Jonah Goldberg’s new book Liberal Facism sounds like it ought to be an interesting, though not entirely revolutionary, proposition: the charting of fascism throughout the twentieth century to demonstrate that it is in fact a left-wing, rather than right-wing phenomena. He is honest enough to admit in his introduction that his purpose is a partisan one, yet manages at this point in the proceedings to suppress his Republican allegiances to at least a tolerable level.
It all starts promisingly enough with a chapter on Mussolini and Italian fascism full of facts and occasional humour, perfect for the lay-historian.(Did you know that Mussolini was the editor of a socialist newspaper before he became a dictator? Or that Churchill had dubbed him the ‘world’s greatest lawgiver’?)
One even feels one can forgive him his slightly tangential rants. His rather irrelevant comparison at one point between Mussolini’s style and that of Yasser Arafat-‘though Arafat was undoubtedly far more murderous’-comes as a bit of a surprise.
Sadly this all-too-brief spurt of vaguely intelligent writing begins to unravel as soon as one reaches Chapter two: Hitler. Goldberg makes a half-decent attempt at showing that the Nazi Party, as a ‘popular movement’, held similar aims and values as those of communism: the provision of health care, the nationalisation of industry, etc. He even makes the very important point that anti-Semitism, or even racism, is not a fascist ideal, but rather the result of a paranoid dictator. Yet despite all this, his contentious references to similarities between the Left and National Socialism all too often come across as childish mud-slinging rather than reasoned argument. The absolute classic example comes during his discussion of the green policies pursued by the Nazis contrasted with those pursued by those on the Left today-again, does this prove that environmentalists are all closet Nazis?
By the time we reach American politics, the true focus of Goldberg, the whole thing has reduced to a rambling account of spurious similarities between the administrations of left-leaning American administrations and fascism. (Was the Wilson administration the first truly fascist state?)
Yet even were this the case the question ‘so what?’ is the blindingly obvious response which he never addresses. Having begun his introduction de-contaminating fascism as an ideological idea he now labels every administration he disagrees with as ‘fascist’, the implication being that this makes it automatically wrong.
Overall then this pseudo-intellectual ‘history’, though at times entertaining, ends up sounding like the tired, regurgitated rants one all too often associates with American conservatism. Regardless of which side of the political playing field you find yourself on, the sheer cringe-worthiness of this book, coupled with its utterly flawed logic and ultimate pointlessness, makes this an awful and simultaneously depressing read.
He mounts up fact upon fact without laying any foundations, with the result that the book ends up going nowhere. At 400+ pages this reviewer would rather just go and argue with some animal rights activists instead: its cheaper, quicker, and just as much of a waste of time.

Paul Freestone’s tender and humorous photographs find beauty in the mundane and subtly blur the boundaries between the human and the natural, the grotesque and the lovely, ‘flotsam and jetsam’ and ‘all that glitters’. The images capture the thought process of the artist in those few seconds when he looks, sees and shoots; they embody an act of observation by a sharp, droll mind, and, by lifting that observation out of the way of everyday life, allow the viewer to see things anew. Before our eyes a crushed cigarette packet takes on new aesthetic possibilities, and death is framed as something which is neither horrendous nor a calamity, but simply part of what might be an unexpectedly beautiful world.
Of particular interest are the artist’s depictions of the relationship between man and dog, a relationship that Paul believes long ago transcended the boundaries of the functional and embedded itself deep within the human psyche. Shot “old school” on black and white film which was later developed by the artist, there is an intense compassion to them which allows their characters to transcend assumptions or judgements, and offers them up for reconsideration, when we might usually pass them by. Looking at them, I cannot help but be reminded of Philip Pullman’s representation of the human soul as an animalistic creature tied to the person by an unbreakable bond of co-dependence and desperate love; these dogs are intrinsic parts of their owners and vice versa, and the bright black eyes reflect who these people are, where they have been, and where they place themselves in this world. Paul holds up the relationship of the homeless man and his dog, sleeping in a doorway, against that of the Crufts pair, preened and smiling, and if anything finds the later wanting.
There is nothing pretentious or spectacular about these photographs, and they might be passed by as easily as the things they depict; they simply offer details up for our consideration, giving us the chance, just for a moment, to review our perspective on the world. Paul mentions Elliott Erwitt and Bill Brandt amongst his influences, but although his images approach theirs in their grimy black and white and their quality of social commentary, they are somehow more candid in their un-staged symmetry – frank and unassuming. The exhibition continues until the 13th of February at the North Wall Arts Centre (Mon-Sat, 11am-4pm); go and see it. Take your dog.

It is rare that the subtle intensity of a good theatrical production is translated effectively onto the silver screen, yet John Patrick Shanley’s film adaptation of Doubt arguably equals, and quite possibly surpasses, the play upon which it is based.
This can be almost, but not entirely, credited to the four leading actors – Meryl Streep (Sister Aloysius), Philip Seymour Hoffman (Father Flynn), Amy Adams (Sister James) and Viola Davis (Mrs Miller). Not only do they all fit their roles seamlessly, but their interaction with each other is close to perfect. Undoubtedly Streep’s performance is electrifying to watch, but her character is somewhat larger when put in direct comparison with the meek Sister James.
Similarly, her contrast with Father Flynn only emphasises her own strong character- their final confrontation is almost frightening to watch. The editing of the film emphasises this difference between the traditional ascetic lives the nuns lead, and the more reckless, social side that Father Flynn chooses- Doubt also makes a very clear reference to the authority and power enjoyed by the male hierarchy of the Church, and how unashamedly corrupt some parts of it can be.
Out of all the cast, I personally found Viola Davis’ relatively brief portrayal of Donald’s mother to be absolutely spellbinding. Every word she said was so real; whenever she was on screen I could not take my eyes off her.  It is hardly surprising, then, that every member of the cast of Doubt received an Oscar nomination this year, and yet the film didn’t. But despite it being undeniably carried along by the cast, there is a lot to be said for the cinemaphotography of Roger Deakins – not only are there certain scenes which are so well-arranged they look almost like paintings, but there is an exquisite attention to detail. From the rich green of Sister Aloysius’ office to the stark whiteness of the snow against black in the final scene, colour is used so well that one wonders why more films don’t follow Dewakins’ example.
Doubt deals with so many issues that are still relevant today- race, religion, the power figures of authority hold over the young and innocent, forbidden homosexuality, and maybe most prevalent of all, the role of women.
The film does at times drag a little, and it feels a little repetitive, but it’s many redeeming features make is a thoroughly worthwile watch. But be prepared, it’s in now way light-hearted and during the last scene, there wasn’t a dry eye in the house. 

There’s something damn peculiar going on in this room’, Colonol Melkett shouts abruptly, after having had his chair removed, his drink switched, his host crawling around madly on the floor and his sight rendered useless.

And for someone, as I was, familiar with Peter Shaffer’s work only through the distinctly sombre ‘Amadeus’ and ‘Equus’, this one-act play was indeed something peculiar, hilarious and brilliantly refreshing – a play about darkness that certainly enlightened me to an entirely different dimension to one of our most beloved playwrights. This is a delightful farce of bourgeois snobbery, taking a satirical swipe at how a keeping-up-with-the-Joneses mentality leads engaged couple Carol and Brindsley to ‘borrow’ a neighbour’s chic furniture in order to impress a German millionaire and Carol’s formidable father. A fuse blows; unexpected guests, including the owner of said furniture, arrive; nonsensical brilliance ensues.

The script is a treat and is handled superbly by Jonathan Fisher, whose adept direction maintains that the shambles on stage stays tight and together: with so many characters and props, so many different things happening simultaneously, it could easily have ended up one big childish mess. As it is, everywhere you turn there is a sight to savour.

It is almost impossible to find fault in the acting talents of this company. David Ralf took off slowly as protagonist Brindsley, but quickly evolved into a wonderful Fawlty-esque anti-hero, who fuses manically comic desperation with just a soupcon of fragility; Brindsley is a man who clearly wants too much in life. As individuals they shine; as an ensemble they glimmer with professionalism, and though space confines me to only a few specific mentions, I must applaud Hannah McGrath’s performance as the sozzled baptist’s daughter Miss Furneval, who delivers every line with cheeky panache. And kudos has to go to Joe Paddison for what can only be described as the most awful German accent you are ever likely to hear; seriously, his melange of eastern European, Norwegian and, bafflingly, Chinese twangs puts ‘Allo ‘Allo and Peter Sellers to shame on the silly-foreign-accent front.

This production of Black Comedy illuminates Shaffer’s script, shining a light not just on the comedy but also on the strain of keeping up appearances, on God, on life, and on Shaffer’s homage to ‘that magic dark room where everything happens the wrong way round’ – the theatre itself.

John Osborne’s historic follow-up to ‘Look Back In Anger’ charts the life of Archie Rice, son of smash-hit music hall comedian Billy Rice. Archie follows into his father’s profession, but is third-rate, an alcoholic, and performs his shows in an atmospherically hollow seaside resort. The play is historic in a dual sense; we glimpse not just the decline of the music-hall tradition, but of imperialist Britain.
Rebecca Threllfall’s production succeeds at some levels. The dramatic tension between the naturalism of the family scenes and the open theatricality of Archie’s ‘live’ performances works a treat, as does the live brass band during those performances. Cudmore is at times terrific in the title role, and as he reeled off his ailing array of jokes, I became aware of something important; we become more nostalgic for the age of the music hall through the witness of its death, than we do or would have done had Osborne depicted its success. This is Threllfall and Cudmore’s key achievement. The rest of the cast is mostly strong; there are occasiona vivid moments from Phoebe Thompson as his wife, Phoebe, and from Theo Merz as their nonchalant son, Frank.
And yet several choices jarred. There was a strong propensity to drive over and through moments of action which do not bear directly upon plot or a character’s emotional core, when in fact these banalities of family life are there to be revelled in, à la BBC sitcom, ‘The Royal Family’. Instead, Threllfall’s cast confuse pace with speed. The banalities should be enjoyed, they need more time, and more trust in the moment and Osborne’s language. That’s when we are really drawn in; in a sense both Cudmore’s Archie and Thompson’s Phoebe search for the audience in important moments when we should be searching for them.
The ‘big’ moments of the play should be thrown away. As it is, these moments are too obviously grandiose. We are aware of them as moments and not as truths. Elsewhere, it is Osborne’s mundane, earthy, coarse language that separates his kitchen-sink realism from the well-spoken, middle-class world of Rattigan. Often characters play lines and not words. Granted, the family scenes must be naturalistic, and there is a very strict fourth wall in place, but at the moment it seems the characters are restricted by their very quest for this naturalism. The specificity of the language is in turn sacrificed, in particular by Cudmore and Thompson. Whilst the snippets of seedy sea-side music hall comedy succeeds, the inanity of the family scenes do not, and when Mike Rice is reported dead, the profundity of feeling that should be reached is not. Hardly a banality, even this moment is sped over, and the truth of it is lost.
Once the play starts its run proper, I feel it important to say that these criticisms could have been ironed out and this may well turn into an excellent play. Go and see it.