Friday 11th July 2025
Blog Page 2209

Exhibition Review: Adaptation/Translation

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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.

Four stars

 

Golden Compass sequel in doubt

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The sequel to the film adaptation of Philip Pullman’s novel “The Golden Compass” has allegedly been shelved.

Reports surfacing on the film industry website Internet Movie Database stated that the film versions of The Subtle Knife and The Amber Spyglass, the next two books in the His Dark Materials trilogy, have been put on hold.

The Golden Compass cost New Line Cinema around £90million to make, and was one of the most expensive projects in film history. Suggestions have arisen that film production may have been halted due to fears that the current economic crisis would lead to reduced cinema audiences.

Eva Green, the former Bond girl who played the witch-queen Serafina Pekkala in The Golden Compass, has admitted that, “at the moment, it [the film project] is quite dead.”

Oxford-based author Philip Pullman said he was “disappointed” by the news, but “not surprised”.

“Dakota Blue Richards [the actress playing the central character Lyra] is getting older, which makes a sequel less likely. It the long-term, who knows? Perhaps they will make a sequel in 25 years time,” Pullman continued.
The film was the sixth most successful film at the box office in 2007.

Pullman is an alumni of Exeter College, and many of the scenes in “The Golden Compass” were filmed in Oxford itself.

 

Blasphemy: On The Road

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Today I chanced upon the worst piece of journalism I’ve ever come across. Insert your own OxStu joke here if you must, but I am in fact talking about Peaches Geldof’s new column in Nylon magazine.

Wince at the reference to the inhabitants of Indiana as ‘locals’ that somehow evokes Michael Palin inviting himself into a Yurt on the Russian steppes. Laugh at the way she seems to think buying second-hand clothes is cool and original. Gawp at the complete lack of either self-awareness or irony. Pay closest attention, however, to the way she characterises a few weeks in a van in America as a ‘Jack Kerouac adventure.’

This is the lasting legacy of Kerouac and On the Road. He and his most famous book are also to blame for the tiresome phenomenon of bald white guys who think themselves cool because they own a few jazz records, but his most heinous crime is that of romanticising slackerdom.

Thanks to Kerouac, middle-class kids think it’s fine to waste time and money (the issue of whose time and money it is matters little) being noncontributing members of society, spending all their time drunk, high, or having sex.

Kerouac, then, invented the gap year; the idea that if you spend enough time wandering aimlessly you’re sure to ‘find yourself’ eventually. By the end of the book, Sal Paradise is drained, weary, symbolically dead, let down by his hollow dream and empty idols, but Kerouac has spent too much time glorifying Paradise and Moriarty’s transcontinental hedonism for the final pages’ sobering moral message to really ring true.

There’s another reason Peaches Geldof considers On the Road such a cultural touchstone. It’s there in her column, when she coos with glee at buying family heirlooms from the poor at knockdown prices, and it’s there in Kerouac’s awkward, voyeuristic depictions of blacks and Mexicans in On the Road. The book represents the middle-class desire to shrug off the oh-so-wearying shackles of privilege and wealth in order to go see how the other half lives.

It is, in large parts, Pulp’s Common People with all the irony sucked out, or Orwell’s Down and out in Paris and London minus the genuine pain and suffering. With a writing style as lazy as its characters, this is soft fiction for soft people.

Redeem Yourself: Read this instead
Allen Ginsberg’s Howl – A far more powerful statement of the Beat movement’s ideals.

 

The World’s A Stage: Cairo

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I have been lucky (I use the term loosely) enough to arrive on my year abroad in time for the ten-day Cairo Festival of Experimental Theatre. Far from Oxford’s bubble-wrapped student productions, Cairo takes the Middle East’s theatrical answer to the Eurovision Song Contest to a whole new level.

Hailing from as faraway as Latvia or Brazil, the productions constituted a surreal cocktail from interpretative Sudanese line dancing to Shakespeare in Nigeria. Moreover, the governing body, taking things a little too literally perhaps, exhibited an ‘experimental’ level of organisational incompetence that would make even the OUDS committee blush.

There was always the possibility that the venue may have been changed without warning, the show may not start on time (if at all), or the theatre may not even exist.

Yet, armed with nothing but that proverbial pinch of salt and an invulnerable sense of humour I set off, like a wanderer in the night, in search of theatrical treasure.

When I struck gold it was often for the wrong reasons. I soon came to learn that comedy was, if unintentionally, high on the agenda. I saw an utterly bizarre show called Frog’s Wing, where a combination of Casio keyboard kitsch, a temperamental technical producer and three graceless Sudanese men dressed as birds, resulted in a hilarious show performed at times in absolute darkness to a pre-recorded string section accompaniment.

My experience with Shakespeare has been equally painful. Had it not been for three very carefully placed English sentences I would have had absolutely no idea that I was even watching Julius Caesar. The rest of the pale skinned and fair-haired members of the audience were, having foolishly trusted the word of the festival schedule, expecting a Russian play about the beginning of the world.

It doesn’t get better I’m afraid. Turning up to see Romeo and Juliet at a small theatre inside the National Opera House compound, I walked in on the final death scene hopelessly clutching a ticket that said it wasn’t to start for another ten minutes. The bows were good though.

However, despite the absurdity, I have many happy memories. An exhausting hour searching for The Tale of the Deadly Butterfly (at a nonexistent theatre) resulted in a wonderful evening: I was taught to play Backgammon (well, I might add) in a local Egyptian coffeehouse.

If theatre in Cairo has taught me anything it is to appreciate the unexpected. For that I am extremely grateful.

 

Second Look 3rd Week: American Elections

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Podcast recorded on Wednesday 29th October 2008.

Review: Endgame

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If you are someone who enjoys comedy, this is not the play for you. Endgame is bleak. And I mean quasi-apocalyptic, legless humans living in bins sort of bleak. Originally written in French as Fin de Partie, the play’s name refers to the dying moments of a chess game when only a few lone pieces remain standing.

Centred on leaving and the characters’ painful inability to do so, silence litters the dialogue like rests falling on a musical score. Director Samantha Losey adeptly highlights this, emphasising the nothingness between lines: words, shouts, wails and sobs echo into silence. The effect is simultaneously profound, tender and disturbing.

The focus in Endgame inevitably falls on the four actors; aside from a smidgeon of overacting in parts, and the redundant use of silly accents (Sam Bright’s unfortunately camp choice of twang for the character of Clov was bizarrely reminiscent of Frank Spencer) the actors pull it off with style and heaps of dark humour.

Will Spray, in the role of blind wheelchair-bound Hamm, dominates the stage. With his bedraggled hair and weary, bloodshot eyes (maybe due more to his 21st Birthday the night before than to absolute synthesis with the character) he is genuinely terrifying in parts, whilst also ably managing moments of warmth and tenderness. Exchanges between Nell (Rowan Parkes) and Nagg (Benjamin Coopman) are a treat – paradoxically hopeless yet full of vitality, they ooze black, uncomfortable humour.

The stage design (a giant chess-board) will elaborate upon Beckett’s chess metaphor; characters figuratively become pieces, unable to move. Though inventive, my small concern is that some of the existential hopelessness of a life that is, after all, meaningless may be lost with the prevailing inter-scene suggestion of an omnipotent presence.

Yet in a play where the overriding sense is that of desire to leave, I found myself truly gripped, moved, and invariably wanting to stay.

Three stars

 

Review: Richard III

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Richard III: one of Shakespeare’s least likeable villains in one of his longest history plays. But just as Milton secretly preferred Satan to God, so an audience secretly revels in watching a real bastard ruin the lives of those around him.

All credit to director Natalie Holden for weaving a darkly exciting ghost ride through the bloody Wars of the Roses. Some of the play’s more tedious elements have been sensibly streamlined, emphasising supernatural fatalism at the expense of political motifs. On a limited budget and making full use of the OFS’ winding balconies and stairways, this is an unexpected but satisfying interpretation.

Jack Chedburn gives a blistering performance of manic intensity, his Richard stripped of sympathy or austerity and whittled down to a core of deformed energy. He is Clockwork Orange-esque, a cunning delinquent writ large as a king, with touches of poetic psychosis and a deluded grandeur that grows ever darker and more directed after his coronation.

Rather than failing to match classic portrayals of the role like Olivier or McKellen, Chedburn’s anti-majesty is perfect for a student cast, yet still capable of subtlety and flashes of humour even as his machinations collapse around him.

The other outstanding performance is Flossie Draper as Queen Elizabeth, who is a powerful counterpoint to Richard’s excesses: one almost believes that the kingdom rests on her shoulders, not his. Their exchange of anger in Act IV is magnificent and a surprising highlight before the play’s climax at Bosworth Field.

The rest of the cast are solid enough, particularly Charlotte Bayley as Anne, who oozes crushed worthlessness in Richard’s devilish games. Ed Boulle’s Buckingham is a slick and attentive spin-doctor, and Max Hoehn a capable King Edward, although his illness was rather overwrought. I must admit, though, that I had little sympathy for the murdered Clarence’s daughter Margaret, played callously by Alice Hamilton.

But forget a few teething criticisms: there are two excellent performances leading a fresh reading of the play. This is an electric, vital Richard III hard-wired for modernity.

Four stars

Review: A Few Good Men

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Barack Obama told Aaron Sorkin that his intention was ‘to steal a lot of your lines.’

Watching this compelling performance of Sorkin’s play, it is easy to see why. A Few Good Men forces us to question what we think we know about truth, justice and honour, and how far we should go to protect what is ‘good.’

The play opens after the death of PFC Willy Santiago at the US Marine base in Guantanamo Bay. Two young Marines, Downey and Dawson, are accused of killing him during an illegal disciplinary measure – ‘Code Red’.

Their case is noticed by Commander Joanne Galloway, an inexperienced and idealistic lawyer, who then persuades the assigned officials to allow her to work with them. The plot follows their attempt to piece together a defence and culminates in an explosive courtroom scene where the ‘honourable’ nature of the US Marine Corps is called into question.

The ‘quick-fire’ energy of the play was immediately palpable, and the cast work skillfully as an ensemble. Tor Lupton gave an exceptional performance as Galloway, delivering her pithy lines with aplomb, and speaking volumes with her emotive facial expressions.

She laudably managed the transition from an initially unlikeable character into an engaging and admirable one. Sam Caird’s Kaffee was strong, effectively conveying his naïve bewilderment at the ‘Marine Way’.

Archie Davies and Matt Orton are scene-stealing as Downey and Dawson; entirely in sync, their bond is clear. Davies portrays Downey superbly as a vulnerable and confused boy who looks to Dawson for guidance, while Orton’s Dawson effectively conveys his growing sense of desperation as the system he loves begins to fail him.

Vic Putz chillingly conveys Jessep’s supreme arrogance, although he is a little static and sometimes lacks variety of tone; his immortal line about truth feels like it should have more force.

Tim Hoare’s direction is effective; his well-thought-out blocking carefully reflects the stifling atmosphere of the play.
This a superb production of an excellent play, performed by a fantastic cast. With some deeply affecting lines, A Few Good Men illuminates the grey area between good and bad. It is provocative, challenging and funny.

Theatre, at it’s most effective, can play a powerful role in sharpening public consciousness, if not actively evoking change. In the intensity of today’s international climate, this production poses pertinent, if uncomfortable questions for anyone who has ever wondered how far we are prepared to go for our beliefs, both as citizens and as individuals.

Five stars

 

All jazzed up and nowhere to go?

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JazzSoc Jam

Thirst Lodge; Thursdays, 9pm; £1

Harry Thompson

Upstairs at Thirst lodge and a handful of drunken people are involved in a poor imitation of what I presume is Salsa, whereas downstairs the air is close, the fingers are clicking and JazzSoc’s thursday night jazz jam is in stylish swing.

The format is essentially this: turn up with an instrument and get on the stage. For all your humble writer’s alleged musical knowledge, his skills at playing it are limited to whistling and rocking a mean air drum, so I did not perform. But those who did bring their saxophones, basses – double and guitar – trombones and trumpets produced some brilliant impromptu performances.

All comers played from Real Books, using jazz standards as a jumping off point to endless riffing and improvising on both solo and group efforts. A highlight was one trumpeter hitting such audaciously high notes that I can only assume left his lips in a pulpy mess.

The Thirst Lodge’s basement venue isn’t particularly spacious, but there’s a well-stocked bar and still enough room for eager jazz punters to get in the standard jazz appreciation moves – the ubiquitous finger click, the involved foot-tap, the expressive nod accompanied by over-bite – and I can’t help but indulge in all of them.

Saxophonist Peter Daunton, who played a great set with fellow bandmates of local group The Oxford Tubes, says, ‘It’s a great opportunity to play in a friendly atmosphere and have the ability to freely experiment on stage’.

The night is undeniable fun for performers, aficionados and Jazz-virgins alike and, for the princely sum of £1, a cheap and thoroughly enjoyable way of spending an evening.

Jazz & Sausages

The Big Bang Restaurant, Jericho; Tuesdays, 8pm; main meal and jazz £15

Alex Watson

There are those who say that jazz is an outdated relic. They’re wrong. I would defend in particular the British ‘new school’ of Polar Bear, Soweto Kinch et al. as a community still able to innovate intelligently and productively, while keeping true to the jazz ‘message’ pioneered by Davis, Coltrane and Parker – that of improvisation and soul.

However, the Big Bang Sausage Restaurant (pictured above), huddled between glitzy cocktail bars and expensive restaurants along Marston Road in Jericho, is, predictably, not the place to find evidence of this.

In an atmospheric basement, the enthusiastic restaurant staff serve excellent portions of bangers and mash while a house band of Martin Pickett and Paul Jeffries on keyboard and bass, augmented by local talent, forge on through some easy-listening jazz, all for the fair price of £15.

It’s hard not to recommend this ‘jazz night’, since the food is so appetising, and the opportunity to listen to jazz and have a candle-lit dinner in such a cosy locale seems so enticing. Unfortunately, for the jazz enthusiast at least, the music is pretty standard fare.

Of course, this jazz night is designed to perform a function, and it certainly does so with aplomb. The music enhances the dining experience and is not so intrusive as to totally stop conversation. However, when I visited I left with the impression that the band had never even grazed the limits of their abilities and were very comfortable churning out sweet, unchallenging versions of jazz standards.

In short, this is a great concept, and many will be utterly satisfied with the experience. Just don’t expect the music to be as fresh and spicy as the sausages.

OU Big Band & The Oxford Gargoyles

Magdalen Auditorium; Saturday 7th week, 8pm; £5

James Archer

Most people’s contact with Oxford’s student jazz scene is the University’s three big bands. The Donut Kings can claim to be Oxford’s hardest working student ensemble, and few would dispute that they are the most fun, while the OU Jazz Orchestra will be showcasing an exciting range of repertoire at a Varsity contest in Hilary term.

Meanwhile, the Big Band has cemented its place as Oxford’s flagship jazz ensemble with an unprecedented series of foreign tours. The OUBB’s joint concert with the European a cappella champions, the Oxford Gargoyles, promises to be the jazz event of the term.

Both ensembles will bring down the house at Magdalen auditorium with a mix of classic and contemporary material and exciting original compositions.

Really, there’s never been a better time to look beyond that infamous turtleneck jumper and discover the talent of our best student musicians. ‘Nice!’, I’m sure you’ll agree.

 

 

Greenbox: A Climate of Change

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If you don’t accept the reality of human-induced climate change you are at best ignorant or, at worst, highly dangerous.

Climate change sceptics, on a whole, now base their arguments on uncertainty as to the consequences of climate change rather than its existence. To be sure, our modelling of the future contains inaccuracies and uncertainties as one would expect with an issue of this complexity, but the fact of the matter is that climate change is real, climate change is happening and climate change (and everything that stems from it) will probably be the single most important issue in our lifetimes.

As students at Oxford we love to debate, we love conspiracy, we love to argue for arguments sake in an intellectual playground. However, as much as I view debating as an important and honourable pursuit, when it comes to climate change it is high time to take action.

I have to agree with (God forbid) Rupert Murdoch who wrote: ‘Climate change poses clear, catastrophic threats. We may not agree on the extent, but we certainly can’t afford the risk of inaction.’ Quite simply inaction is not an option – the climate will not wait for our computer models to improve.

So what can we do? Are we too small and insignificant to actually make any difference? I could start throwing in names like Martin Luther King and Mahatma Ghandi to show that we can change the world. However, I want to be less abstract and suggest what each one of us can, and should, be doing.

The most important thing we can do is to engage politically – simply writing to you MP gives them more power and leverage. Important decisions are being made at local, national and global levels of government and some of you will be making these decisions somewhere down the line.

As individuals too we must do our bit to reduce our carbon consumption. Think seriously about where you can cut down your energy usage – is the laptop on standby? Do you need central heating with the window open? Why boil water for five cups when you’re only making one? It’s quite simple really: we just need to start to think twice and become less wasteful!

“How wonderful it is that nobody need wait a single moment before starting to improve the world.”
– Anne Frank