In the beginning, says Aristotle, there was just a chorus. They sang and they danced and wove stories until one day an Athenian genius called Thespis – the eponymous father of theatre – reached into the chorus and pulled out a single character. That day, drama began.

Whether by accident or by design, Mark Ravenhill has reinvented this wheel. Experimental theatre has brought stagecraft round full circle, and watching Pool (no water) is a little bit like watching drama being discovered for the first time. Out of the chorus of nameless, listless failed artists, ‘She’ emerges – successful, charismatic, the world’s new epicentre. The chorus love her, they resent her, they cannot take their eyes off her, they come when she calls and yet they hate her with frightening passion. ‘I could tear out your hair,’ says one, ‘rip off your clothes and spit right there in your cunt.’

‘She’ invites her old associates to come and see the pool she has had built, the symbol of her success in life. They cannot but follow her. They celebrate their reunion, drink themselves into a slumber and then She suggests they go skinnydipping in her new pool at midnight. She leads the way. And, just as this threatens to turn into a Friendly Fires song, you remember the title. Pool. No water. At the climax of her happiness, the central character falls and lands in a mangled heap on the concrete.

This moment should be bathetic in every sense of the word, but it works. She lies there screaming, as one of the chorus says, ‘more of an animal, less of an angel or a god,’ and a terrible, tragic, reflective silence falls. The rest of the play is a painfully intense examination of the chorus’ feelings of resentment and inadequacy, of the uncomfortable gaps between what we think a man ought to be and what he is.

Sarah MacCready has put together a production with an absolute command of mood. The tone switches with jaw-dropping suddenness from elation to morning-after realism, and drags the viewer along with it. The cast overact furiously, throwing you off balance so that you are never quite sure where you stand in relation to the play. As the actors unfold their weaknesses, their doubts, their anxieties, they draw the audience in to those same worries. They implore you for forgiveness. They disgust you, and yet you know they are like you.

The acting is raw and dynamic, as the chorus constantly change their patterns of interaction and the configuration of the stage to match the mood of the piece. They are not individuals, but they do not have the collective identity of the Greek chorus either; instead, a single human personality seems to have been diffracted across five people. It is a bit like deconstructed cuisine, where the ingredients of a familiar dish are served separately, each done to perfection. The five actors manage this very well on the whole, although from time to time one or two do not look entirely comfortable. There is an air of engaging spontaneity about everything that they do.

I do not mean to say that you will like this play. Pool (no water), like so much experimental theatre, still feels a banal need to flout its ‘edginess,’ screaming ‘CUNT!’ every other minute and casting off clothing and references to heroin addiction left, right and centre. But I will say that you should give it a chance. Let it slip under your skin, let it question your sanity, let it pick you up and bear you wherever it will, and you will be taken out of yourself and totally immersed in the pool. This is a rattling, gripping, teasing production, a can of Relentless to the slumbrous ruby port of your average garden play. Give it a shot.

Verdict: I looked at you I knew you wanted to… 

Pool (no water) is on in the Amphitheatre at Saint Catherine’s on Saturday 15th May at 8.30pm and Sunday 16th May at 6pm. Entrance is free.

Measure for Measure
Keble O’Reilly,
19th-22nd May, 7.30pm
Verdict: as you’ll like it

Matthew Monaghan’s production of Shakespeare’s Measure for Measure begins with music – Verdi to go with his Italian setting, and Paolo Conte for the atmosphere of a brothel. The cast listens, and then two actresses appear to be in perfect harmony with the music as one rapes the other. It is an impressive, terrifying scene, and it is far from the only gripping thing about this production. Cherwell only saw a limited number of scenes, because two important actresses were ill. To compensate, we spoke with the director. That, but most of all what was on show, promised a stunning production.

This is immediately apparent in the acting. All the characters are played brilliantly and forcefully. Some did not yet know their lines, and still were utterly convincing. No one stood out disproportionally, but you are certain to be struck by the portrayal of the stoic, yet cruel Angelo – cast, like all male characters, as a woman. He (she?) is haunting, muscular and imperious. Monaghan’s choice of a cast of women is interesting, in a play he says is about ‘rape, oppression, and sexual hypocrisy’. Is having such a cast feminist, or is it the opposite – a lad’s dream? I think this production invites us to reflect upon that question. But if we are meant to wonder whether a woman can be convincingly brutal, even misogynistic, then the portrayal of Angelo does give an answer: Yes of course.
There are lighter moments too. Mistress Overdone, a prostitute running a brothel, is played by the only man in the cast, adding high heels to the confusion.

And there’s more. Measure for Measure is set in fascist 1940’s Venice, further pressing the struggle between authority and resistance. Monaghan has changed the script to bring out the violence and ambiguity of the play. He makes Shakespeare’s text sufficiently ‘new’, and the production certainly carries a lot of weight. There is no doubt that you will be genuinely touched by Measure for Measure – and that is rare. But will it perhaps be too much? Too many good ideas on the whole, and too much force in each scene? I’m not sure, but I’m certainly going to find out. So should you.

Lily Allen, Dizzee Rascal, Patch Who? Papers have been a-buzz with chatter about these unknown youngsters, and for good reason. Patch William’s ‘The Last Bus’ has been nominated for best song musically and lyrically by the Ivor Novello Awards, which are typically the domain of U2, Amy Winehouse, Eric Clapton, and most recently, Elbow. So why Patch William?

The band are gathered around the kitchen table of their producer’s semi-detached in Parson’s Green, London. Frontman Will Adlard stands out as the folksy, creative epicentre, his skinny frame made gaunter still by his thinner-than-paper jeans and enough alternative jewellery to set up a stall on Brick Lane.

Both his older brother Ed, on drums, and guitarist George Eddy take a more ‘blank canvas’ approach with vaguely indie T-shirts and jeans; they are there to ensure the band doesn’t stray too far from their rock ‘n’ roll roots. ‘The skeleton of Will’s songs is usually pretty folky,’ George remarks. ‘I have a pretty rock-centric background to my drumming, though,’ adds Ed.

The group’s girl-in-residence, Ali Digby, stands up for herself in the wake of the boys’ teasing, replete with obligatory Wayfarers and blonde locks. She was first brought in as a supporting cello player on the band’s game-changing, Ivor-nominated song, ‘The Last Bus’. She learnt the bass from scratch in a matter of weeks, just in time to clinch their publishing deal with Chrysalis.

The band are in no doubt about their good fortune in being discovered by their producer Steve Levine. ‘That element of luck is key in this industry,’ says Ali. Their break on BBC Introducing last year was only the tip of the iceberg; the show’s Tom Robinson, Will’s ‘mentor’ at school, bumped into Levine on the street.

Evidently they are thankful for their good fortune, and they know how different things could have been. ‘We’re lucky with Steve guiding us,’ emphasises George. ‘There’s such an oversaturation of companies and people that’ll say stuff and never go through with it.’ ‘It’s a minefield of bad managers, record labels and promoters,’ agrees Ed.
How did the Novellos come into the picture? ‘Steve thought we might as well put the track forward, I didn’t even know he’d done it…we got these letters…it was bizarre,’ mumbles a grinning Will.

But young bands get lucky for a reason. And their recently released album proves they won’t just be a one-hit wonder: Will’s vocals have an arresting clarity, and the clean, summery electro-acoustics can shift from sweeping melancholia to grittier up-tempo solos. The well-worn streets of adolescent yearning are recast in glowing riffs. If the eponymous album should be played at a time of day, it should be sunset.
The parabolic progression of the album ends gearing us up for the night. ‘‘The Last Bus’ is the defining flip because the first few songs are pretty mellow and fun, then it gets darker,’ George explains. The flagship song is indeed superbly crafted, and provides the contemplative fulcrum, a nebulous fabric of harmonies woven together by mournful cello strings.

Lyrically, London has made its mark. Will feels indebted to his city: ‘I haven’t really left London for an extended period of time…ever.”‘

Ali finds the band’s variation in styles stems from their different musical upbringings. ‘There’s a lot of musical friction,’ she says, ‘and we’ve only recently realised that’s a good thing’ Her eyes glint as she talks of a jam-packed summer of tours and gigs. ‘New York,’ she sighs. Start spreading the news, because Patch William are here to stay.

Release: 4th May (limited)
Director: Vadim Jean
Starring: Samuel L Jackson, Robert King, Herman Wallace
Verdict: Unjustly overlooked

The story of the Angola 3 is this:  three black men, all involved with the political activism of the black panthers in the late 60’s, found their way to solitary confinement in Angola state penitentiary in Louisiana. There, they would jointly spend over a century confined to a 6x9x12 ft cell, not for their original crimes, but for murders committed inside Angola and blamed on them.

Guided by interviews with the immensely likeable Robert King – the only member of the Angola 3 out of prison – and Samuel Jackson’s voiceover, the documentary uses this case to remind one of the injustices, past and present, hidden in America’s judicial system.

Director Vadim Jean splits screen time between examining the psychological effects of solitary confinement, the racial tension of the 1970’s and the apparent miscarriage of justice that led to the men’s imprisonment. This is not a hard headed exploration of their cases, and if there is one criticism to be made, it is of a slight lack of focus. The film seems a little unsure of what it wants to be, and paints quite a broad picture rather than going for specifics.

But it is a compelling picture nevertheless. The portrayal of the deprivations of freedom are terrifying and nicely contrasted with the mental strength of those subjected to them. Whether or not these men are ‘guilty’ is never entirely resolved, but if the film seems a little one sided its only because the evidence is so damning. You will be outraged.

It’s a tightly constructed documentary, splitting footage taken of Angola prison with snippets of the incarcerated men’s voices to great effect. Again, the tone can feel a little predictable (I found some of the musical backing unnecessary) but in general it’s hard to tell if that’s the film’s own flaw or a consequence of the material its dealing with. Towards the end, the film strays slightly into sentimentality, but the rest is so riveting I’m inclined to let it slide because they’ve earned it.

It would be too easy to dismiss the film as inconsequential, detailing a shady past which America has progressed from, but the uncomfortable truth is that this documentary has never been more relevant. I thoroughly recommend it.

Release: 7th May
Director: Robert Heath
Starring: Ralph Brown, Clint Dyer, Rafe Spall

Verdict: Arresting and provoking

As I write this, the county is probably one day away from a Tory government. On the eve-or indeed in the wake of an election about fundamental change to our society, I cannot think of a more relevant film than Sus.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t meant to be this way. Written as a piece of ‘instant political theatre’ in 1979 and set on the night of Thatcher’s election, Sus is an exploration of institutional prejudices, the nature of law enforcement, and just how seriously we should treat every erosion of liberty that governments, old and new, try to make us complicit in.

A little background: the titular Sus laws made it a crime for ‘a suspected person or reputed thief to frequent or loiter in a public place with intent to commit an arrestable offence’. Essentially, they gave police the power to arrest anyone based purely on suspicion. These laws were directly responsible for the intense race rioting of the early eighties, which led to their abolishment.

The film centres on a single police interrogation, played out between Delroy (Clint Dyer), a young black man, and his two police interviewers, played by Ralph Brown and Rafe Spall. Delighted by the prospect of a Tory landslide, the two policemen mix cheerful banter about the Thatch and callous interrogation with terrifying ease. From the minute the film begins the audience’s discomfort is ratcheted up as the dynamic between Delroy and his interviewers grows steadily more sinister.

Considering the whole film is set in a single room, Sus lives or dies on its performances. I felt on occasion Spall’s performance was slightly theatrical, but then again he was also the scariest thing about the whole film, so consider it a minor gripe. Dyer and Brown are also excellent, never letting the tension relent for a second. In a film filled with minute attention to character’s expressions and emotions, that’s no mean feat.The production itself is simple and tight. We are introduced to the film via a montage of election footage and rioting, and Thatcher’s sound bites mock us in a fantastic final tracking shot, but aside from that there are few cinematic flourishes. Like many theatre to film adaptations, it does suffer slightly from the limitations of the source material. The direction is nicely varied within the space of the interrogation room, with tracking shots and blurred close-ups of characters expressions adding some welcome variety, but ultimately you are watching a filmed play. Whether this bothers you is a matter of personal taste.

Either way, Sus is a film to make you think twice about political doublespeak, and the reasonable limitations of our own freedom as you stand in the ballot box.