Film enthusiasts call a film once thought to be lost and subsequently recovered a ‘Lazarus film’, after the distinctly dead man whom the Good Lord brought back to life in a rather cult-horror-film-like fashion. One of the most recent and well-known resuscitations was the original version of Theodore Dreyer’s The Passion of Joan of Arc, produced in France in 1928 and considered lost after the master negative was destroyed in a fire. Dreyer himself tried to reassemble the original version from outtakes and existing prints, without much success. Then in 1981 a nearly perfect print was discovered in the janitor’s closet of a Norwegian mental institution. Dreyer died in 1968 believing that his early masterpiece was irretrievably buried in cinema’s cemetery.

We sometimes hear of lost films, occasionally of partially lost or ‘restored’ films, and much less often of Lazarus films. But how do films get lost in the first place?

As anyone who has seen Giuseppe Tornatore’s Cinema Paradiso knows, little boys and old men should beware of playing with fire, especially when said fire comes in the form of nitrocellulose-based film prone to auto-ignition and gradual disintegration. Tornatore’s film depicts a very real danger in the projection of nitrate film reels: in January of 1927 a fire broke out in the Laurier Palace Theatre in Montreal during a children’s comedy called Get ‘Em Young; of the 800 children who came for the afternoon programme, 77 died, most from asphyxiation or being stampeded to death in the ensuing panic. As unfortunate as these accidental deaths are, still more devastating for film history is the loss of the very soul of this history, the films themselves.

Most films from about the 1890s to the 1930s were lost simply because of a different attitude towards film. Home-viewing wasn’t an option, and many a reel was destroyed after its theatrical run simply to save storage space in the studios. Others suffered from neglect or incompetent preservation, still others were recycled for their silver content, and at least in one case, Chaplin’s A Woman of the Sea starring Edna Purviance, the master negative was destroyed by the director himself apparently because of his lead actress’ unsatisfactory performance; if only some kind soul would take it upon himself to do the same for Jennifer Lopez’s Gigli.

It’s tantalizing to know of works that once existed but are now lost (like the first werewolf film ever made, appropriately called—wait for it—The Werewolf), but in some ways worse to be left with a film that survives only in part. Fritz Lang’s Metropolis, influential forerunner to such futuristic and/or dystopic films as Blade Runner, Star Wars and The Matrix, was cut from about 153 minutes to 90 minutes—well over a third—for its restless US audience. Unless any of Cherwell’s readers is an ancient and wizened Berliner with a date of birth pre-1927, those who have seen Metropolis will have experienced the truncated version and will probably never have the chance to see it as Lang meant it to be seen.

Abel Gance’s Napoléon (1927), a silent biopic, was also cut down to a palatable size for its U.S. audience. During its grand total of nine showings in European cities shortly after its release, it was shown as Gance had intended: three projectors running simultaneously side-by-side onto a triptych-screen in something Gance termed ‘Polyvision’. The director said of his final scene, ‘At the end of the film, the left-hand screen went red, the right-hand screen went blue, and over this tricolor I superimposed a huge eagle! The audience was on its feet at the end, cheering.’ (Vive la France.)

Unfortunately, Gance’s arty arrangement did not go over well with Metro-Goldwyn-Myer, who soon bought rights to the film and kept only the central panel of the triptych scenes. The epic Napoléon was made a pastiche of its former self, whittled from over 5.5 hours to ‘feature length’. Cobbling together the scattered prints is a film restorer’s dream and probably a film preservationist’s nightmare. Kevin Brownlow managed to restore most of the film to its original state in three successive sessions (in 1980, 1983 and 2000), and the film, now standing at about 5.5 hours—properly Wagnerian in length—is an endurance test for the die-hard cinéaste. Now if only the Coppola mob (of Godfather fame) and composer-conductor Carl Davis could stop quibbling about rights to the film score and let it see the light of day in DVD format for UK/US release. Preferably, the DVD would contain both the restored version and the truncated U.S. release version for those of us who enjoy the ‘choose-your-own-adventure’ capabilities of DVDs.

You can find glimpses of Gance’s Napoléon on YouTube, and even in this unsatisfactory, pixelated, monotych digital version, it is pretty apparent why the audience were so taken with it during its premiere. In one of the scenes the beggarly madman with the Einsteinian hair and toothy maw shouts (silently), ‘Death to Saint-Just! Death to Robespierre!’, and you can feel the passion of the Parisian plebs stirring within you. Or, in any case, you know that the poor sods are goners.

With the advancement of film technology, prints and the humans attending them are thankfully no longer subject to spontaneous burning. The process of preserving and transferring crumbling film to a sturdier format is still a tricky business and in many cases cannot be attempted at all due to lack of interest, funding, or available technicians. But at some point in the future, such films, lying in their sterile climate-controlled storage cells might well be Lazarus films, – lost once to the collective cinematic memory, but not for all time.

It’s back again. Following the logical pattern of increasing numbers (i.e. counting), we now have Ocean’s Thirteen. Perhaps Ron Howard should have used the same formula as Apollo 13. Then again, at least he had the sense to stop whilst he was ahead (insert various gambling jokes here). Soderbergh clearly has not; he got caught up in his own success and lost big with his sequel in 2004, Ocean’s Twelve, which was both a critical and commercial failure. However, as everyone knows, the fastest way to win back what you’ve lost is to bet bigger next time. This time, Soderbergh’s persistence may well have paid off.

By returning the action to Vegas, producer Jerry Weintraub and director Stephen Soderbergh have recaptured some of the glamorous feel of the original film, abandoning the European tour of the sequel which rankled many fans. All of the usual beautiful faces means that Warner Brothers can automatically expect a big box office payout.

The first film was about teamwork; it stole both the money and the girl. The second film left viewers bewildered over its theme. The third film is clear again: it’s about revenge. Big casino owner Willy Bank (Pacino) swindles Reuben Tishkoff (Elliott Gould) out of his share of a new Las Vegas casino. Both of these men shook Sinatra’s hand, and Bank is about to find out that you never break the code that exists between men that shook Sinatra’s hand. Danny Ocean (Clooney) assembles his usual clan, and they get to work on a plan to spoil Bank’s grand opening. They pull it off with style and verve, albeit with some unusual techniques – a drill formerly used to carve out the Channel Tunnel is perhaps not in every conman’s tool box.

A script by Brian Koppelman and David Levien, co-authors of the equally sharp gambling movie Rounders, means there is plenty of witty interplay between the ultra-cool actors interspersing the action sequences. It is this combination that made the franchise so popular in the first place; it is good to see it brought back. Watching Pitt and Clooney crying in front of Oprah on the TV is priceless, whilst Eddie Izzard gives an outstanding performance as the technology aid.

Conscious of avoiding a narrative pile-up this time, the script spends the first twenty minutes slowly detailing the ‘con’ in all its intricacies. Although this is useful, it lacks style and flow, and highlights the flaw which defines both sequels: the heists are too complex and far-fetched. But, after this slow introduction, the film really begins to start running at pace and the action comes thick and fast. This is all helped along by another superb soundtrack by David Holmes. When the operation finally reaches its climax, the montage that celebrates the success of the con is dazzling and almost orgasmic; we can finally share in the joy of everything going like clockwork.

The principal problem with the film is the actors, but it’s not their fault. Dividing 120 minutes of screen time between at least ten of the world’s biggest acting names is obviously a process which involves compromise. Brad Pitt, for the first time I can remember, is criminally underused. The same applies for Andy Garcia, whose talents from the first film are not carried over into this latest instalment. Al Pacino is the only one who receives substantial treatment, and there is no doubting that his performance raises the level of the film.

The balance is not quite right, and the two sequels will forever live in the shadow of 2001’s Ocean’s Eleven; but nevertheless it is a partial return to form for Soderbergh and the Vegas boys and definitely worth seeing.

The government doesn’t want you to watch this film. You might get ideas. You might get angry. Or at least, Chris Atkins hopes so.

Taking Liberties is a documentary making the case that the Blair government has passed laws that grant it unprecedented power over its citizens by restricting the right to protest and to trial by jury. The film’s purported aim is to "make people laugh, and to make them angry", following the Michael Moore protocol for blockbuster documentaries (Bowling for Columbine, Fahrenheit 911). However, it’s more rigorous and focussed than one of Moore’s diatribes, and less funny: whereas Moore got laughs by goading extremists into making preposterous, offensive statements, Atkins has sought out moderates.

The range of people interviewed broadens the film’s appeal and strengthens his case: he speaks to subjects as diverse as a man currently under a "control order" (read "indefinite house arrest") after being acquitted of terrorism offences, to the first people to be arrested under the Serious and Organised Crime Act 2005 (two grannies who were protesting near a military base), to a 7/7 bomb survivor. The majority of the film consists of such interviews, which are interspersed with snippets of news footage and illustrative excerpts from Fawlty Towers.

Atkins also includes animated sequences in which he puts the legislation in a historical context by trying to draw parallels with similar laws passed by totalitarian regimes. The simplistic presentation of the history of totalitarianism might rile some of you, but its premise that the restriction of our rights facilitates further abuses of human rights, is indubitably correct. However, that’s not to say that totalitarianism is a necessary consequence of bad laws: it requires that the authorities apply them too. The film neglects to mention how the Blair government has increased the accountability of public bodies through the Freedom of Information Act, which gives us the right to request information held by public authorities. Nor does Taking Liberties tackle the issue of our unwritten constitution, and whether a Bill of Rights could protect citizens from the government (it is interesting to note that no US citizens are held in Guantanamo, whilst nine British citizens are). By excluding these peripheral issues, the film maintains a precisely defined and coherent narrative. It is necessary to keep the argument simple because film is not an appropriate medium for the presentation of a sophisticated political thesis.

Taking Liberties suffers from the fact that we are used to being emotionally manipulated by films. The mass of fiction presented via visual media means that we are inherently suspicious of films, and doubt their veracity. Atkins counters this by treating the whole film as an advert for activism – the closing sequence offers the audience a selection of contact details for campaign groups, accompanied by a voice-over exhorting us to act on the issues that matter to us.

The intrinsic value of Taking Liberties is not as a work of art but as a call to arms. It’s highly informative about the 3000 new criminal offences created by the government in the last 10 years, and about the woeful misapplication of the laws. It may have been sexed up but it’s still fit for the purpose.

This film tells the story of a revenge kidnapping amongst a group of teenagers whose drug dealer commits suicide. Jamie Bell stars as the son of a self-help guru, aptly named ‘Dr Feelgood’ and his vitamin-obsessed wife. The dead drug dealer is his best friend, and it is his little brother who is kidnapped. There’s something wrong in Suburbia, and although its basic premise as a satirical teen movie has been endlessly redone, the oddball characters and dark comedy of this film make it worth seeing. An all-star cast helps; Glenn Close is particularly memorable as the dead drug dealer’s mother.

The anesthaetized world of the movie self-consciously alludes to the video game (also called "Chumscrubber") which is omnipresent in the teenagers’ lives. From time to time, such self-referential tropes detract from what the film has to offer, which is sharp writing and excellent performances.

The cynical outlook of the film is mediated by its quips and the interest it takes in the lives of its characters. Although its desperation to be both relevant and original can be wearying to an audience who is familiar with the genre, the film is witty, well written and worth watching.

In 2005, DCMS (the Department for Culture, Media and Sport) commissioned a campaign, ‘The Music Manifesto,’ with an agenda of revolutionising the teaching of music to the masses. Or, in Whitehall language, to act as a statement of common intent for a disparate range of educational, musical and funding establishments and to provide government, the private sector and the wider community with a focus for making contributions to youth music education. Earlier this year, the campaign leader, the exuberantly titled ‘Music Champion’ Marc Jaffrey, presented his second report to the government, announcing five targets for improving musical education for children across Britain. Around the same time, Oxford alumnus Howard Goodall was appointed Singing Ambassador for the Nation and was promised £10 million in extra funds to hit these targets over the next five years.

Goodall, who was first a chorister at New and then a music student at Christ Church, is most famous for his theme tunes to programmes such as Red Dwarf, Q.I. and Blackadder, and more recently he presented ‘How Music Works.’ In the wake of public interest through programmes like ‘The Choir’ and ‘The Singing Estate,’ set in Blackbird Leys, Goodall has been acclaimed as the Jamie Oliver of music.

Although Goodall’s first task of creating a national songbook for schools may whiff of the ‘command culture’ of Soviet Russia, it’s hard to argue with the Manifesto’s five key aims (see box). Indeed, it’s hard enough to even wring any sense out of them, beyond a well-meaning gloss of empty epithets. When Blair abused the Royal Prerogative, he mangled the Queen’s English as well. Increased access, diversity, excellence – stripped to its bare bones, the Music Manifesto is a lexical compost heap of verbiage that has become ubiquitous to any DCMS publication. But once we’ve got past the less than controversial proclamation that ‘every child matters,’ what does the manifesto really offer?

To meet the Manifesto’s aim of having every child sing ‘for the Olympics’ (is this some new event? Or a terrifying concept for the opening ceremony?), local councils and schools will have to make use of every penny of that extra £10 million. Teaching a single class let alone an entire school of youngsters, with varied musical backgrounds and abilities, to sing is no mean feat. Unlike in secondary schools, where the demands of the music curriculum necessitate competent and musically literate teachers, primary schools require no such specialists. In many cases, there may be no teacher who can confidently sing, provide piano accompaniment or even read music, and the costs and difficulty of training up or hiring professionals have been woefully underestimated.

Helpfully, the Manifesto has a convenient clause to allow for the dumbing down and corner-cutting which is bound to happen. This goal of ‘singing,’ to which all children must aspire, is met by the simple definition of ‘vocalisation’. Our next generation, then, is to be reared on a diet of primitive warblings every morning and an extra-curricular calendar of vowel sounds in the afternoon. Perhaps this is where Goodall’s handy national songbook of 30 songs will step in and provide a basic minimum of exposure to music without requiring extensive retraining for teachers.

Predictably, this debased musical ‘education’ is yet another example of an ignorance and rejection of all research into music psychology, and is patronising to the very core. Along with the myth of a universal ‘talent’, the blanket belief that all music is good for you is capable of poisoning any well-intentioned musical education plan. And come on; compulsory choir with a limited repertoire of 30 songs just might not engender a life-long love of music and certainly won’t provide adequate preparation for potential professionals. Is this measly level of education really worth the effort?

After all, it’s not as if children will somehow be left in musical poverty if the state doesn’t step in. Music is already part of every child’s upbringing, whether as iPod listener, guitar player, aspiring rapper or pop diva. But government agendas for music suggest that this is not the ‘right’ kind of music. whereas a ‘relevant’ and ‘diverse’ selection by a thinktank is.

Simon Reynolds last featured in Cherwell way back in 1983 when, along with fellow students and future colleagues David Stubbs and Paul Oldfield, he launched Margin, a polemical poster-magazine: "We stuck it on notice boards, laundry walls, all over the place. It made a few waves. We did a mini version of one issue, about the size of a postcard and virtually illegible at that size, and we went around sticking them inside toilet rolls and inside people’s loaves of sliced bread: the idea was kinda "Margin–we’re everywhere! Insidiously eroding your ability to carry on!"

Since then, he’s established himself as one of the world’s leading music writers by championing emergent sub-cultures and rewriting the official histories of pop and rock. Reynolds’ last book, Rip It Up and Start Again, was a comprehensive account of the post-punk and New Pop movements of the early ‘80s, the era that shaped his own "idea of the activist critic who makes things happen and shakes things up." His own career began when the narrative of Rip It Up ended, and it’s this passionate commitment to music that forms the core of his new book, Bring the Noise: 20 Years of Writing about Hip-Rock and Hip-Hop, a fascinating composite of anthology and memoir. Reynolds’ appeal is easy to get. There’s the state of permanent delinquency that you might associate with John Peel – an uninhibited enthusiasm that’s plugged into some pretty strong convictions about how music should sound but always open to the shock of the new. And that current stays live throughout the book. What’s remarkable is Reynolds’ far-sighted ability to capture wildly inventive movements like jungle, post-rock and grime in their infancy and to evolve a set of terms and phrases to describe them.

But he’s equally fascinated by the backdrop to music. He hints at this public dimension in an interview with Radiohead around the release of ‘Kid A’ and ‘Amnesiac’, describing the "relentless bleakness" of the records as "an alienation that is never entirely private…one might describe it as ‘the political is personal’". And Thom Yorke’s alienation is something that all engaged listeners should be able to appreciate, particularly as the visceral, life-changing potential of music is steadily diluted by iPods and MTV. Reynolds stresses that "skimming through loads of downloads on your computer in a desultory fashion doesn’t seem as impressive as being a participant in a subculture, where’s there an element of strenuousness, whether it’s going to a rave and having an adventure – sometimes a misadventure, when the rave is busted – or being a fanatical metal fan and going to cramped, sweaty gigs, and doing things like moshing and crowdsurfing."

For Reynolds, the last big musical escapade began with the "surge of rhythmic invention and freakadelic production in hip hop and R&B" at the turn of this decade. "You had highpoints of commercially massive yet pretty bizarre-sounding music like Missy’s Get UR Freak On, Kelis’ Milkshake, the early Destiny’s Child hits, too many to mention…and then for me the next stage was grime, where the producers were melding all those Dirty South, crunky ideas with noises and rhythms from the rave tradition, from hardcore techno and jungle." But "grime was pretty much barred from pop" and though the scene is far from exhausted, there’s a reason why only Dizzee has dented the popular consciousness. Mostly because the grime scene is largely sustained by mix-tapes, white label 7"s and live sessions from Rinse FM, it demands precisely the sense of adventure that Reynolds would argue is largely missing today. Such trends reflect damaging new divisions in society. He suggests that "perhaps the experiential gulf between street rap and white indie-rock types has grown so big that it’s discouraging people from trying to take on ideas from hip-hop or grime." Perhaps. But in the book, he sounds a more despairing note; "not many people actually want to hear what the voice of the streets has to say: partly because it ain’t pretty, and partly, because most people honestly don’t give much of a fuck".

Crikey! That comes from an article called 2005: The Year Black Pop and White Pop Stopped Talking. If Reynolds has a story to tell in this book, it’s the fate of this musical dialogue between black and white, hip-hop and hip-rock. He argues that, "historically the entire story of rock and pop wouldn’t exist without this white romance with black music, and that is especially pronounced in terms of British pop, from The Beatles and The Stones onwards." But it isn’t as if this conversation is entirely one sided. Just as rock benefits from mimicking, revising or misinterpreting the innovations of dub, funk, rap, jazz and the blues, these black cultural movements often look to punk, indie, metal and grunge as effective mouthpieces for generational discontent. So in an interview with Public Enemy’s Chuck D, Reynolds draws attention to the Brooklyn collective’s debt to rock for its combustible energy while, over a decade later, he fantasises about how 2-step and R&B might be saved from their reactionary obsession with material wealth by "the return with a vengeance of rock bohemianism" that might restore the "whole package" of "rhythm, melody, lyrics, compelling persona."

Editors walked a fine line. Plagiarisers in extremis? Spirit-channelling musical mediums? Fiery flashes in the notorious indie pan? First album ‘The Back Room’ went platinum, bounced along by the anguished, catchy dynamism of cuts like Bullets and Munich. This year has seen the public bombarded with sophomore indie efforts which have caught their imagination – the likes of Arcade Fire and Bloc Party leap pulsatingly to mind; if Editors want to make it to the big league of career recording artists, that much-abused word ‘consistency’ must be scratched onto the agenda.
Second album ‘An End Has A Start,’ despite the cod-philosophising of the album title and some trite lyrics (think Coldplay with more angels), thankfully packs an emotional punch.
The arrangements follow a similar pattern to the first album, except here are augmented by denser backing, an actually audible rhythm guitar and some pretty angry drumming. Tom Smith’s voice is a revelation. No longer a bathroom mirror, hairbrush-wielding Ian Curtis fairground attraction, he uses baritone as a weapon, ripping through choice cuts with desperate devotion (An End Has A Start, The Racing Rats). The band still employ the old, somewhat underwhelming, ‘Uh-oh, we need a slow one’ knee-jerk, however, and the tracks that display a concern with this consideration don’t always come off (The Weight of the World).
Standout track is Escape the Nest, with its frisson-inducing guitar atmospherics and moment-crystallising emotional frenzy. Future single and, if the world has any sense, future hit.
Editors are concerned with sadness, but never despair. Here the message, first prophesied by Open Your Arms on ‘The Back Room,’ is redemption, the light at the end of the tunnel. Ultimately, Editors’ faith lies in human nature and the rejuvenating power of love. This is no hippy-happy collection, however, but a reflection on 21st century alienation and the eternal desire to connect with others. Here, music matches ambition in an album marked by quiet confidence and musical scruff-of-the-neck grabbing.

‘Funf’ collates ten years’ worth of the Liverpool band’s ‘B-sides and rarities’ into something of a diverse collection. Clinic recycle the clichés of their musical ancestors, twisting them into a new style instantly recognisable as their own. Tracks such as Nicht and Magic Boots (both clocking in at well under two minutes) are straight from the punk/garage-rock cauldron, stripping down to three power-chords and a dirty, antique production sound; Lee Shan and Golden Rectangle, with vintage organs amid acid-tinged swirls of reverb, give more than just a nod towards ‘60s psych-rock. Clinic’s unabashed appropriation of these and other conventions never seems derivative however, as the Dali-esque vocals of Ade Blackburn add an entirely modern dimension to the songs, his lyrics rarely shifting into the decipherable; even then they are characteristically bizarre and dreamlike: ‘Penny pinch and penny chews/Ooh, its Christmas’ – naturally.
Clinic inhabit some sort of musical no-man’s-land, and this short blast of a record shows the ease with which they straddle the vintage and the ultra-modern. Although there are frequent moments here that sound like they could be from several decades ago, they are set against moments that sound entirely alien, as in the slow and brooding Christmas mentioned above.
For a B-sides and rarities record (lit: ‘songs we don’t know what to do with’) Funf is modest in length, at less than 30 minutes, and as such doesn’t become the self-indulgent fans-only release it so easily could have. It’s been pared down to an eclectic and contrasting twelve tracks, but that said, is probably still a little too schizophrenic for most newcomers to enjoy immediately. The three instrumental tracks do little apart from emphasise the importance of Blackburn’s vocals; but outside of these the collection is consistently interesting, becoming most exciting when the band reaches a balance between their experimentalism and their pop sensibilities.

This is one of those corporate things which normally we’d shy away from acknowledging – part of Vodafone’s ‘Live Music Campaign,’ according to their press release. Yes, press release: even they have the humility to write ‘secret gig’ in ironic inverted commas. Yet since it’s a chance to see Maximo Park for free on the Friday of 8th Week, we thought it worth a look: an end of term indulgence, or even one last pre-exam fling for those with Prelims in 9th.

The ‘competition’ simply requires you to register your details at www.vodafone.co.uk/music – hardly a Faustian pact. Get lucky, and you get to see a tight and surprisingly heavy live act pushing their actually rather brilliant second album as if their record deal depended on it (funny, that) in some unlikely venue. Rad Cam anyone?

he misfiring Keble XI finally registered a victory in the league in a topsy-turvy tussle with Wadham.

Keble captain, Peter Bolton, won the toss and decided to bat, no doubt keen to protect his fragile batting line-up still bearing the scars of Sunday’s failure to chase a modest 133 in cuppers semi-final.

The decision appeared to have backfired as a succession of early wickets fell to the impressive opening pairing of Smith and Parkinson, who cleaned up the flamboyant Stobbs and doughty Bland with successive deliveries in the final over of an extremely classy spell.

However, Nik Baker stood firm in the face of the Wadham attack, effortlessly pushing lofted drives to the boundary.

When Baker eventually fell for 46 runs the Keble batting line-up looked to their talented lower order to salvage the innings. With some powerful hitting coming from Simon Ackroyd and a surprisingly aggressive Tom Ouldridge, the Keble total reached a defendable 181 runs. Ackroyd and Ouldridge whipped up a rapid and impressive 110 run partnership, with both batsmen peppering the straight boundaries, much to the torment of the Wadham second and third change bowlers.

The Wadham batsmen took the crease with an air of confidence, keen to compensate for their recent loss in Cuppers and to capitalize on the return to action of several key finalists following exam commitments. However, despite some intimidating shots in the pre-game nets, they never really found any rhythm.

With Bolton opening the innings with a wicket maiden, there was very little room for improvement as the Wadham scoreboard soon read three wickets for a pitiful and rather embarrassing ten runs.

Potential dangers were removed from the crease in the forms of Coperman and captain Parkinson as the Keble opening attack of Bolton and ever-accurate Harvey stuck to their guns, constantly forcing the batsmen to play as they nagged away in the so-called ‘corridor of uncertainty’ outside off stump.

With such a rapid turnover of batsmen there was no room for the Wadham line-up to attempt anything other than survival. Tom Harvey capitalized on this and absolutely devastated Wadham with his devilish inswing bowling.

The slight paceman was successful time and again, taking the ridiculously impressive figures of 7 wickets for only 9 runs in his 8 overs.

Sheer consistency from Harvey combined with cutting sledging from Ainsworth and a celebratory over from James Seddon saw Keble complete their whitewash of the demoralized Wadham side, bowling them out in less than 16 overs, for only 28 runs.