‘He was English, he was upper-class, and he was drunk’: director Alev Scott’s production promises forty minutes of relentlessly dry, wry and witty observations of the English upper-classes.

A meeting is imagined between Guy Burgess – the infamous member of the ‘Cambridge Five’ – and Coral Browne – actress and socialite. Bennett’s script is soaked with social paradox, criticism and hilarity. Exiled to Moscow at the end of his life, Burgess is plagued by alcoholism and regret.

Browne becomes his link to London high-society. Alice Glover’s realisation of the character is utterly superb. She fluctuates between beautiful soliloquising, which draws a contested line between theatre and life, and a quick wit which undermines English and Russian society in turn – ‘If this is Communism, I don’t like it. It’s dull.’ She is the highlight of this production.

Tom Richards’ Burgess is the epitome of Englishness. With a voice as rich and robust as good port, his languid movement and relentless joviality finely captures his background – yet watching Hamlet, he admits that he did fall asleep. ‘Englishness’ is effectively mocked and celebrated.

It is only lamentable that such a performance comes at the expense of enough focus upon Burgess’ character. The ambiguity of his relationship with a young, male, Russian ballet dancer – ‘Am I a reward or a punishment?’ – was awkward and reluctant, whilst Frankie Parham, playing the lover, bordered dangerously on crude parody rather than subtle satire.

Several opportunities for affective realisation of Bennett’s dark social commentary upon the post-Cold War state were lost under the inanity of socialite dialogue. Yet the image of Browne taking Burgess’ suit measurements, his arms outstretched – a crucified martyr to his love for ‘Englishness’ – is particularly touching.

Four stars

Royworld – bit of a boring name, isn’t it?

In fact, it’s the kind of name that would put someone off a band. It conjures up images of fat bearded men in their mid-thirties, living in Milton Keynes and making inoffensively dull music. I have no idea if the band members actually fit that description, but their music certainly does.
Man In The Machine is an album of ‘nice’ music. But being nice is bad. ‘Nice’ is the word that people use when they can’t think of any other description. If you introduce someone to your friends and all they can come up with is ‘yeah, he seemed nice…’ then that means your friend has the personality of a goldfish.

Just look at the ‘nice guy’ phenomenon, or Harry Enfield’s ‘Tim Nice-But-Dim’. They’re really not things that you want to be aspiring to, are they? Royworld is the musical equivalent of the nice guy who sits back, being nice, and watches as the girl he loves is swept away by the confident and suave jock, perhaps represented in this analogy by Razorlight.

This CD is the kind that you put on, and then instantly forget about. Nothing but silence-filler. I can’t really pick out many tracks which have any kind of distinguishing, stand out features. Title track ‘Man In The Machine’ is notable for having a really creepy voice in it, but I don’t think that was really the intention.

At times they go for an epic sound similar to Sigur Rós, but inevitably fail miserably. ‘Astronaut’ starts with a glimmer of possibility, which is then cruelly extinguished by horribly synthesised voices, the kind of thing that Air or Björk would go in for during one of their more deranged moments.

So give yourself up to Razorlight’s advances, even though the guilt will set in with the first post–coital cigarette. At least it’ll be more interesting that this album.

Two stars

I’m meeting the Ting Tings at their finest hour. Last night, after their success at the Radio 1 Big Weekend, their single ‘That’s Not My Name’ reached Number 1. They seem unable to believe it has actually happened.

At seven in the evening, they are also still impressively hung over from a night of celebrating back home in Manchester. Katie White, the lead singer and guitarist, explains that it still doesn’t seem real; they don’t feel any different in themselves from last week or even last month.

The Ting Tings were first unleashed on the Introducing Stage at the Glastonbury Festival last year. Both played in smaller bands before finally teaming up in early 2007.

Working in other bands was an unpleasant experience, but learning to ignore other people’s advice seems to have been the lesson. ‘We knew we didn’t want any producer telling us what to do,’ says Jules, ‘because to us, that’s killing it.’

The duo are itching to do everything themselves, from tinkering with the instruments, to taking their own promotional photos, to creating their own vinyl sleeves. ‘We created these playful, customised sleeves from older ones, so people could compare and see what they got, like oh, I’ve got Elvis, what have you got? Depeche Mode.’

I ask if this is a backlash against the way pop has been going for the past decade. They agree, with another invective against producers, before adding that it’s also of a move away from the typical four–piece Manchester sound, where everything was created and marketed along similar lines.

‘Everyone makes music in Manchester, probably ’cos it’s such bad weather all the time, people spend loads of time in their bedrooms,’ laughs Katie, ‘but we’ve really tried to move away from that whole Smiths thing. I think we sound the least like a Manchester band!’

In fact, their whole rise to fame has come about in the least traditional way possible. Their success has largely been due to the internet, where their songs were available for free long before their first single was released.

Katie is an inveterate MySpace user, who takes feedback from fans and even virtually DJs on her nights off – like last night, playing unsigned records she’d been sent from Berlin. ‘That kind of contact is phenomenal, breaking down the barrier that producers put in your way.’

I sense trouble for producers in the future, particularly since the Ting Tings have conclusively proven that you don’t need a hired suit to make it in the music industry. But what about the Radiohead approach? Is taking away the price–tag really the way forward?

Katie hesitates before answering: ‘I think it’s fine for those bands to do that sort of thing, but if you’re a small band, with a smaller fan–base, you don’t really have the clout to do that.’ Or the money to fall back on if it goes wrong, I suggest.

But their appearance on the lucrative festival circuit may change all that. Apart from Glastonbury, they’re appearing at Benecassim, various smaller festivals in Japan, and the United States.

All very exciting, but what are they aiming for after that? Neither of them really knows. ‘The music you make is part of one period,’ says Jules, ‘maybe six months of your life. You can’t go back to it. But we know we want to keep on connecting with a wide range of people and making our own stuff. We want to change the way people think about pop, so it’s a creative kind of music again.’

Raw, unpolished, infectiously catchy – the Ting Tings have definitely got the new pop sound sewn up.

Jules et Jim presents perhaps the epitome of Nouvelle Vague (or New Wave) film: unknown actors, real-life sets, natural lighting, and bags of improvisation – all in all (and very much in the student spirit) a low-budget production. As such, it’s a brilliant effort.

Leg-fetishist director and producer François Truffaut wished to move away from the artificial, grandiose tradition of le cinéma du papa to create something a little closer to home. Based on Henri-Pierre Roché‘s semi-autobiographical novel of the same name, Jules et Jim takes an unconventional stance on what could otherwise have been a horribly cliché love-triangle.

Set around the First World War, with authentic wartime footage and newsreel-style voiceovers, you can‘t help but admire Truffaut‘s stylistic choices: he was a firm believer in the notion of le caméra-stylo, the idea that cinematography isn’t just art for art’s (and entertainment’s) sake, but a means of expression for the writer himself.

On a more technical note, however, the concept of the caméra léger (or light/travelling camera) meant that Truffaut could shoot longer detail-based scenes on the move (very hi-tech for 1962), most notably in a ‘search for signs of civilisation’ shot.

And of course, a Truffaut is not a Truffaut without a freeze frame (or four) thrown in for good measure – beautifully done; and if you don’t have your wits about you, you might just miss the most subtle one of them all (I’ll give you a clue: it’s of Jules and Jim…).

Oscar Werner, Henri Serre and Jeanne Moreau who play the roles of Jules, Jim and Catherine respectively, impressively capture the essence of each character and, given Truffaut’s hands-off approach to directing, deliver many a poignant scene in a spectacularly befitting manner that makes for a lasting impression on the audience.

And, if you can’t quite get enough of this fabulous trio, Truffaut’s other Nouvelle Vague films include the semi-autobiographical Les Quatre Cents Coups said to have launched the French New Wave, Les Mistons, a parody short-film of The Misfits, and the legendary A Bout De Souffle co-written with Jean Luc Godard.

Despite its age, Nouvelle Vague remains as fresh as its first conception, allowing Jules et Jim’s endurance and re-release.

Four stars.

The makers of the hit television programme Sex and the City sat in a bright, air conditioned room in a high rise office block, sipping mineral water (still), and discussing their next move.

‘Right – we’ve got twenty six minutes of material: Carrie’s getting married, the other girls are having relationship difficulties as usual (I assume), and it’s in New York- the Big City’. ‘Don’t forget the Sex’. ‘Oh yeah. Lots of sex.’ ‘Soooooo… we need another two hours. What shall we do?’ ‘Dresses. Big ones, little ones, ones with straps, ones without. Give each one a five minute close up, and we’re there.’

And so, one rather boring idea was stretched into a very long catwalk of a film. A flat catwalk, with no undulations, no troughs and no peaks, across which Carrie and her gal-pals were invited to parade up and down. They didn’t even trip, Naomi style.

There were some lovely shoes on show: Manolos, Jimmis, Vuittons, Chanels – all of which were slipped on and paraded before our footwear hungry eyes. Mmm. If you don’t like shoes so much, there are always the bags; and the restaurants, and the cocktails look divine. And New York, Oh! New York – ‘A place a girl goes to find two things: labels and love.’

These are the reasons to watch this film. Stroll in, sit down, and allow material beauty to diffuse through your eyes, activating the sexiness centre in the brain (the amygdala).

For the full aesthetic experience, you could even bring earplugs: there shouldn’t be much else to distract you. You’d do well to ignore the music. This film concentrates on the visual, at the expense of everything else: there were at least three (long) scenes that focused entirely on the trying-on and strutting-around-in designer costumes.

If watching a gaggle of quatrogenerians guzzle champagne and spying on Sarah Jessica-Parker crawl tiger-like across the floor is your glass of margarita, you’ll lap up Sex and The City like a spinster in a singles bar, much as the ‘girls’ did at the low points of their lives.

I would describe the plot, but I lost it about fifteen minutes into the film. There was something about a marriage, some other stuff about a cheating husband, and I think someone mentioned a baby at some point, but couldn’t tell you for sure. Every twenty minutes a sex-scene was shoved in: this was a reverse porn film – nudity taking the place of any actual characterisation or storyline.

There’s very little in this film to recommend. The storyline is predictable and facile, as are the jokes. Even if you’re a hardcore fan, wait for the DVD. It has a great fast-forward function.

One star