Written and directed by Helen McCabe, The Last Train Out of Here is a brand new script which seeks to explore familial relationships and an intricate love triangle as they reach their climax in one emotionally charged night. Except they don’t quite.

Set in a small town in East Lancashire, the play explores the relationship of two brothers, Rob (Andrew Bottomley) and Sam (Tom Bishop), and their new step-sister Nikki (Prudence Buxton), while articulating Rob’s overwhelming desire to escape from a town where he doesn’t belong and break out into the real world. Things are further complicated by Rob’s feelings for Nikki, who he has been sleeping with for the past month, and the revelation that it is in fact his brother that she is in love with. Throw the discovery of letters between Rob and Sam’s parents which make the boys familiar with past events they had been oblivious to into the mix, and it is hardly surprising that the play ends with a dramatic confrontation and suicide attempt.

Prudence Buxton gave a strong performance as Nikki, while both boys tended to fall flat at times. Part of the problem was a lack of chemistry between the characters, although this became less apparent as the play went on. The relationship of older and younger brother was stretched too far at times, with Andrew Bottomly an overly awkward, ‘good’ older brother, and Tom Bishop rather too petty and childish as the younger brother. However, the heart-to-heart of the final scene revealed both as good actors able to capture with poignancy their characters’ struggles with identity.

The last scene was certainly strong, but would have been more powerful if there had been a clearer build-up of tension. Instead, much of the beginning of the play seems to focus upon the three teenagers arguing simply for the sake of portraying the clichéd ‘dysfunctional family’ backdrop upon which the play clearly depends. The script is also sloppy at times, repeating details which we have already been told. And the box from which the revelatory love letters were produced could have done with being bigger, to make the audience believe that they had been concealed at the bottom. These may seem minor points, but the proximity of the audience to the actors in the BT make details like this extremely visible. Aside from this point, however, the set was very good and the staging well choreographed.

It is subject matter which has been treated before, but this did not make McCabe’s script less honest. Although melodramatic at times, it was also a powerful exploration into many of the difficulties which teenagers grapple with in their private lives. Enjoyable may not be the right word to describe a play which was hardly cheerful, but it was compelling. And as an audience member commented at the end, ‘That’s just like a scene out of my house,’ suggesting that elements of McCabe’s portrayal resonated with us all.

3 Stars

Now in its twenty-second outing and with a sixth Bond actor cemented in the role, the longest-running franchise in cinema history continues with the premier of Quantum Of Solace this Wednesday.

In light of the phenomenal critical and commercial success of Casino Royale, the highest grossing Bond film to date and Daniel Craig’s first outing in this career-defining role, expectations are greater than ever. Casino Royale offered a return to form for a tired looking franchise, staggering under the weight of poor scripts and un-inspiring, dull performances. Perhaps the most revolutionary feature of this change has come from the casting of Daniel Craig, whose portrayal of Bond allows for a turn to the darker side of Bond – much more in keeping with the character envisaged by Ian Fleming. Craig has made the role his own. Not only is he probably one of the finest stage and screen actors of his generation, he is also far more importantly undoubtedly the best wearer of unfeasibly small blue shorts (many have tried the same feat and failed) in cinema. In Quantum Of Solace Daniel Craig has the chance to move one step closer to the mantle of, probably the best ever Bond, that dangerously cool Scot, Sir Sean Connery.

Away from our leading man the supporting cast in Quantum Of Solace presents an array of new talent and stellar performances from true screen legends. Our two new Bond girls, St Trinian’s Gemma Arterton and the obligatory James Bond Russian Olga Kurylenko, are two relative newcomers sharing screen-time with the weight of two cinema greats, this year’s Cesar winner Mathieu Amalric, playing the token James Bond foreign bad guy, and of course our very own national treasure, Dame Judy Dench who reprises her role as ‘M’. Behind the camera too lies a plethora of talent. The new director Marc Foster of Monster’s Ball and Finding Neverland fame and the two time Academy Award winning screenwriter of Million Dollar Baby and Crash pens his second successive Bond film to name but two.

With such a weight of on and off camera pedigree it is no surprise that Quantum Of Solace continues with the same momentum of Casino Royale, starting just one hour after the end of its predecessor and the death of Vespa Lynd, the drama and intrigue rolls on from Craig’s first outing as Bond. The costs were bigger, the explosions are bigger and somehow even Daniel Craig got bigger, and behind this bluff lies the sentimentality and subtlety of a very good actor creating a very different and exciting Bond. He might not care how he drinks his martinis now, his quips might have lost some of Connery’s misogynism and his “Bond, James Bond” might miss that Scottish slur, but Bond is back and its star, Daniel Craig, continues this fantastic revolution of a forty-six year franchise. Bond is back, so roll on Bond 23. Happy Viewing.

The transposition of graffiti art from the urban jungle to the gallery wall is often a lazy, uninspired one, redolent of both slapdash GCSE projects and local authority youth outreach schemes, so I came to Cuban artist Jose Parla’s debut UK show with some trepidation. When I discovered that his following includes Eric Clapton, Tom Ford, and the international doyen of cheap, mass-produced, consumerist ‘art’ himself, Takashi Murakami, my fears were only increased. Art that attracts celebrities, particularly when those celebrities are as dull as Clapton, as vapid as Ford or as heavily associated with the very worst aspects of contemporary art as Murakami, should set anybody’s critical alarm bells ringing. When he says things as pretentious as ‘we believe ourselves to be on the cusp of evolution but perhaps we are only experiencing an involution’ or as downright obvious as ‘the marks on the walls of our cities are perhaps a testimonial, like scars of a wounded civilization’ it gets difficult to approach a show like this with anything other than abject dread.

Yet approach it I did, and was glad I had at least attempted to do so with a fairly open mind, because Parla’s art, when left to speak for itself, free of celebrity endorsements and his own navel-gazing balderdash, is really rather special. Parla spent his formative years in Miami and Puerto Rico, trained as an artist in Savannah, Georgia, and began his graffiti career in 1985 in New York, where he still lives and works. There really does seem to be a sense in which the characters of all the places Parla has lived his life are tangibly present in the pieces he presents in Adaptation/Translation. Grey and beige backdrops play the role of weeping New York concrete, and underpin every scene without overpowering any one. They are necessary for the life of the works, but do not seek to dominate. Transcending the near-monochrome of the backgrounds, sometimes merely puncturing it, often obscuring it almost entirely, is a riot of colour that seems to evoke New York graffiti less than it does the vibrancy of Florida and the Caribbean, where Parla spent his youth.

Parla’s art’s real strength lies in a feeling, pervasive throughout, that what the viewer is looking at is somehow deliberately divorced from any specific truth; everything in this exhibition is suffused with a certain unreality that is simultaneously unsettling in its falseness, and comforting in the anonymity it offers. This is so because Parla’s works only superficially appear to be real pieces of graffiti. Those New York concrete backgrounds are in fact nothing of the sort, they are mere impressions of the real thing, made on wood and board. These aren’t graffiti-covered walls, they are, defiantly and self-consciously, images of graffiti-covered walls. Whilst real graffiti is about singular displays of identity, expressed through tagging, the ‘writing’ on Parla’s pictures forms only contorted, unreadable calligraphic messes, only ever suggesting real words or statements, and often obscuring legible writing beneath. Yet this continual emphasis on an absence of reality never makes for an absence of truth; the lack of language in Parla’s works only universalises them; they could have been inspired by graffiti on any wall in any city. The pieces that make up Adaptation/Translation transcend any single spoken language; like Rothko and Pollock before him, both of whom he evokes, Jose Parla’s works establish their own visual code of communication, with which they speak both to the viewer and, most powerfully, to each other.

Why does anyone like Los Campesinos!? Goofy exclamation points aside, their sound is a mess, their singing is flat and the hit track on their debut album “Hold On Now, Youngster…” is entitled ‘You! Me! Dancing!’ A song title that makes one weary of yet another band adopting and beating to death the indie pop tropes of the past decade. Their lyrics are full of self-conscious angst and ironic self-mockery- just to tack on a few more indie-rock clichés. But it just so happens that there is something endearing about Los Campensinos!. Their chaotic sound is actually a product of flush arrangement and meticulous production. And their lyrics are thorough and honest. Despite their weaknesses, Los Campesinos! manage to win haters over with their hook-laden, inanely catchy pop songs.

On their second studio album “We Are Beautiful, We Are Doomed”, the Cardiff-septet drops the saccharine romanticism of its predecessor to give way for fear, resentment, and jealousy. Lead singer Gareth Campesinos opens the album with the sentiment “Think it’s fair to say that I chose hopelessness”. Accompanied by buzzing synthesizer and blustering guitar, it’s fair to say this also sets the tone for the rest of the record. From beginning to end, we learn of hearts on fire, extorting money, puking chips, and things left unsaid. Campesinos’ diaristic style leaves everything on the table, including honestly.

The organized chaos of “We Are Beautiful” reminds one of a Broken Social Scene album, hence the lavish instrumentation and lush Spector-esque walls of sound. However, Los Campesinos do not settle simply for amplitude and boisterousness. In the beautiful refrain to “You’ll Need Those Fingers For Crossing” one can hear a triumphant melody that moves from distorted guitar to xylophone to violin and then to a reverberated fade out.

As a band, Los Campesinos! definitely have room for improvement. For now, however, “We Are Beautiful, We Are Doomed” is certainly something that you (!) and I (!) can dance to.

In an age when hip-hop has become synonymous with bling and bravado, it has become easy for those experimenting at the margins to be utterly ignored by the mainstream. Yet since the emergence of pioneering rap groups like Company Flow in the late 90s, hip-hop has continued to spawn innumerable experimental poets, beat-makers and genre-crossers, whose diverse musical output is often collectively called ‘avant-garde hip-hop’.

One group who continues to defy easy classification and produce multi-faceted, experimental beats and rhymes is the Anticon collective. An independent record label formed in the San Francisco Bay Area by Sole and pedestrian in ’98, it has become the bedroom DJ’s benchmark for experimental hip-hop, containing a fluctuating stable of artists who are constantly playing with and challenging the genre’s traditional boundaries.

I first came across Anticon through the album ‘The No Music’ (2002), a collaborative effort by two of its members, doseone and Jel, working under the appellation ‘Themselves’. The frenetic, constantly shifting beatwork (played by Jel on an SP-1200) provides a strong backdrop for doseone’s convoluted, nasal, often breakneck speed poetics. The deeply personal, highly metaphorical character of his raps invites confusion and misapprehension, but also provokes moments of extraordinary clarity. This was not just bling.

Constant collaboration between their artists is a hallmark of the anticon enterprise, with rappers juggling solo careers and membership of several bands simultaneously. Witness the aforementioned doseone of Themselves, who in 2000 came together with fellow label-members Why? and Odd Nosdam to form a group called cLOUDDEAD, releasing their self-titled first album in 2001. The album is is a patchwork of shifting textures, mixing dirty beats with ambiguous, fuzzy soundscapes. The music is at once ethereal and gritty, as moments of soothing ambience change up into almost noise-music textures, and video games samples are cut up to form raw, bubbling beats.

Since the beginning Anticon have proved a focus of controversy amongst hip-hop heads. Caught up in a petty feud with el-p of Company Flow, they have been cut-off from the New York underground, and old school hip-hop fans have often denied them recognition, treating them as pretencious art-school dropouts lost in a mire of self-indulgent surrealism. This is unfair. Experimentation is essential to avoid atrophy, and if the quality of their output varies, well, that is the nature of experimenting. When they get it right however, their music is varied and subtle, their raps closer to avant-garde poetry, full of the fractured uncertainties of the post-modern ego. This is a hip-hop for our time.

Whether it be the adrenaline rush, the semi-erotic thrill from being scared or the macabre love of watching people die there really is a scary movie for everyone. Thus, as Halloween arrives, we are faced with the dilemma of selecting which horror movie we intend to scare ourselves with.

This somewhat odd impulse is by no means a new one as some two hundred years ago prim, Victorian women would gather together at book clubs and read pages from the latest Gothic novel, gasping and tittering at whatever scandals were to befall the innocent heroine. Then, in 1896, Georges Melies’ Le Manoir du diable was premiered, a silent film depicting supernatural events, arguably the first ever horror film. And so the blood soaked boulder has been rolling ever since and the genre refuses to be defined. Whether it is a suspenseful scene in which a dumb blonde investigates the ‘strange noise’ outside or lashings of blood as a horde of zombies devour an innocent bystander, providing the audience is never quite at ease then the scary movie is doing everything it says on the tin.

So this Halloween do you want to be scared witless, disgusted at graphic scenes of bloodshed or downright disturbed? Well, whatever your choice, below are five suggestions which will fulfil at least one of the above criteria:

Scream: a self conscious slasher movie in which a group of over developed teenagers are systematically killed off by a raging psychopath. Actually far funnier than it sounds as its blatant self awareness allows it to subvert and mock the genre. However, the scene in which a buxom blond is crushed in a garage door is somewhat extreme.

If you have ever wondered what you would do if zombies came knocking at your door then 28 Days Later is the film for you. It begins with a coma patient awaking to find London deserted. Things take a turn for the worse as he is attacked by hordes of virulent flesh-eaters and don’t really ever get better.

For those of you with slightly more discerning tastes there is El Espinazo del Diablo, a ghost story directed by Guillermo del Toro. Set in an orphanage in which a group of small boys try to discover the truth about the mysterious disappearance of their friend Santi. Meanwhile, the far worse horrors of the Spanish civil war break through the sanctity of the orphanage walls ensuring that the conclusion can only be tragic.

Horror also plays a large part in the world of sci-fi. So Spock and the Wookies can step aside as a small group of space travellers are stalked by a drooling, fanged extraterrestrial in Ridley Scott’s masterpiece, Alien.