Sunday 13th July 2025
Blog Page 2162

Don Carlos

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The court’s full of sycophants. The heir to the throne’s meeting a friend returning from abroad. The queen’s in an uncomfortable position. Schiller’s play isn’t exactly subtle in its influences as it ransacks the plot of Hamlet to launch into an attack on church and court. And given that the set is mostly black and the heavily photoshopped posters show our self-obsessed hero brooding, it’s clear that producer Krishna Omkar hasn’t exactly been subtle in targeting this at the emo market either.

Worrying signs, you’ll agree. Despite this, is there any chance that it could actually be good? It’s hard to fault director William Maynard’s adventurous choice of play, but can he pull it off; in a play about stifled individuality, can he make his actors’ presence felt?

The answer to both is, surprisingly, yes. His secret weapon is the superb choice of translation: Mike Poulton goes for a surging, passionate rendering, which fits the spirit of the play perfectly: it feels grand and architectural in a Shakespearean way without feeling so archaic in its language as to be an anachronism, with wry jabs of intertextuality (such as Don Carlos imagining applying for the role of himself) which for once don’t feel like gimmicks. He also goes for the theatricality of it, alternating public life with glimpses beneath the masks: characters stand apart in public, grab and cling to each other in private.

In the lead role, Matt Maltby goes for a rugged, no-nonsense and somewhat unsubtle rendition of self-obsessesion, idealism and anguish at loving his hated father’s new wife and: the passion is perfect and his story of not seeing his father until he was six genuinely heart-breaking, and though he misses a little of his character’s wit at the start (like in a line about first meeting his father signing death-warrants) he warms up to give a very good performance. But Ed Chalk, as the king, is in a different league altogether. I’ve seen Derek Jacobi in this role in an acclaimed performance in London and Chalk is actually better still: dry, ironic, frequently fluty of voice, but also angry: this performance really gives the sense of the his almost, but not quite, unerring self-belief, as the only man in Spain allowed to be himself, signing the death warrants of anyone who seeks to challenge authority and be an individual like him. The other actors can never match him, and several slightly overdo the sinister side of their roles (to be fair, this reviewer wasn’t able to stay for the whole rehearsal and missed out on some of the juicier lines and scenes). Never mind: this play is a strong cocktail of ideas and passion, and the central performance is flawless. Oxford’s emos are in for a treat.

4 stars

Another Education Is Possible

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On Wednesday 4th February a new national student campaign, ‘Another Education Is Possible’ teamed up with Oxford Radical Forum for an evening discussion at Wadham College as part of the build up to the national demonstration against the attacks on education on February 25th in Central London.

City see benefit of experience

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Going into the January transfer window, Manchester City were in an unprecedented position.  Literally no club in football history has ever been that rich, both in absolute terms and relative to their competitors.  People had been expecting moves for the very best – and one such move, for Kaká – almost came off.  But when the window closed, City were left with just four new players, with not a World Cup medal or a Ballon d’Or between them.

City were mocked for this, of course.  The same hacks who said we had aimed too high in the case of Kaká sneered at our signing Craig Bellamy.  Just like those who said it was obscene to over-pay for Nigel de Jong but then to under-bid for Shay Given, or even to enquire for Wilson Palacios. 

But the four new additions: Shay Given, Wayne Bridge, Nigel de Jong and Craig Bellamy represent a real strengthening to the side, regardless of their fees.  Starting from the back, Given has already won us three points and has only played one game: we may have been the better team against Middlesbrough, but Afonso Alves still managed to find himself four great chances.  As promising as he is, I would not have backed Joe Hart in any of those situations.

Wayne Bridge is yet to fully settle in at City: he has been responsible for conceding two goals in the last three games.  But anyone who witnessed the naïveté


of Javi Garrido, or the one-paced Football League essence of Michael Ball will know that Bridge is a big improvement.

The defence, strengthened by Given and Bridge, has a fantastic new shield in Nigel de Jong.  £18million may be inflated, but since when did first choice central midfielders for Hamburg and the Netherlands come cheap? Talk of waiting for his £2.3million clause in the summer misses the point: every club in Europe would have been in for him then, with a move to one of the elite a certainty.  Why should cash rich City take a risk on that? de Jong provides energy and efficiency in midfield in a way that Didi Hamann no longer can.  Yes, he’s no Xabi Alonso – he barely even crosses the half way line – but anyone who takes intelligence and competency as a given in central midfielders has never seen Elano and Gelson Fernandes play together.

And then Craig Bellamy – because Micah Richards, Robinho, Martin Petrov and Steven Ireland didn’t leave us with enough characters in the dressing room before.  Regardless of his personal conduct, he’s a very good centre forward for a mid-table Premier League club.  Quick, clever, technical, and – and this is important – at ease with his own game and with the Premier League – he gives City bite and pace up front in a way we haven’t had since Nicolas Anelka.  Since he left we’ve gone through Robbie Fowler, Bradley Wright-Phillips, Andy Cole, Darius Vassell, Bernardo Corradi, the second coming of Paul Dickov, Georgios Samaras, Emile Mpenza, Rolando Bianchi, Benjani and, the coup de grâce, Jô.

So rather than attempt to play Football Manager with the cheats on, Mark Hughes has added much needed experience and quality to the City squad.  Four players – all with at least thirty international caps, aged between 24 and 32, all with Champions’ League experience, and a reputation for fitness and consistency – who have given City a backbone long missing.  In January we ground out three consecutive home wins: thank God we didn’t take a gamble onJoão Moutinho or Bojan Krkic.

4th Week: Free Download

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Hopefully that’ll get someone listening…

Morrissey – I’m Throwing My Arms Around Paris *****

After years of a remarkable comeback fuelled by a ‘rock’ revamp and endless touring, Moz has finally returned to his original love: trite, throwaway pop a la Cilla Black. Kitsch ’60s girly music was the driving influence behind The Smiths, and its overtones here herald a welcome return to true form. Because this is superb. One and a half minutes in and you’ve already had three soaring choruses; verses are short and, for once, sweet; chugging macho riffs finally get scrapped in favour of a simple, pretty, repetitive arrangement. With Marr, Moz perfected the 2:30 pop song – an achievement he’s suddenly remembered.

Saint Etienne – Method Of Modern Love ***

Ephemeral disco-pop with strong strains of the ’90s. Little whizzing sounds zing about like cheap fireworks. A Eurobeatbox chugs like some infernal machine. Sugary vocals ice a sparse and insistent melody. The chorus goes up like all choruses should. Frankly, it’s all a bit old-fashioned.

Doves – Jetstream *****

Doves are back! That’s, Doves are back! Here’s hoping Some Cities was merely a temporary dip below their remarkable earlier form. And that they’ll eventually get round to releasing ‘Spaceface.’ In the meantime, here’s a free download to front their new album. It starts out like one of the more experimental numbers from James’ Laid, before the affectedly unpleasant vocal scotches the comparison. But some gorgeous guitar arpeggios restore the proper tone, then a whole load of thumping electro comes in. Less like a modern pop song, far more like the soundtrack to an N64 game. Which is obviously incredible. Doves are back!

Telepathe – So Fine ****

Doubtless you know their song about chrome, even if you don’t have the album. They’re like this year’s Hercules and Love Affair without the wailing guest hermaphrodite, which is a shame really, because that extra spark would make this tune explode. It’s still excellent, in a predictably ’80s sort of way. Sexy singing always helps. It’s like a DIY Victoria Bergsman effect. Yum.

James Yuill – No Surprise ****

The surprise, really, is that James here is one of those brilliant, innovative singer-songwriter/solo-electro guys who are so hot at the moment, and no one’s really noticed. The truly radical thing, of course, would be to take the beats back out – but then you get 5/10 from NME like poor Emmy. As it is, this arrangement is really damn lovely and the tune’s strong too; the sort of thing Belle and Sebastian might have done on The Boy With The Arab Strap if they’d had an extra Korg. Woozy sleepy nice.

For once, I’ve hit a run of good songs, so I’ll stop there before I get to MCR.

Something Old, Something New

Noel Coward – Mad Dogs and Englishmen

Ebay’s normally rubbish for cheap music. But there’s currently a bit of a glut on this brilliant collection of 24 remastered classics, which are going for £1-3 if you’re quick.

James Yuill – Turning Down Water For Air

That lovely aforementioned lad, with his lack of commercial success, is being sold short on itunes to the tune of £4.74 for his excellent last full-length album. Go grab.

Ciao.

Students’ Best Interests

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Inexcusable failings in welfare have been exposed at certain Oxford colleges: students lack pastoral tutors and complain that those they do have are intimidating and subject-obsessed. That this could even be the case at Oxford has provoked horror and disbelief. This is a University that, due to its highly pressurised environment, must guard the mental health of its students all the more carefully. Some areas of Oxford’s welfare are excellent. A wealth of assistance is available for those who know where to look: NightLine volunteers do a tireless and admirable job, and college welfare reps are on hand to offer tea and sympathy.

Yet student-run welfare schemes face an almost impossible task in reaching the most vulnerable if the college’s welfare systems fail: those who feel isolated in a student population so determined to be happy and successful, and who are reluctant to divulge their deepest problems to a peer supporter with a few days training. Without regular meetings with a pastoral tutor who has the student’s own interests at heart, such people will inevitably slip through Oxford’s carefully constructed net of support for weeks or months, until personal issues begin to have a serious impact on academic work.

Faced with problems such as illness or family difficulty, there is also no support that can compare with that of someone influential within the college, yet independent of a fixation with their academic achievement. Every student needs an advocate prepared to defend them from overbearing tutors and the force of college authorities hypnotised by the Norrington Table.

Liberal Facism

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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.

Odds and Sods and Death and Dogs

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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.

Doubt

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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. 

Black Comedy

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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.

The Entertainer

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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.