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.

Edwin Congreave, keyboardist for Foals, has been told that I’m reporting for Oxford Brookes. When I inform him that I’m from Cherwell, his eyes light up as if I’m Louis Theroux.

But his reaction is misleading – he has no time for Oxford University, which he left after one year spent studying English Literature at St Hugh’s. He explains in predictable terms that he ‘didn’t yet know what direction my life was headed. I needed some time to figure it all out… and Indie Soc was shit.’ Two years later, his life took an unforeseen turn when he was asked by friend and fellow Oxford drop-out Yannis Philippakis to join his new band Foals as keyboardist, despite never having played a keyboard before. ‘I’m still fitting in’, he says.

Edwin and Yannis may both have abandoned their English Literature studies, but a high-flown poetic sensibility informs their songwriting. During recording sessions for their new album, Yannis predicted that the finished product would sound ‘like the dream of an eagle dying’ (it doesn’t).

I suggest that the band have an air of academia, even pretentiousness; but Edwin has his own ideas about what makes a band pretentious. ‘Academic maybe, but we’re not pretentious, because we believe in what we preach. Swans was a pretentious band, as was Nirvana, with the nihilism.’ As I struggle to think of better evidence of Kurt Cobain’s sincerity than his suicide, Edwin adds, ‘The eagle comment was a joke’.
The band’s second album Total Life Forever, released last week, is not the ball of energy that the title promises. Eschewing the hysteria of 2008 debut Antidotes, it takes half a step towards the sonic grandeur of Radiohead before succumbing to drowsiness. This leaves room for gorgeous melodies and blurry textures that were nowhere to be heard on Antidotes. Yet Edwin is quick to dismiss my favourite minute of the album, the Krautrock-esque interlude ‘Fugue’: ‘That was just [guitarist] Jimmy pissing about. It doesn’t indicate the direction we’re taking.’ Again, he doesn’t know what direction the band is taking – but this time he’s not planning on dropping out.

He is however clear on where the band comes from. ‘The German dance bands of the 70s, like Can and Neu, were a big influence… Talking Heads too. Talking Heads not only influenced loads of bands, but those bands became very influential themselves. [Talking Heads] are at the top of this network of genres, and they were experimental too.’ Foals certainly take after Talking Heads in picking wacky, pseudo-intellectual subject matter (‘This Orient’, from the new album, draws on the concept of Orientalism). More pertinently, funk and surf rock were the sounds behind Total Life Forever. Sly & The Family Stone can be heard in the album’s deep, languid basslines.
Wearing such eclectic influences on their sleeves, Foals try hard to stay aloof from the indie scene. Edwin insists that they don’t in fact belong to any scene, and when I ask to what extent the band deliberately creates its own media image, he immediately retorts, ‘What’s our image?’. He even spurns NME, the magazine that has given his band two cover features: ‘They tend to focus on one band at a time and hype them up… I don’t like that.’ It’s maybe for this reason that Foals haven’t followed the pattern set by their contemporaries. They don’t go for Johnny Borrell’s brand of quote-friendly arrogance, they don’t wear drainpipes, and they’re unlikely to explode in a Libertines-style cocaine supernova any time soon.