In an amusing sequel to last term’s Fit Cast, everyone’s favourite thesp Charlie Mulliner became Trinity’s Fit College entry last week, and at the time of writing, she’s winning. But if you weren’t too busy logging on to vote for her you might have noticed a strange movement beneath the surface of the drama community. Everyone’s joining 101.

If you haven’t heard of it already, 101 is Oxford alumna Asia Osborne’s experimental theatre company. Their productions are violent, corrupting and – according to our reviewers – rather brilliant. The latest recruits to the dark side are Isabel Drury and Sarah Perry: rumours abound of the traumatic initiation that awaits them.

For those unwilling to face such perils, Cherwell is offering people the less traumatic chance to write dramatic monologues and dialogues for cherwell.org podcasts this term. The acclaimed David Wolf (Barnaby Rudge) is in charge, so if you’re interested, log on to the OUDS Job Centre to find out more.

Less likely to appear on the Job Centre at this stage, however, are Michaelmas Playhouse bids, as opposing teams do their best to surprise the competition. On our radar are three potential bids so far. OUDS President Roland Singer-Kingsmith, matinee idol James Corrigan and Bloody Chamber director Matthew Monaghan are the interested parties, according to our unreliable sources. Apparently Corrigan has his sights set on staging a film adaptation – but further details are shrouded in mystery.

Equally mysterious is quite what’s happening with the embattled OUDS Edinburgh Tour. Apparently, if you want to direct it, you have until Third Week to apply. If you do, you’ll face stiff competition. Last year it went to West Side Story‘s Alice Hamilton. This year Rafaella Marcus is the odds-on favourite.

Meanwhile, Marcus prepares to play Lady Macbeth in Third Week at the O’Reilly and has already started directing rehearsals of her feminist interpretation of The Odyssey. This seems super keen considering that the performance is next term. Keener still, their posters are already designed. They feature a boat on a wave. Shame. If they’d waited, they would have discovered a certain Fit College entrant in their cast – maybe they should have

just used her?

Onstage nudity is coming to Oxford. Good news for those of us who missed Daniel Radcliffe’s performance in Equus, since the same play is on at the OFS in Third Week. But if you’re only going for the novelty of seeing someone take their clothes off on stage, says director Anna Hextall, you’ll be disappointed.
‘The nudity is not important. It is a small component of certain scenes and is by no means the most shocking element. With the right approach, the nudity should not become the prime focus of any scenes in Equus but instead should appropriately reflect the weightier themes of the play.’

This all sounds terribly serious, and many audience members will probably ignore it. Others won’t, and might be put off. Others still, however, will think of Shakespeare’s King Lear, where the tragic hero strips off his clothes – ‘off, you lendings’ – during a storm.

‘The director treads a dangerously thin line between expression and exploitation’

No one remembers Lear for the nakedness alone. Some productions have gone further than others: most notably in recent years when Ian McKellen bared all in the RSC’s 2007 production. Lear is a lasting example of a play which nudity adds to, without dominating.

The Blue Room, a West End play starring a briefly naked Nicole Kidman, lived up to this example. An adaptation of an Austrian script about sexual liaisons and syphilis, it was directed by Academy Award winner Sam Mendes. The media storm beforehand focused almost exclusively on the shock factor. When the play opened, everything changed. The Telegraph called it ‘pure theatrical Viagra’, and Kidman won unprecedented acclaim for her performance.

‘Kidman’s performance in The Blue Room was called “pure theatrical viagra”‘

Not all plays attempting to follow suit have succeeded. I was simply bewildered by a Dublin production of the unusually-titled Woman and Scarecrow. For no apparent reason, the eponymous Woman was naked for almost half the play, revealing a too-obviously painted caesarean scar. The experience was uneasy rather than sleazy, but my overriding feeling was one of confusion.

One rather pities the actors in such situations, and the line between expression and exploitation is often dangerously thin. For the cast and crew of Equus, a focus on trust in rehearsals has paid dividends: they no longer feel uncomfortable with nudity, according to the director.

It would certainly be tough to argue that Radcliffe was exploited when he played the play’s leading role. For him, it was a chance to break away from Harry Potter into serious acting. Paradoxically, it was Potter that most of his fans paid to see.

This paradox is faced by all plays whose most obvious selling point jars with their substance. Radcliffe’s production succeeded because it offered theatregoers more than what they came for. The challenge for Oxford’s Equus will not be to attract audiences, but to surprise them.

It’s been over twenty years since the Berlin Wall crumbled; much subsequent commentary has focussed on the trials and tribulations of Central Europe’s political, economic and social development. But what of the arts? Are artists reacting to the new, wider European context, or do they remain trapped in a Communist-style provincialism? And are the public, museums and the government keeping pace with change?

Certainly the importance travel has had for Polish artists since the end of the Communist era is not going to diminish any time soon – to get themselves recognized Polish artists often go to Germany or Britain to ‘make it’ before being celebrated in Poland.

Part of the reason is that the Polish art scene is massively underfunded. You can count the number of major museums and gallery spaces on one hand. Often lecturers in art colleges were appointed before socialism fell and remain relatively conservative in their artistic outlook. Furthermore, there is a seemingly low level of public and media interest. Reviews of the arts are uncommon, with modern art exhibitions primarily for the artists themselves as opposed to the viewer.

For all these reasons, it is only recently that Polish art has started to gain greater prominence. ‘Polska! Year’ is an initiative developed by Polish and British partners of the Adam Mickiewicz Institute, which has recently showcased works by Polish artists to the British public. The media buzz over Miroslaw Balka’s installation of what looks like a giant shipping container in the Tate Modern’s Turbine Hall has also gone some way in raising the profile of modern Polish art.

Almost inevitably, the war, the Holocaust and forty years of communist oppression have cast long shadows over Polish culture; its visual arts is scene no exception. Works are often provocative, stark and striking. Balka’s ‘How It Is’ (pictured) at the Tate is understated but profoundly resonant. Arguably one of the best commissions for the Turbine Hall to date, we can only hope that it comes to be a turning point for contemporary Polish art.

Before reading The Children’s Book, I knew of A.S. Byatt as the woman who’d said Harry Potter was for ‘people whose imaginative lives are confined to TV cartoons’. Her New York Times article described the Potter books as symptomatic of ‘dumbing down and cultural studies’. I am no ardent Potter fan, and this self-styled preserver of proper literature – the kind that produces ‘a shiver of awe’ – interested me. So when her latest novel was shortlisted for the 2009 Man Booker Prize, it seemed time to find out what all the fuss was about. I’m afraid I still have no idea.

‘Most of its characters spend a long time dormant only occupying brief flurries of narrative zeal’

The concept is great. Spanning 25 years from the fin-de-siècle to the end of WWI, it takes in London and the Kentish countryside with a bit of Paris and bohemian Munich thrown in. The fortunes of several families become entwined, each related to the arts in different ways. Complications ensue. Love, lust and betrayal play out amidst fairy tales and dances in the woods, plus an occasional venture into the labyrinthine storage rooms of the Victoria and Albert Museum. There is poetry, pottery and creepy German puppetry in abundance.

The problem is that the novel itself vanishes in a mire of unnecessary context. Byatt has done meticulous research, as you’d expect of good historical fiction. Yet this doesn’t mean that every note she’s ever made needs to go into the finished text – which, at points in this 600-pager, seems to be her intention.
There are chapter-long chunks of fact irrelevant to the narrative: sometimes the characters struggle to slot in at all. When Hedda, the daughter of airy-fairy children’s author Olive Wellwood, decides to join the Suffragette movement, ‘She followed, eagerly, the campaign of the militants, as they broke glass and set bombs, were imprisoned, and later took to hunger-striking and suffered forcible feeding.’ Poor Hedda is almost forgotten in this sentence, part of a paragraph-long barrage of name- and date-dropping, the only purpose of which seems to be to authenticate the lives of the characters. But it doesn’t; it washes them out.

‘The book is spoiled by a mire of unecessary context’

Critics have enthused over Byatt’s ‘unapologetically intellectual writing’, but it seems to me there isn’t anything very clever about doing loads of research and then patching it together with shallow characters and a sprawling plot. If I wanted this much unadulterated history I would read a history book.

What does remain of the novel is incoherent. Most of its characters spend a long time dormant and then occupy brief flurries of narrative zeal, as they have babies or die or suddenly realize they’re in love with someone else. At times the writing’s just…bad. Olive appears ‘in a flowing sea-coloured shift, with her dark hair flowing’; the factory workers accents come and go. Byatt regularly inserts Olive’s stories as unexplained, stand-alone chapters full of gems like ‘The air felt thick, like jelly setting.’

In terms of excitement, plot coherency and depth of character, any Rowling creation would do better than this book. Its social setting is fascinating, but it doesn’t wear its learning lightly. What could have been a gripping tale ends up a laborious tome.

It’s hard to take audience participation seriously. When it comes to music, we tend to sing along only at those slightly unfashionable events like the Last Night of the Proms. Or Christmas. Sitting in a theatre, I seldom think that my viewing experience is enhanced by an actor plonking a hat atop my head, or someone smearing porridge on my trouser leg (both of which have happened to me at the BT). Film, well, that’s a bit difficult. Short of making obscene hand gestures in the projector, it’s hard to impose your viewing experience on a piece of film reel.

Such were my thoughts as, upon entering Modern Art Oxford, I was politely shown a collection of gold lamé jumpsuits. I was told they were optional, but I concluded that since most people had collections that day, I was unlikely to bump into anybody I knew while dressed in an outfit best described as a rapper’s condom, so apprehensively I slipped it on.

I needn’t have bothered. Common Task, I soon found out, is simply two rooms, one of which is supposed to resemble a spaceship, while the other houses a couple of gold benches and a video screen. I was scarcely in MAO for twenty minutes. There simply wasn’t enough to warrant the use of the outfits. No matter how much the programme might suggest it – and this exhibition comes with an excellent programme, perhaps better than the exhibition itself – there was nothing in which to immerse oneself. Sat watching a film dressed like an invader from a tacky planet, my overriding feeling was one of embarrassment, especially since people wishing to see the Miroslaw Balka exhibition upstairs kept walking through dressed normally, give or take a few dubious welly choices.

‘I apprehensively slipped on an outfit best described as a rapper’s condom’

Common Task is by Polish artist Pawel Althamer. One enters the exhibition directly. There are few objects in the ‘Antechamber’ (as the minimalist front gallery is described) but those that are there carry little weight. We have a sort of command centre with pretty flat screens. There is a cheap-looking mixing desk that boringly does nothing. The best object is perhaps the only piece in the exhibition resembling traditional sculpture: a sort of tribal-mask-like wooden construction painted in the ubiquitous gold, but fastened together with small strips of animal hide. Clashes of culture, and the surreal visual effect these can produce, are clearly major themes of Common Task and its central video installation. On this, a potent and virile symbol of nature and superstition, the addition of the whimsical space age gold is striking and ironic.
The work is described as a ‘science fiction film in real time’. With this dictum, they refer to the entire project, which has travelled all over the world – to Brussels, Brazil and most recently, Mali – and which continues to travel, to film, to swap clothes with tourists and tribespeople alike. Yet the focus in the exhibition is quite strongly on the video installation, which robbed the show of the sense of ‘real time’ because we were watching a condensed film of the expedition. There was no sense of the project’s ongoing nature. The formal aspects are pretty standard for a contemporary film installation: wobbly camera work, shifting focus, irritating microphone noises and an intrusive use of sounds – bongo drums, aeroplane noises – that tends to overdo the point.

‘My overriding feeling was of embarrassment, as normally-dressed people walked past’

Do not get me wrong, I found quite a bit to admire in the concept behind this project. Through observing this band of Polish neighbours walk through African villages in gold jumpsuits, swapping clothes with natives, we are forced to see simultaneously the limits of our knowledge, how our own planet is alien to us, and conversely how we, the civilised Westerners, must seem pretty ridiculous to those whom Althamer visits. There is a strong sense of comedy in the video which I like, because one is not sure whether it is uncomfortable comedy or not. It plays on our ignorance, our prejudice and our limitations, yet it also asserts our freedom both to travel where we want and dress ourselves in whatever ludicrous outfits we see fit.

Yet an admirable concept does not excuse a pretty poorly curated exhibition, and the uninspiring installations by the artist. If anything, this exhibition should have been bigger, better thought through, presented in a larger gallery reviewing the project. As it is, we are confronted by a surreal entry-hall to the larger Balka exhibition upstairs, looking like twenty-four carat plonkers to unaware passers-by.

two stars

‘Common Task’ is on at Modern Art Oxford until 7th March. Admission is free.

Dance Movies. The formula is always reassuringly predictable: guy meets girl; one of them can dance and one of them can’t. The one who can teaches the one who can’t and they fall in love. Strictly Ballroom is no exception.

It is notoriously difficult to get people to watch this film. ‘Is it actually good though?’ they ask wearily as I grind them into submission, ‘or is it just that you like it because it’s a dance movie?’ Ok, it is a film about dancing, yes, it is a love story and granted, it’s unapologetically kitsch (so far, so unappealing) but ‘Strictly Ballroom’ is so more than your average sequin fest. While the plot follows the boy-meets-girl pattern (frustrated dancer Scott takes on the ballroom dancing federation with beginner partner Fran in a bid to dance their own steps competitively) there is a lot more to this film that first meets the eye.

Shot partly as a mockumentary, director Luhrmann explores the surreal scene of competitive ballroom dancing in early nineties Australia. It’s fast moving, luridly bright and undeniably hilarious. The first shot of the film, showing elegantly silhouetted dancers waltzing around the competition floor to the strains of ‘The Blue Danube,’ is violently broken into by a raucous shout from the crowd, ‘Come on number 100!’ The illusion of tranquillity is shattered. This sets the tone for the whole film: the supposed refinement of ballroom dancing is constantly juxtaposed with the average day-to-day lives of the amateur competitors who inhabit the supposedly glamorous world of competitive dance.
This film is that is so real: romantic moments occur in the most unromantic places, such as Scott and Fran’s secret practice above his parents’ dance studio. As the couple become immersed in the dance we forget that they are dancing on top of a shabby looking rooftop in the same shot as a washing line full of socks.

There is a red glimmer light that acts as a backdrop to the unseen performance. When the camera pans back we see it is nothing but a Coca Cola sign. There is magic mixed with the mundane, elegance mixed with eccentricity. At times Luhrmann is mocking the world he is exploring, but it is also desperately sincere. You wouldn’t expect it to be touching and beautiful, but it is. 

The remake of the Danish film Brødre is the latest in a steady stream of films set against the backdrop of the war in Afghanistan. Amongst these there has yet to be any stand-out film, one that will become the definitive cinematic account of the home front for this conflict, as The Deer Hunter has become for Vietnam. Brothers is not going to be this film. Whilst it is indeed a worthy effort, it seems content to sit somewhere in the middle, producing a film that is solid, but in the end unremarkable.

Tobey Maguire and Jake Gyllenhaal play the brothers Sam and Tommy respectively. Polar opposites, Sam is a decorated Marine, a loving husband and father, whilst Tommy is fresh out of prison and wanders aimlessly through life. But when Sam is shot down and presumed dead in Afghanistan their roles begin to reverse. Back home Tommy steps into his brother’s shoes, whilst the order of Sam’s perfect life begins to break down as he is tortured both physically and mentally. When he is eventually freed and returns home he is a visibly changed man, and now it is Sam rather than Tommy who starts to create conflict within the family.

The first half of the film is divided between the stories of the two brothers. We watch the parallel development of Sam and Tommy as they face two very different challenges. However, Sam’s captivity and breakdown are given relatively little screentime compared to what we see of Tommy as he rises to the occasion. This leaves the key moment, where his resolve finally breaks with devastating results, appearing all too suddenly.

Whilst Tommy’s development is allowed to occur gradually, Sam’s has to take place in a far shorter space of time, making it a lot less convincing. When Maguire’s character finally returns home, the focus shifts back onto him, which is a shame given that Gyllenhaal provides by far the more engaging performance.

So, while it may have been Maguire who clinched the Golden Globe nomination, I was somewhat unconvinced by his portrayal of a traumatised solider trying to readjust to family life. In this respect his performance seemed to consist of an intense stare, helped along with some uncharacteristic lines and a bit of make-up, all of which combined to make him appear lobotomised more than anything else.

He lacked the subtlety required to portray such a complex state of mind. Indeed, the only point at which I found him at all convincing was when Sam completely breaks down, giving him free-range to shout and smash up the furniture.

In what is clearly a character-driven film the weak link is very much Maguire, whose performance does not meet the demands placed upon him by the writers. It is a shame then that Gyllenhaal, though he is given the chance to shine for the first half of the film or so, is then scandalously under-used as we progress. In the end, even Gyllenhaal’s accomplished performance is not quite enough to propel this otherwise rather forgettable film beyond mediocrity.

three stars

The artist formerly known as Final Fantasy is back, and his new album is quite something. Famed for his minimalist live performances, involving just him, his violin and his loop pedal, Pallett’s sound on Heartland is more expansive, if no less beautiful, than before. The instrumentation wonderfully blends his usual string arrangements with a new penchant for electronics, and (*gasps*) even drums. But these aren’t your standard beats, and opener ‘Midnight Directives’ sounds more like the work of Bjork producer Valgeir Sigurðsson or Mark Bell than anyone else. ‘The Great Elsewhere’ is a brilliant example of this unity between electronica and orchestration – starting out with minimalist beeps, then developing with frenetic drums and violin accompaniment until its climax, where the string section and the piano take over entirely for the outro – at every stage, a work of phenomenal beauty.

The album is thematically idiosyncratic to say the least. ‘A concatenation of locusts / And the farm­ers are los­ing their focus’ might seem a strange couple of lines to sing, but given this is a concept album chronicling the times of Lewis, a farmer on an alternative world Spectrum, it makes perfect sense. Ok, admittedly you have to be prepared for the slightly weird to fully appreciate this album, but if you are, you will be richly rewarded.

The lyrics themselves are beautiful and insightful in equal measure. In the wonderful ‘E Is For Estranged’ Pallett observes ‘Pathos is borne, borne out of bullshit in formal attire’, and in ‘Keep The Dog Quiet’, that ‘This place is a a narrative mess/A floor of tangle of bedsheets and battered sundress’. ‘Oh Heartland, Up Yours!’ is soulfully delivered by Pallett, with the touching and almost tragic refrain ‘I will not sing your praises here’. I’m afraid that is the only element of the album that I will not subscribe to here.