Last week, I went to see Flight of the Conchords live and I had a little epiphany. Afterwards, I found myself saying over and over again- in slightly shocked tones- “They’re…they’re really attractive.” “Yes,” said my female (and a few male) friends. “They are.” Possibly I’m just late to the party on this one- after all, guys with guitars have always been attractive and these are two guys with guitars – but I’d never really bought into their perceived sex appeal. One live show and I’m under the spell of those Kiwi charms: it’s that deadpan lack of charisma, the way they kind of can’t be bothered to speak. Except apply those qualities to any actual person, and I’d run a mile.

The other day, I jokingly (read ‘tipsily’) announced to a crowd of friends a long-held secret belief of mine: that I was going to marry comedian, columnist, writer, actor and ubiquitous panel show personality David Mitchell. “What,” said one of them frowning and holding up a picture of him on his iPhone, “him? Really?” Yes, I declared staunchly. He is erudite, laconic and has nice eyes. However, he is also apparently full of self-loathing, has a fairly nasal voice and, let’s face it, is not exactly an Adonis. Again, put him in the real world and I probably wouldn’t look twice.

So why are these three men so attractive? Well, there’s one fairly obvious factor I’ve yet to mention- the funny. It’s common knowledge that women like funny men: often the first thing women say they look for in a partner is the ability to make them laugh. But this is getting silly- I know women who have admitted to crushes on Hugh Laurie (think Blackadder not House), Eddie Izzard, Stephen Fry, Chris Morris, Dylan Moran, Bill Bailey. Bill Bailey looks like your mad uncle. Chris Morris resembles the kind of teacher who stood a little too close to you in the corridor. And yet fancy them we do, in droves.

I don’t claim to speak for womankind on this matter but I’m certainly not alone in it. I suspect there are several explanations. First: intellect. There’s nothing interesting about fancying Brad Pitt: look at him. You do or don’t find him attractive. But fancying comedians is a statement- it’s a badge of honour, irrevocable proof that we prize intellect and wit over looks, engaging the neurons not the saliva glands. Comedians are the Thinking Woman’s Crumpet.

Second: power. A lot of male comedians play on awkwardness, shyness and social ineptness; a lot of women find this puppyish naivety appealing. Combine it with a razor-sharp wit underneath and voila: a smart guy who can make you laugh but, crucially, won’t make you feel inadequate or talk down to you in conversation- who highlights, in fact, your superior social skills. To quote that Bible of female wisdom, Bridget Jones’s Diary, ding-dong.

And there’s a third reason, one which we must whisper: could it be, perhaps, because they are on TV? After all, fame does have a certain glamour about it. Women are supposedly attracted to men with power and what power could be greater today than dominating the airwaves? Comedy is just opinions, after all, and we invite our comedians to give theirs over and over again- on panels, in columns, on the radio, onstage. And we think they are right because they are funny. Sometimes they are- but comedy is also acting, and if you’re not a little bit convinced by the end of the set then they haven’t done their job right.

Agree with them and it’s easy to like them, even love them: after all, one only appreciates Brass Eye’s ‘Paedageddon’ episode if one agrees that the media’s handling of sexual abuse scandals causes more problems than solutions. Oh, that Chris Morris, he’s ever so clever, gosh, I think I fancy him, etc etc.
Despite this, I would like to think that were I to meet David Mitchell at a party, and he wasn’t famous, but he was as funny and engaging and unpretentious and concerned about the world we live in as he is on TV, then, yes, I’d like to think I’d still be attracted to him. Fortunately for me, I’ll never have to find out. See you at the wedding.

You’ve got a lot in common with Iris Murdoch. You’re in Oxford, probably studying here – as she did – and you’re reading the same Cherwell that Iris read. There’s a good chance you fancy yourself as a bit of a writer, or actor, or philosopher. But there’s something you don’t have in common: you’re not here as a world war breaks out. Your male friends will not be conscripted half way through their degrees, and you’re not worrying about how you can best be of use to the war effort after graduating.

I’ve always loved the film Iris: it places her wild Oxford life against her decline and eventual death from Alzheimer’s, and it has always moved me. I’ll admit that I’ve never made it through one of the acclaimed novels that she wrote in the middle of her life, but I was keen to read this collection of her letters and diaries and to get a feel for who Iris was as herself, at a similar stage in her life to where I am in mine.
A diary, written in the summer of 1939 as Iris toured Oxfordshire with a student theatre group, revealed much of life as an Oxford student 70 years ago. Not much has changed. Iris is frequently at the theatre before breakfast, works straight through the day, and often doesn’t find time for meals. Sound familiar? Her first set of letters are written to Frank Thompson, who studied at Oxford, left to join the war effort and was killed in June 1944. Our little problems and crises seem, suddenly, rather insignificant in comparison. As Iris observes, ‘we have so many urgent little problems of our own, that we have not time to look up and see the gathering clouds’. Her gathering clouds, of course, told of a coming war rather than an impending essay crisis.

And yet, serious as the situation was, she evidently retained a sense of humour, and her writing becomes increasingly to the point as she matures. She declares with cutting abruptness that ‘I should tell you that I have parted company with my virginity’ and – my favourite – ‘Darling the mice have been eating your letters’. She writes to Frank on a typewriter that she doesn’t get on with, despite ‘the lovely surprise when it does something wild and irresponsible on you like missing a letter or starting to write in red!’. The highlight of Frank’s replies (not including the fascinating accounts of his time abroad, obviously) is an impromptu lesson in modern Greek, featuring the charmingly irreverent translation of ‘What is that? That is a cat. Is that cat wild? No, he’s very docile’.

From the beginning of the book, we follow Iris growing from a naive undergraduate into a young woman genuinely very excited at the prospect of becoming a wife. In the second set of correspondance, with David Hicks, the impression given is one of unrequited love: the few letters that David did write in reply to Iris aren’t included in the book. In November 1945, having been apart for nearly seven years, the pair had a brief fling in London and became engaged. As they’re sent back to work in Europe, Iris writes regularly, only to receive a message in February calling the whole thing off. Her dignity shines through in her short, guarded reply to David’s rejection. ‘I don’t seem to have a real gift for making you happy, and others have it, that’s that.’
No doubt when you’ve finished reading this review you’ll immediately rush out and buy the book. But just in case you get distracted on your way, here’s what to take from it: we’re lucky to be alive now, and not in the time that Iris experienced. Follow your dreams – if you want to write, write until somebody reads it. And have a romantic correspondence – it’ll be fun and, who knows? Someday somebody might want to review your letters.

‘Iris Murdoch: A Writer at War’ by Peter J. Conradi is published by Short Books, RRP £16.99

Burton Taylor, 1st-5th June, 7.30pm
Verdict: Thought-provoker

Inspired by politically minded author-director Radha Bharadwaj’s cult debut film, Closet Land makes for a disconcerting and challenging theatre experience. Commissioned in the early nineties by Amnesty International, the piece tackles political ideology, corrupt interrogation procedure, torture and sexual abuse.

As heavily laden with uncomfortable themes as it is, such a script would pose a challenge to any actor: Adam Scott Taylor and Olivia Charlton-Jones, directed by Matthew Perkins, rise to the occasion in this psychologically intense two-hander. He, the interrogator, and She, the prisoner, a

re alone onstage for the entirety of the play, locked in a bleak, nameless chamber.

The charge? Sedition. A children’s author has written the titular Closet Land, believed to be an allegorical attack on the state.

The disorienting claustrophobia suffered by the blindfolded Author is brought to life through the production’s sparse, dark design and simple black and white costume. The Author’s experience is personalised by original artwork by Vanessa Carr projected onstage, making explicit the possible dual interpretation of Closet Land as both universal parable, and individual study of the Author and Interrogator’s relationship. Josh Lowe’s minimalist score adds menacing depth to scenes of particular dramatic climax.

Adam Scott Taylor displays an impressive capacity for physicality in his assumption of a broad spectrum of threatening split-personalities; switching from the mindless smile of an implacable bureaucrat to the violent tics of a deranged ideological fanatic as he browbeats, psychologically torments, and eventually physically tortures his ward.
Olivia Charlton-Jones’ performance is equally accomplished in its multiplicity, combining gracefully the Author’s composed, dignified facade with an occasional glimpse of the fear, pain and self-doubt evidently bubbling below the surface.

Ever provocative and at times distressing, Closet Land is an emotionally draining, yet thoroughly watchable production. Not for the faint hearted.

Keble O’Reilly,
2nd-5th June, 7.30pm
Verdict: toe-tapping fun

With the UK rights to Rent having only just been released, director, Adam Baghdadi loses no time in mounting one of the first student productions of this dynamic rock musical. Set in Manhattan’s bohemian Alphabet City, the story follows a group of struggling young artists living under the shadow of HIV/AIDS. Baghdadi and musical director Nick Pritchard have kept true to the time- and location-specific script in its entirety, and Rent features a staggering forty-two musical numbers.

The intimacy of the piece will be translated through the use of the performance space: the balcony of the Keble O’Reilly will host a six piece band as well as actors.

The vibrancy of the music is well matched in impressive choreography and use of space. The stage is usually busy with atmospheric tableaux, the juxtaposition of which nicely individualises rousing canonical sequences. Innovative costume design encapsulates the 90s grunge mood, with one principal’s fairy light hemmed Santa’s helper outfit one to watch in particular.

The all-singing, all-dancing, all-acting chorus are uniformly strong, lending support to the leads through their energy and enthusiasm, and heightening the power of the show-stopping numbers to spine-tingling crescendos. The principal cast members are equally impressive: described by Baghdadi as ‘bizarrely suited to their parts’, they are evidently having a ball onstage and their sense of fun is infectious. The musical’s pathos is well elicited by an endearing performance from James Carroll as Mark, while the humour, as well as dramatic poignancy, is well captured by Marcel Miller’s Collins, and Cassie Barraclough’s vulnerable Mimi.

Emily Gill-Heginbotham and Ed Pearce, as Maureen and Joanne respectively, are a delight to watch. Pearce’s nuanced, thoroughly watchable performance is excellently matched by bubbly Gill-Heginbotham’s bombastic gusto.

While Joanne’s ‘Tango: Maureen’ is certainly one to watch, as is the rousing act one finale ‘La Vie Boheme’ which promises to get those feet tapping and hands clapping. Its catchy hook and lyrics, coupled with its accompanying table-top character roll-call is the most accessible musical moment for the jazz-hands inexperienced of you in the audience, as Rent is an intensely music led piece.

Despite one shyed-away-from gay kiss, the musical’s message of tolerance and the excitement of youth is one relevant in particular to a student audience. It will be interesting to see the reaction to its first production in Oxford University, where ‘struggling young artists’ jostle to compete with the silver-spooned set. But a really good musical well done can transport its audience away from the theatre, and the stresses of Oxford living, to a glossy, glamorous escape, and one with more dance routines than you can shake a stick at.

The Time That Remains
Release: 28th May
Director: Elia Suleiman
Starring: Elia Suleiman, Saleh Bakri, Samar Tanus

Verdict: Quietly thought-provoking. Sometimes a little too quiet.

There are some films that you fall in love with straight away, some that take time to grow, and some you fall out of love with as you get further in. Somewhat bizarrely, The Time That Remains could be described as falling into all three categories. This has something to do with the level of personality that director Elia Suleiman pours into the semi-autobiographical film, and the level of personal engagement that he expects in return.

To describe the plot is difficult because nominally this is a film about the creation of the State of Israel and the subsequent 60 years. But this is used less as a plot point and becomes instead as much a part of the backdrop as the beautiful Israeli landscape. So if it’s not a grand moralising narrative on the creation of Israel what is The Time That Remains? At its heart we find a kitchen-sink drama; the relationship of one family in episodic form. The reasons for the style of narrative are most likely the sources from which Suleiman took his script; adapted by himself it comprises his father’s diary, his mother’s correspondences and his own memories.

The story comes in four parts with the first showing Suleiman’s (played by himself) return to Israel after exile. The second shows his father (Saleh Bakri) as a young man resisting the Israeli Army; in the third, his mother’s (Samar Tanus) letters reveal how everyone is trying to adapt to life under the new authorities, and the final part returns to the present day where Suleiman looks at what remains of the world he left behind.
The direction of the film is beautiful; every shot has a symmetry and richness that could have been lifted from a National Geographic editorial. There is also a consistent and often all consuming silence, culminating in the extremely sparse use of dialogue in the final section. Suleiman is a director known for embracing background noise (or the lack thereof) in a script and while at first this provides an opportunity to absorb the rich landscape of the film it must be admitted that by the end it had become frustrating.

Saleh Bakri shines in a performance contrasting a young revolutionary and an old beaten man. And Suleiman’s own performance is measured and thoughtful if a little hard to get your head around. Overall The Time That Remains is a film that will make audiences think about a situation without having an ideology shoved down their throats. What Suleiman presents is the heart of his heritage and you are left with a true appreciation of another human’s condition.

If, when you think of animation, your mind jumps to talking animals, family-friendly viewing and light entertainment, then you probably haven’t seen the work of Adam Elliot. Because if you had, you would associate the art of animation with multi-dimensional characters, mature subject matter and dark comedy.

Since 1996, Adam Elliot has been independently writing and directing stop-motion animation shorts and films in his own distinct style. His work immediately stands out from other animation with its imperfect and somewhat lumpy aesthetic, a style that Elliot terms ‘chunky-wonky’. He explains that this visual style comes from a physiological tremor which makes his hands shake and his ‘drawings slightly wobbly’. These drawings are then carefully transformed into the clay figures of which Elliot’s cinematic world is composed. What follows is the painstaking and expensive process of stop-motion animation which creates the finished product; it is a notoriously difficult and lengthy method, particularly when compared to the computer-based techniques available but, as Elliot points out, ‘good things take time’.

And if the widespread critical acclaim that Elliot has received is anything to go by, the time and effort has certainly been worthwhile. Elliot notably won an Oscar for his short film, Harvie Krumpet; a bittersweet tale which follows the title character as he deals with Tourette’s syndrome, alcohol and a late discovery of the benefits of nudism. This Oscar is one of a plethora of awards that Elliot has earned, but when asked about the importance of these accolades, he compares them to ‘bottles of wine – you feel good for a few days but you wake up with a hangover. They’re nice but they don’t make you happy.’

In addition to the Tourette’s syndrome in Harvie Krumpet, Elliot’s other creations include characters with Cerebral Palsy and Asperger’s syndrome. His central characters might tend to have disorders to deal with but Elliot is intent on not labelling them as ‘disabled’. Instead, he explains that his work deals with ‘people who are marginalized’ and he hopes that his portrayals of these individuals are authentic enough to ‘make the audience forget they’re watching at animated film. I want them to empathise [with characters] that just happen to be made out of plasticine.’
And perhaps this ability to imbue clay figures with human traits is helped by Elliot’s reliance on autobiographical material as his subject matter. The male lead in his first feature film Mary and Max was voiced by Phillip Seymour Hoffman and was inspired by Elliot’s long term New York pen pal who has Asperger’s syndrome. However, Elliot reiterates that his films are primarily pieces of fiction and that he never ‘lets the truth get in the way of a good story’.

As an independent film-maker Elliot is aware that his ability to give voice to these stories is reliant on the success of his previous work. He describes his Oscar as a ‘golden crowbar’ and explains that the best part of any award is that they make it easier to start new projects. Elliot is intent on writing and directing his own work (a determination he attributes to the animator’s need for control) and he hopes to continue making work that is free from external influences. His next project will be another feature film; a medium which he feels fortunate to work with. ‘I never thought I’d get the opportunity to make [a feature]…and as long as I’m allowed to make these pictures, I’ll be trying to make them.’ For the sake of animation, film-lovers, and cinema in general, let’s hope that’s a long time.