physical and mental fusion of the Coen brothers’ gormless serial killer Gaear Grimsrud in ‘Fargo’, and the similarly stoical, silent and terrifying Anton Chigurh of ‘No Country for Old Men’. The only difference is that the guy on the murdering rampage here has a rare genetic defect meaning he never feels any pain – not even when Lisbeth uses her notorious electric zapper on his balls.

But ultimately all this falls far too short of the mark, and is a serious let-down compared to the first film of the series. It doesn’t go over old ground, but it does cover new ground in a bad way. This is without even mentioning the premature ending, which fails to tie up one too many loose ends and demands psychic abilities of its audience. After ‘Dragon Tattoo’, there were good reasons for skepticism about the forthcoming Hollywood remakes of the trilogy, but after seeing ‘The Girl Who Played with Fire’, nobody can doubt that there’s a good possibility that they might actually do a better job.

For the twelve people who haven’t heard of Stieg Larsson, he is the Swedish journalist turned novelist who wrote the ‘Millennium trilogy’, a phenomenally successful crime series which has sold over 3 million copies world wide. The first book, ‘The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo’, was adapted onto the silver screen over a year ago, and has grossed about $100 million worldwide since then. Larsson tragically died in 2004 before his books were published so was unable to see what a phenomenon he had created. However, it has also been rumoured that Larsson left half finished manuscripts on his computer, so we might yet witness the release of more books and films by this talented thriller writer. Having heard all about the hype, this reporter settled down in the balmy French countryside to read all three books as ‘research’ for reviewing the DVD. How’s that for dedication?

‘The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo’ follows Mikael Blomkvist (Michael Nyqvist) and Lisbeth Salander (Noomi Rapace) as they try to solve a 40 year old mystery. Henrik Vanger, the retired head of a Swedish industrial dynasty, wants to learn more about the disappearance of his favourite niece Harriet and hires recently disgraced reporter Blomkvist to help him. The film becomes very dark very quickly as Blomkvist and Salander delve into the hidden secrets and lives of the Vanger family, all of which are suspected to be involved in the disappearance. Director Niels Arden Oplev keeps very close to the original material, even including the disturbing sexual and religious aspects that could have been downplayed by a less daring director. Larsson himself was an expert in right wing, anti-democratic extremism and Nazi organisations, and to ignore the more disturbing aspects of his book would have been an insult to its fans. Thus, many scenes are necessarily graphic, and the 18 rating strongly hints at some of the horrors you might witness; even pre-warned readers will find certain scenes hard to watch – they are far more hard hitting than words on a page.

The stand-out character in ‘The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo’ is Lisbeth Salander. Lisbeth is different, very different, to most heroines. She lacks the usual beauty of the girl-next door or the femme fatale, instead sporting the grunge look with an all black outfit and multiple piercings and tattoos. She is a social outsider, but has computer skills (amongst other talents) like no one else; she also has a strong sense of justice, an unbreakable will and a violent streak. All of these qualities make her unpredictable and therefore completely interesting to watch. Although Noomi Rapace plays Lisbeth extremely well, the film’s audience cannot understand her as well as readers of the book do. Oplev is unable to get into her head fully through the medium of film, and as a result it is a lot harder for the audience to comprehend the complicated mechanics of her mind and see her as more than just another troubled young woman.

In fact, losing detail in the translation from page to screen seems to be a recurring flaw in the movie. Many minor characters and plot-lines are missed out in order to make the 500 page book into a more streamlined 153 minute film. This, however, means that the story loses a lot of depth and characterisation, and at times it feels that you don’t really get to know any of the characters that have been left in, particularly the two main ones. For instance, Lisbeth’s first guardian and Mikael’s boss both play huge parts in the book in adding dimension to the protagonists, but in the film they do not feature at all. Still, Oplev does certain effective things with the film, such as showing the beautiful scenery of Sweden (one suspects the Swedish tourist board may have been involved at a few points in its creation) as well as having it all filmed in the country’s native language. Oplev also introduces new scenes to tie in with the parts of the story that become jagged due to the loss of minor characters. This is done very effectively so the film adaptation feels closer to ‘Lord of the Rings’ in continuity rather than ‘Harry Potter’. However the great aesthetics don’t counter-balance the slight loss in depth that has occurred due to the editing and alterations.

Overall the film is very good: dark, tense and rewarding. Its a good adaptation of the book and perfect for those who want to experience the story telling of Larsson, but don’t have the time to read the novel. Tragically, our American cousins’ dislike of subtitled films meant that it only grossed $10 million. Predictably, a Hollywood version is on the way. It remains to be seen whether Rooney Mara will be able to pull off unconventional Lisbeth Salander, certainly not if the studio bosses have any creative input. So before the American rehashes grace our theatres, it would be best to check out the original Swedish version on DVD and its sequel, ‘The Girl who Played with Fire’.

OK, I really screwed up this time. I went to interview a major modern pianist without having listened to her work or, indeed, to any modern piano music. It’s people like me who give journalism a bad name.

As luck would have it though, a blagging tongue honed by dozens of tutes got me halfway there, and Lola Perrin’s no-bullshit approach to music brought the interview home.

So who is Lola Perrin? Perrin is the latest pianist to be supported by Steinway, who are to pianos what Hattori Hanzo was to samurai swords. She is a minimalist composer-pianist, with deep roots in jazz. She is collaborating with the heavyweights of the art world – but more on that later. She is also, endearingly, still just a little starstruck by her own rise.

‘There was this one time,’ she says, ‘when I was due to perform at the Teatro dal Verme in Milan. That’s right next to La Scala! And a Bentley was to come and pick us up from the airport, and we were going to stay in a five-star hotel with a, erm, what do you call it?’ – she tries to grab the word out of the air in front of her – ‘a butler.’

She started out on the piano at the age of four. The youngest of six piano-playing siblings, she knew the instrument was hers by right – ‘I hogged it.’ At 13, she was invited along to exhibition classes at the Royal College of Music, and then they gave her the chance to become a concert pianist. She turned it down.

The piano still haunted her. ‘Music picks you,’ she says. ‘A born musician has no choice. You’re completely miserable if you’re not doing it.’ She read Music at university, where she began to take theory very seriously indeed. ‘You had this linear progression from Baroque to Classical to Romantic to, erm, well I suppose you’d call it Impressionism. And then you have Debussy. Debussy destroyed the Western musical form.’

And after Debussy? ‘I guess you could say that Duke Ellington was the next big composer after Debussy.’ For Perrin, jazz is the natural heir to the classical tradition. The other modern schools squandered their heritage: ‘studying a lot of twentieth-century music was very distressing for me. Listening to much of it, I feel like I’m being tortured – you can’t even tell where the end is, it’s sadistic. And when it’s over, people applaud, but I bet they’re just glad it’s finished.’

‘I started to crave narrative,’ she continues. ‘And meaning. In my dreams, the Cohen brothers would come along and make me a 10-minute film.’ She began to crave collaboration, too. As soon as she felt her style had matured, she began to reach out to other artists. ‘I had this sort of VIP list,’ she explains, ‘these artists I admired and wrote to, and only Hanif Kureishi wrote back.’

The riotously successful novelist and scriptwriter’s reply was the start of an intense exchange of emails like something out of a South American novel. ‘He said, ‘I love your tunes.’ And I said, ‘I would love to work with your work.'” Soon, he began sending her Word documents with no explanation, and she began to take them as her inspiration. They only met each other face to face two years later, at a performance of her adaptation of his short story The Dogs. ‘I was so excited,’ she remembers, ‘that I couldn’t sleep.’

‘The first thing he said was ‘we’re going to do The Turd.’ He wasn’t smiling. I remember thinking, ‘I’m a minimalist. I don’t think I can write about turds.’ Luckily it turned out he was joking.’ Since then, the composer and the writer have appeared together onstage at Latitude Festival. Their creative relationship looks set to continue. I hope they fall in love.

Her dream, however, is to write a score for multiple pianos. How many pianos? ‘Many. I’ve already done six. It sounds…like an aural jigsaw.’ She vents a shuddering breath, and her eyes close. ‘It feels so good. It’s the most expressive instrument.’

After the interview, I watch Perrin in concert at my local literary festival. She’s doing things to the Baptist church piano that have never been done to it before. Keys used to banging out ‘When I Needed a Neighbour’ and ‘Shine Jesus, Shine’ are being teased into an electrical storm of shimmering riffs and growling basslines. I find myself wondering if some of this music will linger in the piano and make all the Baptists cry come Sunday morning.

And the music sounds everything that minimalist jazz shouldn’t. It’s expressive, tempestuous, eminently listenable, occasionally a bit naive, yes, but above all this is music with something to say. Like Perrin herself. The music starts to make sense when you’ve met its composer, for there seems to be little difference between her art and her life. I begin to wonder if I didn’t meet the woman and the music the right way round after all…