The Insect Playdir Nanw Rowlands1 – 5 NovemberOFSThe first thing to strikeyou about The InsectPlay is that it is visuallystunning. Not only is thecast strewn with contestantsfrom Cherwell’s very own ‘FitCollege’ face-off, but costumes andset are equally dazzling. It is refreshingto have the idiosyncratic resourcesof the OFS put to good use: its occasionallyawkward rake becomes atreat for the audience when the variousbalconies are clustered with vinesand busy bugs, making for more ofa three-dimensional sense of immersionin flora and fauna. Loungejazz accompanies the numerous butterfliesgadding about the first act aspseudo-English upper-crust typesfrom roughly the turn of the last century.Victor (Charlie Morrison) andFelix (Ted Hodgkinson) make for anantagonistic double act of suitor butterflies,the first as a nonchalant cad,the second as a hopelessly self-obsessedpoet-fop reminiscent of ThomasLove Peacock’s satire of Shelleyin Nightmare Abbey. The posturingpair reappear in the darker third actas ant commanders in a set-up redolentof Bush-Blair. As the mercurialand manipulative objects of desire(and bad poetry), Iris (Lucy White)and Clytie (Holly Midwinter Porter)complement an impressive first actteeming with life.It is only in the second act, withthe arrival of the miserly Mr andMrs Dung Beetle (Harry Ullmanand Charlotte Hayne) that you realisethere’s much more going on inThe Insect Play than nice vignettes,confirming the sense that the play’sprogression is more thematic thanplot-driven. Ephemeral insects playephemeral roles and many of the castconsequently double up on parts.There’s as much Journey’s End hereas there is A Bug’s Life. It is the presidingfigure of the broken-heartedtramp (Iain Dreynnan) who formsthe play’s lynchpin. A discursive momentumbuilds around him as hewitnesses the disjunct and senselesscausations of nature. If we’re to takethe anthropomorphism to be a productof the tramp’s mind, perhaps thebest way to think of this productionis as a kind of modern morality play.But far from being a just God, Nature’srules are haphazard and unfair:one dung beetle’s ‘capital’ is rapidlypilfered to become another’s. Just asyou’re growing fond of a charismaticinsect and greedily awaiting its onstagereturn, it’s reported unceremoniouslyconsumed. The implicationsfor human society in the repeatedrelationship break-downs betweenthe insects are measured against thetramp, whom we discover to havefallen foul of love himself. Can heconvince anybody, including himself,that humans are more civilised thanthe colonising ants? Is the whole playthe enactment of the tramp’s addledmind following his rejection in love,a rejection which will prove fatal tohim at the play’s close?Fear not. Nanw Rowland’s buoyantcomic touches consistently dispel anypossibility of descent into a grimlyreductive Mankind=Maggots sociopoliticalcritique. Even at the pointsof the play’s bleakest intimations ofFirst World War Europe, this playrefuses to commit itself to a decidedlysatirical or serious perspective.Thew Jones puts in yet another firstrateturn in Oxford theatre, in thisinstance as a capitalist ichneumonfly dedicated to feeding his larva (IsabellePelly) the tastiest morsels. ThinkBlackadder meets Terminator withVeruca Salt for a daughter and you’llget the idea. Similarly unresolved isthe role played by the chrysalis (SkyeBlyth-Whitelock). Delivering promisesof new life that hover somewherebetween insightful and banal, shedies tragicomically immediately afterbirth. This is a production that offersnearly everything you could hope toget from an Oxford show and doesso, moreover, with a dose of down-to-earth good humour.ARCHIVE: 3rd week MT 2005

Soul Inspireddir Bawren Tavaziva20 OctoberPegasus TheatreTavaziva Dance describes itsstyle as ‘African-influencedcontemporary dance’ infusedwith an awareness of, and familiaritywith, modern urban youth culture.Last week they came to thePegasus Theatre with Soul Inspired,a passionate and vivacious new programmecelebrating the diversity ofcultural experience and reflecting theintegrative ethos of the company.One of the company’s stated objectivesis to “inspire and providerole models for young people”, andthere is a tendency to think this allsounds slightly gimmicky, playingup to the current trend for stressingthe educational importance of artrather than its inherent artistic merit.However, in their performanceon Tuesday it was refreshing to seeeverything in the mission statementof the company borne out with sincerityonstage. The company avoidany sense of contrivance; their useof African, contemporary and urbandance seamlessly merges these differentelements to a point which attimes makes each indistinguishablefrom the others. Every movementthe performers make has purpose andresonance within one or indeed all ofthese social and artistic spheres.The fusion of urban and traditionalstyles reflects the background of thecompany’s lead choreographer, BawrenTavaziva. Tavaziva started out inHarare, gaining his first experiencewith City Youth Dance Group, ascheme aimed at benefitting localunderprivileged children. He thenjoined a professional company inZimbabwe, Tumbuka Dance, trainingin classical ballet and contemporaryGraham technique, as wellas traditional Zimbabwean styles.Tavaziva moved to the UK in 1998,working with numerous acclaimedcompanies before establishing hisown, Tavaziva Dance.The programme for Soul Inspiredopened with a piece called WorldsApart, a fusion of African and contemporarystyles of dance, with anadded element of cultural referencingto modern British urban life. Highlyabstract and synchronic movementdrivensections evolved into theseemingly improvised, depictinginteractions between friends andneighbours in a style leaning moretowards physical theatre than puredance. In the piece Link Duet, therewas again emphasis on character andnarrative as well as pure movement,as a couple comically portrayed theirconvoluted and passionate domesticdrama to the sounds of Tom Waits’Watch Her Disappear. Zviri Mumoyo(‘It Is in Your Heart’) was less successfullyrealised however; more‘lone dancer at a beach party’ thanthe ‘solo from the soul’ promisedby the programme. The energy ofdancer Lerato Lipere filled the otherwiseempty stage, subtly convertingthe repetitive rhythm of the musicinto something almost ritualisticand comforting. The second half ofthe night was composed of two contrastingpieces representing war onthe one hand (Tribe) and the deathof a loved one (Umdlalo Kasisi) onthe other. In both pieces, the interactionbetween the dancers was closerand more physical than before, butwhile Tribe evoked the threateningand aggressive contact of warfare, inUmdlalo Kasisi the dancers acted assupport and scaffold for each otherin their grief.If the show had a weakness it wasthat, for pieces which seemed to relyso heavily on narrative, the detailsof the stories being told were sometimeshard to discern. This left theaudience witnessing a strong and intenserepresentation of emotion, butwithout the clarity of the narrativeupon which it was obviously reliantthe feelings expressed felt a littlefoundationless. Nevertheless, SoulInspired was a vibrant, diverse andpowerful programme performed byan energetic and very talented company,pertinently exploring the senseof traditionalism within contemporaryBritish society and its fusion withindance.ARCHIVE: 3rd week MT 2005

The deadline is fast approaching for entries to this year’s New Writing Festival. Some plays will already have been finished, proof-read, revised, polished and popped neatly into the Burton Taylor office at a sensible, even healthy hour. Other writers, scattered across Oxford in various garrets, might at this moment be realising with horror that the estranged Jacqueline can’t return at the end, but must remain estranged because she died in Botswana when she was nine. A few might simply not realise at all that a character who entered to eat a biscuit in the first act has beenleft silent on stage ever since, still eating biscuits we presume. Many entries are probably even more raw and are being hammered into existence as we speak; perhaps some are still only good ideas waiting to begin their frantically unnatural growthspurt into a living room comedy about Chernobyl. It is, however, the deadline itself which seems best to encapsulate the effect that the New Writing Festival can have on people of a literary bent. Not only does it accommodate those who would usually take action upon an idea, offering them a wonderful platform from which to pursue it, it also shakes the inactive, shy and bemused into becoming bumblingly pro-active members of the thesp community. And all this only to meet the deadline.The format of the competition is relatively straightforward: eight shortlisted plays are announced in eighth week of this term, and four finalists shortly afterwards. Directors enter the scrum in order to bid for individual scripts and are accepted early in Hilary, the play is cast and then suddenly, and rather disarmingly, you the writer are introduced to the flesh-and-blood embodiments of the characters who peopled your brain in the gusty, panicked approach to the Michaelmas deadline.As your previously mounting suspicions about your own mental wellbeing ease off, the hard graft of the festival itself begins in earnest and you are soon swiftly tumbling towards the fourth week denouements in the Burton Taylor, OFS and O’Reilly. The society of those who do, would do, or have done plays in Oxford is, like any other group, united under the auspices of a slightly peculiar and austere habit. Yet the allure of the New Writing Festival seems to be precisely its emphasis on ‘the new’, as declared by the title. It might just as easily have been called ‘The Cameron Macintosh Prize,’ and yet the funding and institution of the event are kept commendably clandestine in favour of an emphasis on open entry and the encouragement of new voices on the Oxford stage.The other titular emphasis is, perhaps, slightly more misleading. The ‘writing’ which is celebrated in the initial stages of the competition often represents, as perhaps it should, little more than a catalogue of things which will inevitably change in the process leading up to the fourth week performances. This is not, of course, to say that the writer’s wishes become in any way denigrated, but rather that after the finalists are announced there emerges an astounding task force of thespianic worker bees who take these scripts (which can vary from laboured opus tohasty works executed in crayon) and transform them into living, breathing theatrical experiences. It is often pointed out, in a manner perhaps too dismissive of a writer’s capacity for excitement, that the greatest thrill for a writer is to see their work realised on stage. In fact, the thrill isin the actual process itself: the four weeks of changing, amending and, for some, begrudgingly compromising, are where the thrill-seeking writer finds the greatest measure of fulfilment. The New Writing Festival deadline may loom, but this is really only the beginning. Information on the festival, along with details of the trials and triumphs of last year, can be found on www. ouds.org.ARCHIVE: 3rd week MT 2005

The Roads Don’tLove YouGemma Hayesout 31 October« « A lready with one nominationfor the Mercury Music Prizeunder her belt for her lastalbum, Night On My Side, expectationswere high for Gemma Hayes.It’s easy to see why. The MercuryPrize admirably rewards one of thescarcest qualities in popular musicculture. Originality. Nobody candeny that the Mercury judgesdidn’t pull through this year bychoosing Antony and the Johnsons;undoubtedly a distinctive album,with Antony Hegarty’s androgynousvocals and such varied contributorsas Lou Reed, Devendra Banhart,Boy George and Rufus Wainwright.Unfortunately, in spite of variousmerits, originality is not one whichcan be awarded to Gemma Hayes’latest offering The Roads Don’t LoveYou. In a market recently floodedwith the gentle tones and guitar riffsof such singer songwriters as NorahJones and Katie Melua, Hayes’ pieceoffers nothing new.The warning signs are clear fromthe album cover. The horror provokinglytrite Dido-esque photograph ofa pretty, though typically pop-stocklooking blonde set against an out offocus city background is presumablylaying emphasis on the despair andloneliness which only singer-songwritersseem to be profound enoughto feel.But there is an old adage aboutjudging by covers, and it seems truewith the first track on the album,Two Step. It is catchy, and with theartist’s Irish roots making themselvesknown with echoes of the Cardigans,it is the closest she comes to beinginteresting. However, humourouslypoor lyrics turn a smart and sophisticatedsong into a thoughtless popditty.From then on the album blursinto a stream of homogeneous harmonies,and lacklustre lyrics whichprovide no insight whatsoever intoHayes’ claim that her personalityis stronger on this album than herlast one. If this album is an accuraterepresentation of her personality, Iimagine that a Tamagotchi would bemore stimulating company. Having,in her words, lost and refound her“mojo”, a claim that would lead mostto expect a more innovative soundand style, it is alas still nowhere tobe seen.Of course it’s not all completelybad. The Roads Don’t Love Youis in no way offensive; in fact it isperfectly acceptable, even pleasant,background music. It is ideal for essaycrisis management and treatingthe more severe cases of insomnia.But Gemma Hayes contributesnothing to the genre on which sheis styling herself; what she doeshas been done better many timesbefore, and anyone buying thisalbum expecting otherwise will bedisappointed. She is Avril Lavignewithout the humourous adolescentattitude. She is Norah Jones withoutthe soul. She is Eva Cassidy withoutthe spine-tingling voice and inspiringchoice of tracks. She is essentiallyreally rather dull.ARCHIVE: 3rd week MT 2005

Playing the AngelDepeche ModeOut NowIt’s really easy to write musicreviews of bands you don’t like.Put the promotional CD onthe stereo, ignore the resultantcacophony as a mere formality,bash out six hundred words worth ofsynonyms for “piss-poor” and retireto the bar for a self-congratulatorylibation. Keep to these rules, and theprocedure will be relatively painless.Just remember to avoid introspectionat all costs. Don’t be tempted by somefatuous ideal of fair and balancedjournalism. Take Depeche Mode,for instance. One certainly wouldn’twant to go to the effort of accordingthem a fair, balanced review. It’s justtoo difficult to be nice about them.At first glance, they appear to be themusical equivalent of schoolgirls whofervently believe that stripy tights andrat-nest hair signify a soul of singularbeauty and depth, rather than theaverage hormonal turmoil of puberty.This variety of cheerless pomposity isDepeche Mode’s defining characteristic,despite the fact that, as suggestedby both their quarter-century careerand the publicity photos that makethem look like particularly unwholesomeresidents of Royston Vasey,they are much too old for that kindof nonsense.Nonetheless, their new album,Playing the Angel, bears the supplementarytitle Pain and Suffering inVarious Tempos. Song titles includeA Pain That I’m Used To, Suffer Well,Damaged People and The DarkestStar. They might as well have goneand called the album "My Pain andSadness is More Sad and Painful thanYours", except ace Welsh popularbeat combo Mclusky did that backin 2000. Things are looking unprepossessing,and the music hasn’teven started yet. Pain and Sufferingindeed.The worst element of Playing theAngel is the idea of it. Despite theunsatisfactory premise detailed in theprevious paragraph, it isn’t that bad.Not to say that there aren’t countlessother releases more deservingof the ten odd quid cost of buyingan album. This is more than can beexpected by my profound antipathyto the prospect of listening to it.Actually, the work is dull and a littlepretentious, but alleviated by areasonable production ethic, somecredit for which should go to BenHillier, whose résumé includes workfor Doves and Blur.The zenith of the album, the aptlychosen first single Precious, is a sliceof delicately expansive electroniclandscaping. The exuberant, gospeldrivenJohn the Revelator, despitehaving a synth loop that soundssuspiciously like it came out of somethingby the Sugababes, is a listenableenough ditty, with a particularly emphaticvocal. Both tracks couldalmost be by the Killers, and like theretro copycats they don’t even comeclose to the majestic peaks achievedduring electro-pop’s eighties heyday.Suffer Well seemed to lift a bit fromone of these apogees, New Order’sTrue Faith, transposing it to the perpetualcrepuscular gloom of DepecheMode’s world. It is this stubbornmalaise that makes their new work soboring. As self-indulgent, smack-addledyoungsters, they at least had thesense to inject a bit of style into theirmelancholy. Self-indulgent old fartsjust don’t have the energy to maintainthat. The fact that they are still keptin business by credible labels likeKompakt and Mute is more a tributeto past glories than present strengths.Playing the Angel isn’t too bad. But itisn’t too good either.ARCHIVE: 3rd week MT 2005

Who would live in the olden days? The poor sods had it hard. The minor matter of world wars and inadequate healthcare aside, everything was just so basic. Can we even imagine living in a world without dishwashers and washing machines, internet and mobile phones? We gripe about it now of course, this proliferation of modern technology turning us all into wired-up electronicjunkies, but we wouldn’t be able to go back to the days of sitting round a wireless to hear Churchill’s broadcasts – and most of us wouldn’t want to. The developments of science havemade our lives easier, but also richer and more expansive.But there is also an invisible line in this technology business, which we seem to have crossed. There seems to be a point up to which technology can only improve your appreciation of and ability in a certain field, but after which it rather seems to detract from it. The prime example is the world of music.Music as we know it has changed immeasurably with scientific development, perhaps more than almost any other field. Recording quality is leaps and bounds better than the crackling racket that used to pass for reproduction. Mixing desks have facilitated experimentation with styles and sounds, and even given birth to new genres like dance.Increased accessibility of equipment has made it possible for every household to have one or multiple sound systems. Instruments have been tweaked and honed, and new resources,such as the internet sharing system, have sprung up. In short, the position of the music lover has become easier. But the word ‘easier’ is a false friend – or certainly a two-faced one. Ofcourse the increased accessibility of music is a good thing, but the fact is easier doesn’t always mean better, and can sometimes mean worse. Just look at the iPod. The sleek, white(or pink or blue or olive green) little genius can store thousands of tracks in its clever memory. A few hours on the computer and you can have your entire music collection to be carried around with you on the train, to a lecture, available at the touch of a fingertip. Software like iTunes andthe much debated myTunes enable you furthermore to download tracks onto your computer and from there to your iPod like turning on a tap. It all, undoubtedly, makes much more sense than carting round a hundred CDs in one of those irritating wallets, or worse, faffing around with tapes. But with this ease and efficiency has disappeared much of what is wonderful about being a music lover. Scouting around record shops looking for a rare copy of an album, or nosingthrough random stacks to find something that grabs your attention just because of the cool cover (and then getting it home and discovering it is the best record you have heard in years); these are things of no value in a virtual cyber world. Most of all has gone the sense of slow, deliberate carethat record collectors take over their babies. Putting your iPod tracks in alphabetical order just doesn’t bring the same joy as pouring over your CD collection, carefully wiping jewel casesand dust-jackets and wondering why you never took Captain Beefheart out of his plastic jacket.The same is true of the machines themselves. As controversial as it may sound, an iPod, while a thing of aesthetic finesse, is not a machine designed to be loved. To be flaunted, yes, and flashed around and occasionally stroked in wonderment at its smooth, sleek shininess. But it is not like a record player. Record players are the true music lover’s dream. The machines themselvesare large and cumbersome and cannot be easily transported. They take quite a bit of looking after, what with cleaning their needles, changing their cartridges, investing in antistatic pads and the like. Records, too, must be meticulously looked after; no leaving them around on the topof a cupboard, because once they get scratched they are dead. The process of putting a record on a deck must be done slowly and carefully so as not to damage the record or the stylus. Andof course, you have to get up halfway through to change them over. You can’t skip between tracks except by physically moving the needle, and you can’t arrange playlists or shuffles. They are, in short, hard work. And yet despite all that, or perhaps because of it, they are beautiful, wonderful things.So what can record players teach us about listening to music? That what is quick and useful is not always better, neither in terms of effect nor in terms of overall appreciation. Anything in life worth doing is worth taking time over, and care and conscientiousness are rewarded in an increased overall pleasure. Record collectors unite! And just slow down a little.ARCHIVE: 3rd week MT 2005

The Legend of Zorrodir Martin Campbellout nowIn 1998, The Mask of Zorro, alsodirected by Martin Cambell,was released to general acclaim.A rousing, swashbuckling adventurewith a healthy dose of humour,it made a sequel entirely predictable.Sadly, predictable is certainlythe watchword for this latest offeringfrom the conveyor-belt that isHollywood. The film, essentially aninferior photocopy of the original,is not terrible, but it is terribly mediocre.The sultry spark of the first filmhas vanished, replaced by lazy actingand an even lazier script. Thestory, little more than a series of frequentlyillogical plot devices, opensin 1850 as California votes on joiningthe Union. Zorro is enduringsomewhat less than marital bliss,with his devotion to work resultingin estrangement from his beautifulwife. This potentially emotional storylineis instead played for laughs,as Zorro strives to win Elena backfrom a villain so bland I’ve alreadyforgotten his name. Naturally, healso has to save America.The Legend of Zorro is sporadicallyfunny, but the broad slapstickmerely contributes to its uneventone, as it tries (and fails) to find abalance between grit and sanitisedfamily fare. The introduction of aZorro Junior to the forefront of theaction was always going to be intenselyirritating. One also wonderswhy the skilful swordsman Zorronever actually kills anyone with hissword.Nevertheless, the blockbusterdoes have its moments, and it occasionallyfeels like a better story islurking just out of reach. A mealtimescene proves surprisingly macabreand the rousing fighting ofthe climax is undeniably exciting.On a different front, real emotionis felt when Zorro’s identity is revealed,yet the chief effect of this isto highlight the sterility of the restof the affair.It is a depressing thought that sausagefactory of Hollywood cannotmuster the courage to experimentwith fresh material. Recycling is agood thing when it comes to litter,but not when cinema is concerned.The word ‘sequel’ may arouse producersin Bel-Air, but for me it hasall the excitement of toast.There are exceptions, of course,that prove this rule. This film,as you may have guessed, is notone of them. No amount of scenery,swords, special effects or even(gasp) Antonio Banderas can hidethe unerring feeling that The Legendof Zorro has nothing new tosay. Far from being a legend, thisfilm proved difficult to rememberlong enough to write a review.ARCHIVE: 3rd week MT 2005

Halloween FilmsSee listings for detailsHalloween is in the air. The oddly impressive halloween-bop costume aside, though, none of us seem to have the time or inclination to get into the spirit of things with any pumpkin carving or trick-or-treating. Fear not, as there’s always that steadfast of the scary season: the horror movie. Fortunately, Oxford’s film societies are happy to oblige.On the night of the 31st, Magdalen Film Society is showing James Wan’s Saw (2004). Two strangers (Cary Elwes and Leigh Whannell) wake up in a bleak, neon-lit washroom, chained to each other and unsure of how they got there, or indeed why. The latter question, at least, is answered when the recorded voice of Jigsaw, their sadistic imprisoner, tells them that to survive, one of them must kill the other within the next eight hours. The only means which which to escape from their manacles is a hacksaw: not for the shackles, of course, but for their ankles. In the same vein as David Fincher’s Se7en (1995), Saw has a somewhat holeridden plot and shallow psychology, especially when it comes to the motives of Jigsaw. However, in the midst of the glib macabreness of it all, none of this really seems to matter.The sequel to Saw has just come out in cinemas, sporting the tagline ‘Oh Yes, There Will Be Blood’. That’s all you really need to know about the first film, as well. As if an hour and a half of blood and gore wasn’t enough, following on immediately afterwards is George Romero’s legendary horror film Night of the Living Dead (1968), also at the Magdalen Film Society. Again, the taglines of the movie are to be cherished, with such beauts as ‘They Won’t Stay Dead’ and ‘They’re Coming to Get You … Again!’. This is a movie that does exactly what it says on the tin, following the attempts of a group of people trapped inside a farmhouse to survive the night, with a horde of the living dead outside. Shot in gritty black and white, Night of the Living Deadmarked a new dawn in the horror genre, forsaking any sentimentality or neat conclusions in favour of unrelenting gore and tension, as the group under seige desperately try to cling to their humanity while the inhuman closes in around them.To complete our backwards movement in time, Corpus Cinema is this week showing one of the earliest and most classic horror films, FW Murnau’s Nosferatu (1922). When a real-estate agent, Hutter (Gustav von Wangenheim) visits the sinister Count Orlok (played with spinechillingmenace by Max Schreck), an evil is released upon Hutter’s home town, not to mention hiswife, that should have stayed in the shadows. Murnau’s silent film relies on haunting scenery and eerie music to get across its thrills, rather than the easy shocks of modern counterparts. A testament both to how far the horror genre has come, and the legacy to which it owes its tremendous potency.ARCHIVE: 3rd week MT 2005