Last week’s edition of The Oxford
Student was pulled after the University threatened Oxford Student Services Ltd
(OSSL), the paper’s owners, with an injunction against its publication.The action pre-empted an article that
concerned an ongoing proctoral investigation into an allegation of harassment
brought by a student against another undergraduate. Internal investigations of
this kind are governed by the University’s procedural regulations, which ensure
that the confidentiality of those involved is maintained.An Oxford University
spokesperson told Cherwell that although the University
proctors had been aware that The Oxford Student was running the story they only
intervened at a later stage, when it became apparent that the article contained
specific details from a confidential report on the investigation. Having initially refused to pull the
story, editorial staff agreed to the measure after the University sought legal
advice on the matter. OSSL was informed that the University was able to go to
court that evening to prevent the distribution of the issue.OUSU President Emma Norris stated,
“The decision to stop distribution was made jointly by the publisher and
editorial staff and agreed by all involved.”  As the issue had already been printed,
the papers themselves were confiscated and sent to the University’soffices in Wellington Square. They will remain there
until all copies can be destroyed. The Oxford
Studentwill continue to be published as normal
for the rest of the term. The paper costs an estimated £3,000
to print per issue, but the potential cost to OSSL of the paper being withdrawn,
including revenue from advertising sales, could exceed £10,000.The University gave its reason
for requiring the paper’s withdrawal in an official press release: “Publishingdetails of such a case would be
highly detrimental both to the conduct of a fair disciplinary process and, potentially,
to the welfare of the students involved in the case.” In relation to the details of the
story the University stated, “The edition carried confidential details of an ongoing
University disciplinary case against an undergraduate, which had been released
to the paper in breach of the University’s procedures and without the consent
of the individuals involved.”OSSL has the authority to veto articles
if they are in breach of the law, but Norris asserted that “other than this The
OxStu is editorially independent”. One source has informed Cherwell that confidentiality agreements have
been signed by those involved in the production of the article, preventing
details of the story from being revealed. Both OUSU and the University have
refused to comment on this matter.Rob Lewis, Editor of The Oxford Student,
confirmed that “a story had to be pulled after a legal matter was brought to
our attention,” but declined to comment further. While the paper made efforts to
maintain the anonymity of the students involved, the University has expressed
concern that “in a close community such as a university, anonymity cannot be
guaranteed simply by changing names, particularly when extensive details of a
case are published.” A University spokesperson
defended the decision, saying that if details of the investigation had been circulated,
it may have lead students to lose faith in the University’s justice system,
which operates entirelyconfidentially. They further explained that in normal
legal proceedings no paper would be able to publish documents being submitted
to the court during a hearing, hence the University’s action over its own
internal justice proceedings.No legal action was taken against
editorial staff, but the University may have done so had the issue been distributed.
Norris said, “No one is liable to legal action as a result of this story, as
the paper was not distributed so no law could have been breached.”ARCHIVE: 3rd week MT 2005

The agenda for last Friday’s OUSU council meeting, where a vote to
boycott Coca-Cola was passed by an overwhelming majority, contains two
points of significant interest. The first is a quotation from a
spokesperson representing the workers at Coke’s Colombian factory: “We
ask Coca-Cola to stop killing, and you to stop drinking Coke.” These
striking words are accompanied by a list of statistics detailing Coke’s
alleged role in a string of deaths, imprisonments and threats.The
second is the proposed reason for OUSU’s involvement with these issues:
“The case of Coke is of particular importance to us because students –
by their membership of NUS and hence democratic control over the
purchasing of many large venues – are in a uniquely powerful position
to respond.”Whether or not we support the motion – and the
implication of it being passed by such a majority is that we do – we
must consider how genuine its importance to us is. Is our purchasing
power a genuinely good reason to involve ourselves in such a dispute?
There are surely other unions throughout the country with the same
commercial force. Yet student unions are unique in their involvement in
matters unrelated to the primary concerns of their members.The
question of what OUSU is has, since its inception, not been
successfully answered. Indeed, the end of term reports of last year’s
Executive Officers show that the same uncertainty exists inside the
organization as in the minds of many students: whether OUSU should
exist primarily to support or to represent its members.The role
of any student union is in many ways subject to the same uncertainty.
Significant pieces of legislation complicate the matter: John Major’s
1994 Education Act puts a burden on these institutions of having to
represent not only their members but the student community in general.
The NUS acts as an unwieldy umbrella organization for the overambitious
goal of representing students throughout the nation.But OUSU’s
position is unique. Cherwell has reported on and off for nearly forty
years the imminent arrival of an ever-elusive central student venue.
John Blake, last year’s OUSU President, makes explicit statements in
his end of term report which call for the sale of OUSU’s two most
Oxford-facing ventures, the Oxford Student and Zoo, to private
companies. There is a perennial schism in the two OUSUs: one a
representative campaigning force, the other a semi-commercial
publishing and Entz body.Perhaps the problem is that we are
already so well catered for by our JCRs, political groups, college
officials, orchestras and so on. Perhaps the problem is that despite
this there are no other effective outlets for global political views to
be heard. Perhaps there is no problem at all.At present, OUSU’s
role is a source of confusion for many students. Occasional anger and
distrust must stem from such a situation, but this does not tackle any
of the problems. What many perceive as OUSU’s isolation, whether
self-perpetuated or external can be of little benefit to the student
body at large. An increase in interest by students in a body which is,
after all, there to protect their interests could hardly be a bad
thing. Whether positive or negative, some input from the rest of us
would at least be a start.ARCHIVE: 2nd week MT 2005

I recently sponsored a friend of mine to go on a Rhino Run. This rather bizarre excursion involves jogging for many miles in a silly costume, all in the good name of improving the lot of certain long-suffering rhinoceri. It is, of course, all for charity. And this got me thinking about the nature of giving and, more specifically, the media coverage of ‘compassion fatigue’ in Britain. It seems that, bombarded with so many images of suffering humans on television and in the newspapers, the effort of actually feeling sorry for them wears us out. So tired are we of these emotions that God forbid we ourselves are caught in an earthquake or tsunami.The term ‘compassion fatigue’ was originally coined to explain the response of doctors, policemen and other emergency personnel to their daily experiences. When faced consistently with humanity at its worst, these people become more cynical in their outlook on their jobs, as a method of coping with the constant stress. The result of this is that they tend to view patients or victims in a abstract fashion, failing to connect with them on a personal level.However, by giving a name to this phenomenon, we are able to diagnose the problem and then set about solving it: counselling for these emotion-draining professions means that they can feel more empathy with those in their care. There is no such panacea for our more modern version of ‘compassion fatigue’ – while we can shun the troubling pictures of suffering children and bereaved wives, they will still stubbornly refuse to go away. So what does the term actually mean in its new incarnation, and does the reaction it covers actually exist?It seems to me that the problem is born from laziness. Not just the laziness of people who don’t want to donate money and who crave a semi-intellectual defence, but the laziness of journalists who can’t be bothered to get to the root of a problem. It is true that the response to the tragedy in Kashmir from the public has not been as swift, or as plentiful, as the response to the tsunami last year, but the reasons for this are much more varied than a simple two word phrase could ever encapsulate. The tsunami’s timing was impeccable from a journo-hack’s point of view; juxtaposing the holiday celebrations of the affluent in this country with the unmatched suffering of hundreds of thousands halfway across the world made for a simple moralising byline. While this inspired some poignant stories of toddlers’ donated presents, and was very successful initially by raising money for aid agencies, the overwhelming emotion it caused was guilt.It is the inevitable backlash of that quick-fix approach that we see now. People are not tired of giving, or unable to feel pity, but instead they bridle at the stream of pictures, carefully chosen to provoke maximum sympathy, which flood our television screens. Reports of corruption and waste in certain charities’ handling of the funds has also taken its toll: quite understandably, we don’t want to be manipulated into giving or have our hard-earned money used to line the pockets of bureaucrats. However, although this is an important factor in explaining why the flow of donations has dried up, I believe that the main difficulty lies elsewhere. The real trouble which faces us at the moment is not ‘compassion fatigue’, but rather a kind of ‘compassion confusion’. With so many ‘worthy’ causes available to donate to, we find it difficult to support those which matter most. People, being fickle creatures, are happier to sponsor a friend to sit in a bath of baked beans for an hour than to simply call up an automated helpline and hand over their credit card details; this inevitably results in more money for underfed rhinos, but also in fewer supplies going to Kashmir, Niger or New Orleans. This is not the time to turn our attention away from suffering; our front pages may be full of David Beckham’s latest folly or the university exploits of a privileged public school boy, but we must remember where our attention should be focused.The damage done by these disasters does not simply leave with the media coverage: the Kashmir earthquake alone is said to have wiped out an entire generation, so its effects will be felt for decades yet. We must act to alleviate the pain of those suddenly struck down, and not just for the immediate future but for the long term. Charities don’t need an occasional gift, but steady donations which can sustain their extended operations.‘Compassion fatigue’ is a catch-all term, a myth created to help people avoid guilt. The actual problems are much more subtle, but I hope that they are easier to overcome once they have been identified. With that in mind, my suggestion would be to find a cause you feel strongly about and get involved as soon as possible.ARCHIVE: 2nd week MT 2005

Few things in life can be said with certainty. The fact that the majority of people who come out of Oxford will go on to lead utterly unremarkable lives just happens to be one of them.As the biggest pandemic in recent history prepares to spread its menacing wings over Europe, the complacency with which the problem is being tackled is even more worrying than the destruction that it could bring.With all the potential for catastrophic losses and yet none of the glorious epitaphs that dying in battle for king and country entails, the idea that something as devastatingly unglamorous as bird flu could have a profound effect on the socio-economic and political landscapes of this century verges on the inconceivable.And yet the pandemic and its global spread are inevitable. The birds are definitely coming, the rest is just a matter of time and scale. And as we stare blankly at conflicting figures of casualty estimates thrown up by our computer screens, anonymous specialists around the world are working on finding ways to control the outbreak.It is all too easy to write off the daily “avian flu” headlines as just another editor’s bird-fetish-inspired whim; story-fillers whose sole destination will be the dustbin of medical history, following the previously trodden paths of mad cows and SARS.In reality the new war we face involves working against an ever-changing and invisible enemy. It is an enemy too intangible to be used to motivate or induce fear the masses, too vague to be of any use in morale-inducing propaganda. A purely intellectual war, its battlefield will be labs and its soldiers decked in overalls. Something so distant from our ordinary lives and understanding seems natural to be left to the specialists to sort out. And yet the decisions they make in the coming months could determine whether the death toll is 5 million or 150 million.The dangerous tendency to be complacent and rely on others to deal with such problems is all to easy to fall back on. Of all the supposedly top intellects in the country graduating each year from Oxford, only a small few will go on to hold positions of any real responsibility. And even though the next in line to have his or her past retched out before them by a hoard of hungry journalists could be standing next to you, the majority of students will be happy to carry on leading their day-to-day lives, knowing that nothing of such a potentially devastating scale could ever depend on them.The death toll of the Spanish pandemic of 1918-1919 matched that of the Second World War, a fact difficult to reconcile with the difference of public perception of the two events.However, considering the fact that the tactics in fighting the former ‘war’ included outlawing handshakes and imprisoning those who coughed in public, this is not surprising.Hitchcock envisaged a world where birds poke people’s eyes out; Bulghakov wrote about failed attempts to breed giant chickens generating an army of killer snakes. The reality is much less exciting, and its effects in the context of our complacent ignorance all the more grim. Our trust is placed blindly into the hands of unseen specialists. Meanwhile the rest of us continue to measure out our lives with coffee spoons; the only overwhelming question that we can bring ourselves to ask concerning the uncertain future of pigeon post.ARCHIVE: 2nd week MT 2005

We live, it is said, in a city of beautiful buildings and ugly people. We are continually portrayed as lacking passion and social skills, losing our virginities at about the same time our BAs metamorphose into Masters degrees. We are apparently less attractive, less sociable and less likely to get laid than students elsewhere, although the chances are good that we will end up marrying each other, if only because no one else will. In fact, it seems that no one other than JP Morgan lusts after an Oxford student.Keen to investigate this, I regarded the influx of a new generation of freshers with an eager eye. From the lengthy crocodiles of new students traversing the High Street will be drawn a new flock of hacks and upstarts, thesps and boaties, socialites and socialists. Our university will, sadly perhaps but probably inevitably, stratify itself as it does each year. Within a few short months, weeks even, the different tribes separated by subject and college, as well as class, wealth and faith, will have identified each other and introverted themselves.However, for a blink of an autumnal eye everyone is in the same boat of finding where things are and trying to remember names. The future ‘Bridge girl’, who by November will be far too cool for college, goes to buy her gown with the computer scientist who will be social secretary of the Dungeons & Dragons Society in Hilary. In my own college I saw several acres of pashmina founder on tough northern lads who clearly wondered why the womenfolk were wearing tents. Like the end of a war or the fall of a siege Oxford’s freshers’ week produces some strange meetings, and not just with the tutors. But does it throw up some unlikely bedfellows?Certainly the chivalrous second year tactic of plying a fresher with sambuca and then stealing her keys delivered some results, but as this newspaper wryly commentated it was not “all about getting pissed and getting laid”. Intrigued as to why it wasn’t just the chemists who couldn’t find much chemistry, I found myself in Blackwell’s on the Thursday of 0th week trying to pretend I was not reading a large blue volume. The author was an American journalist called Neil Strauss, the title was The Game. A subheading simply declared “undercover in the world of Pick Up Artists”.Strauss’ story is essentially a tale of transformation from rags to sexual riches. A self confessed geek, he fell in with a “community” of men who styled themselves as “Pick Up Artists”, or “PUAs”, and claimed to have discovered and codified routines that would allow them to seduce any woman. He was eventually hailed as the world’s greatest PUA after one of his students used his routines to secure Paris Hilton’s phone number in a Hollywood diner. Strauss’ narrative did not really interest me but I was intrigued by the techniques he espoused. Reading further it seemed that Strauss had essentially perfected the well-proven mantra of ‘treat them mean to keep them keen’.Cleverly and consistently he had devised techniques and eventually an entire lifestyle that was conceived to convince his targets of his active disinterest in them right up until the moment he had lured them into bed. He would dress deliberately eccentrically (a habit known as “peacocking”) and approach women with a “false time constraint”: a wholly fictitious lie that he had other business to attend to and could not, therefore, harass them all night. An innocuous opener deliberately void of sexual intent would be followed by a barrage of mind reading exercises and magic tricks, and then his most powerful tool, the “neg”. Realising that beautiful women are bored by compliments and men fawning over them, Strauss chose instead to clothe a subtle insult within an overt compliment. The “neg” was intended to shred the target’s self esteem, and kick her interest buttons. I was sceptical, particularly when I chanced upon the sample “neg” in the book: “Nice hair, is it real?”Even the proffered alternative of “You have nice teeth, they make you look just like Bugs Bunny” did not convince me. Surely voicing doubts about a maiden’s curls could not be the way to her heart, or her bedroom? But then again, the anecdotal evidence seemed stacked in Strauss’ favour. As I considered the matter it became more and more obvious that there was only one way to put The Game to the test – I would have to play my own game and take Strauss’ ideas into the field. And where better to give them the acid test than Oxford, bastion of celibacy and libraries?Taking on the mission required a measure of anxious self-examination. I was, to be honest with myself, using a self-help book to pick up girls. Was my subconscious trying to tell me something? Nervously scrutinising my past
interactions with the fairer sex I decided I was probably not, in Strauss’ terminology, an “AFC” (average frustrated chump), but then again I was certainly not a master “Pick Up Artist” either. Whilst I had once briefly topped my college’s “Fit Fresher” poll on Oxford Gossip, I had to concede that electoral apathy may have played a roll as I garnered only three votes. I had undoubtedly been lucky to escape the Oxford curse relatively unscathed; there are a few Akam exes scattered amongst the dreaming spires, even if a couple of them only hold day membership of the club. But then again I had to admit to myself that I had never asked a girl if her hair was real, or spent one night in Paris. It was clearly time to learn.Time was of the essence. It had taken Neil Strauss two years to learn his game, but I only had a few hours. After all, I had an essay to write. So, on an autumnal afternoon in Oxford I set out to become a “Pick Up Artist”. I considered several hunting
grounds. A club seemed most obvious, but my fellow features editor pointed out that using mind games to pull in Filth would be degrading to both myself and this newspaper.Therefore I decided to test the game in an Oxford situation: I would have to pick up a girl in a library. After all, the (Radcliffe) camera never lies. I chose the Rad Cam as the location for my Bodleian Romance, lured partly by its reputation as a social Mecca and in part by its undeniable resemblance to a gigantic nipple. I decided I would have to “peacock”: I was determined to dress to impress. Unfortunately I only possess one fancy dress costume, and there was no way I was going to the Rad Cam in a caveman suit. I donned instead a cavalry service dress jacket in khaki serge, emblazoned with steel imperial eagles on the lapels. I teamed this with a florid pink shirt with loose double cuffs, jeans, hooped blue and pink socks and highly polished brogues. I looked like I had just deserted from the Franco-Prussian war onto Carnaby Street, but I was confident I had the right look. Better men than I had fought and died in that uniform, and I knew it would do me justice. Aware too of the need for accessories, as well as the requirement to pretend to work so as not to blow my cover, I hid a calligraphic dip pen and a pot of Swiss green ink in a battered leather briefcase.Disguise complete, I left the daylight of Radcliffe Square behind me. I seized the strategic ground by the photocopiers and ostensibly checked the facebook whilst assessing the situation. The theology aisle was a disappointment, inhabited as usual by those who couldn’t find a space in the English section. Elsewhere, however, rich pickings were to be found, even among the few who held
the controversial view that the library is a place for serious scholarship. Having settled myself down opposite a promising brunette I opened my pot of ink and toyed with my pen. I glanced across – spoken openers clearly would not work, so my approach would have to be written. Fortunately the librarians had clearly considered this issue and thoughtfully left trays of pink shelving slips in the middle of each table, so I had a plentiful supply of billet-doux. I considered my opener. I did not have the heart to pass a clothed insult across the no man’s land between us, so instead merely wrote “You have nice hair” and cast it into the walnut ulu across the table. The response was not ideal, despite smiling she made no response and dashed for cover to the loos at the first available opportunity. My fragile self-confidence was shattered and I considered calling off the whole operation, before reasoning that I had been too soft and my “negging” skills had been lacking.There was, however, no way I was going to write “Is your hair real?” and offer the slip to a random individual; I had horrifying visions of being marched from the library in disgrace and falling under a permanent Bodleian ban. Instead I decided to take a safer option and reclaim the stereotypes for my own advantage: all the prettiest students are supposed to be at Brookes, and they are allowed into the Bodleian in their third year, once they have learned to read. Therefore there was a possibility, albeit a slim one, that an attractive Rad Cam denizen would in fact be a Brookes imposter. I carefully wrote “You have nice hair – are you at Brookes?” on yet another pink slip. It was the perfect Oxford “neg”, and this time the response was better. A bored looking blonde wrote back, “No, St Johns”, although she was less than impressed when I passed the reply “Close Enough” back inside the front cover of a volume entitled Sexual Deviance.By this point my antics were becoming increasingly obvious to the fifty-something DPhil veteran in the seat next to me. It could only be a matter of time before he betrayed me to the authorities on charges of illegal ink consumption and licentious pamphleteering. Therefore I had to make my last attempt the most worthwhile. I charged my remaining pink slip with another Brookes comment, sailed down the aisle that faces Brasenose and left it on another desk. I had noticed the desk’s owner a moment before as she manned the photocopier: she was blonde, and built like a racing schooner. Perhaps she actually was at Brookes.However my intuition turned out to be false: she was the genuine article. I made a return pass of her desk a minute later and picked up the reply in a feminine green hand “Thankyou, I’m at Oxford Uni.” I responded quickly, while ostensibly perusing volumes of Feuerbach; I toyed with “What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”, but chose instead “Do you come her often?” Once more the reply appeared, although I lingered before collecting it, not wanting to appear too eager. The pen had changed to black, which I took to be a good sign: “I’m a fresher so I haven’t really had much of a chance yet. Seems like a good place to study! What do you read? Where?” She was clearly interested: now was the time to close the deal.
Three simple headings on another pink slip: “English (Occasionally), Worcester, Number?”This was make or break time.Once more I lingered before collecting the reply, but I need not have. The same hand and same ink: “This is probably just the sort of thing a young lady is supposed not to do, but hey.” The magical digits followed. I had done it. With a simple combination of ridiculous clothing, subtle “negging” and green ink and eclectic stationary I had conjured the number of a girl I had never met, never talked to, and whose name I did not even know from the Bodleian ether. Perhaps the game had something to it.That night I headed out into the gloaming with a photographer in tow to get some images to complete this article. I felt exhausted by the days events, and in no mood for further attempts at seduction. However, I gathered enough courage for one more skirmish. We opened with the line “We’re journalists doing a feature, will you pose for some images with me?” Bizarrely this procured amazing results. Through some unforeseeable cosmic accident a bevy of Danish exchange students had wound up in Thirst, and were more than willing to drape themselves over me for such a serious journalistic purpose. As our photographer snapped away and we collected an embarrassing amount of e-mail addresses, the other men in the bar looked at us with a mixture of anger, suspicion and disbelief.Suddenly the real meaning of what Strauss had attempted became clear to me: it was never about dressing up, or veiled insults, or looking disinterested. Rather it was about projecting an image and appearing at the centre of attention. The idea was clearly to be the ringleader, whether through conversational sharpness or, as we were, by offering the tangible prize of media exposure.As we left shortly afterwards to pad off into the rainy night with a memory card full of Copenhagen’s finest, I pondered the day’s events. I was not a convert, but I had learnt a thing or two. The only decision left was
whether or not to call her.
Simon Akam would like to apologise to all the women he approached in the research for this article.
ARCHIVE: 2nd week MT 2005

Optimists for the future of British theatre have recently had little to
smile at owing to the plethora of articles by smug Fleet Street
journalists who prophesise the imminent downfall of British theatre.
However, they should seek solace in the unforeseen boom in West End
ticket sales, triggered by an influx of Hollywood A-List talent eager
to tread the boards of the London stage. Indeed statistics reveal that
2004 was the West End’s most successful year in terms of revenue since
records began, with smash hits such as Mel Brooks’ The Producers and
Cameron Mackintosh’s Mary Poppins playing to full houses nightly.
However, the West End is only a small part of a much wider picture in
which British theatre faces a lack of financial support and distinct audience apathy. Away from the glamour of London’s West
End, with its swarms of tourists and big-budget productions, what is
the true state of affairs for Britain’s everyday theatres in their
perpetual struggle just to stay open?The average local theatre is disadvantaged not only by a lack of funding but also by an unengaged public, which
remains oblivious to the often stimulating range of cultural events on
offer. This ignorance is based on the common misperception of theatre
as an archaic medium, obsessed with Shakespeare and rooted deeply in
elitist high culture. This impression creates an intimidating aura
surrounding the theatre, which prevents a wider understanding of both the value and the joy of the theatrical experience.Herein lies the responsibility of the theatre company to promote its
work in such a way that it will engage the attention of a distracted
potential audience; in particular the younger generation, whom one must
target to ensure the theatre’s survival as a popular art form. It is an unfortunate coincidence that the future of the theatre may
rest on the shoulders of this generation, the generation that has been
most resistant to its call. The reasons for this are many and varied,
but principally stem from those previously mentioned concepts: misconception and
ignorance. As Oxford students it is easy to remain unaware of this
crisis, as our intellectual student community takes advantage of a wide range of theatre. However this is far from
typical, as local theatres rarely receive this level of support from
the younger generation. Pre-conceived notions of the theatre as boring
or uncool form a barrier against its integration into youth culture, as
well as the idea that it is an expensive hobby requiring effort to
dress appropriately and engage in higher culture. These concerns are
often ungrounded, with student tickets generally being reasonably
priced, with a wide range of plays on offer. Perhaps what is missing is
the promotion of theatre as the exciting, engaging medium that it is.
The innovative, challenging work of experimental companies often
remains practically unadvertised or doesn’t reach the
smaller theatres. The quality of work presented at theatres such as the
National – fresh and stimulating pieces – must find their way to local
theatre, to reach younger people and expose the theatre’s potential as
a platform for artistic creation.One of the most overwhelming setbacks for the theatre must surely be
its competition in the form of cinema and television. Sixteenth and
seventeenth century theatre was a social event, well attended by a
broad spectrum of people whose only chance of escapism was to see a
play. Moreover the theatre itself was a meeting point, actors often
struggling to perform over the clamouring rabble of audience members getting drunk
and looking for prostitutes. Although the theatre has thankfully gained
more respect in recent years, it has lost its status as a pillar of
society, a major form of entertainment to be experienced by all.
Ironically, it has been theatre’s social rise that has prompted its
demise, the move from popular to high culture bringing with it notions
of elitism and the reputation for being expensive.It is a common argument that theatre is flagging because of its failure to compete with the technological
wizardry now prominent in film and television. However this is clearly
a flawed assertion, with blockbuster films being reliant on plot detail
and acting ability, as opposed to camera trickery. Even if this were to
be a fair criticism, those involved in theatre must surely strive to
preserve its artistic integrity, since to sacrifice this in favour of gimmicks to attract a
new audience would serve only to corrupt the theatre and to lose the
remaining audience that is has.It is telling of British culture that it has taken the arrival of
Hollywood stars to boost the West End theatre scene. As a society, our
obsession with the celebrity informs us that a production endorsed by a familiar name must be worth seeing, the glamour of
Hollywood blinding our critical eye. Many of these actors have little
experience of live acting and are less adept than most of London’s
drama school graduates, winning parts based on the director’s knowledge
of the relationship between celebrity and ticket sales. This is surely
a dangerous observation, to note the shift from an emphasis on talent
to reputation. Must the theatre degrade itself to survive?Controversially, it is perhaps necessary for the West End, in order to
truly progress, to reject some of the Hollywood help it is receiving.
The underlying reason for this is that it is rare to find a public
figure (such as Kevin Spacey, artistic director of The Old Vic since
2004), who aims to use their status to resurrect theatre, rather than
using theatre to resurrect their own career.Alongside the problems involved with attracting audiences is the lack
of sufficient funding for British theatres. Critics will always argue
that in the face of global warming and terrorist threat, money should
not be spent on frivolous pastimes such as the theatre. This, however,
is an obstinate and poorly constructed argument, based on a
narrow-minded outlook on life. Theatre is an integral part of our
society’s culture, something that is worth fighting for with the
potential to entertain, broaden horizons and even to educate.Despite the problems it faces, there is still hope for British theatre.
Enthusiasm for theatre still exists as does the desire to promote this
live, challenging and engaging medium. Lack of funding and dwindling
audience numbers mean that the theatre is facing an uphill struggle to
maintain itself as a popular art form, but despite problems there is
still time for a revival. However, it will take more than a few
American celebrities to breathe new life into the British stage.ARCHIVE: 2nd week MT 2005

What polystyrene is lacking aesthetically it usually makes up for in
functionality and low cost. More commonly known for its kebab-bearing virtues, the lightweight plastic is not the most obvious choice of material for great works of art. However, it is for the work of the Lithuanian
artist Zilvinas Landzbergas at the new Arrivals exhibition at Modern
Art Oxford. The gallery has specially commissioned the exhibition to
allow the foreign artist to display his work for the first time in the
UK.
There is a sense of being hoodwinked by appearances when one wanders around the single room that makes up
the exhibition: surfaces, painted in block opaque tones and given a
metallic sheen, confer the objects with a deceptive sense of weight. It
is hard to believe that the impressive statue, which takes centre stage
in the exhibition, is light enough to be picked up and hurled through
the air.
Landzbergas’ incorporation of mass produced materials into his work –
duct tape, scrap paper, polystyrene – confounds conventions of
classical sculpture. The man’s magnitude and muscular chest give him
the appearance of an Olympian hero, yet he is painted in brash blue colours and, to
all appearances, is wearing tracksuit bottoms. This classical sculpture
turned boy’s action figure throws hero-worship into a thoroughly cynical light.
Indeed, it is interesting how the impression of solidity or
magnificence is undercut by the artist’s novel uses of material and
shape. Most striking in his break from tradition is the arrangement of
the figure on the gallery floor with his legs suspended in the air. As the artist describes in
his introduction to the work, the figure is a “statue without a
pedestal, like a fallen hero”.
Overall the absent pedestal serves an apt metaphor for the atmosphere
of the exhibition. There is a certain amount of fragmented disorder
about the exhibition, which may divide viewers’ opinions of his work.
Objects are irreverently scattered around the room with little thematic
continuity. Out of the objects in the room other than the sculpture (a
square of duct tape, a doughnut-shaped ring under the statue, and a
cone fixed to the wall), it is literally holes and voids that
characterise the work most.
While I find the statue compelling, looking at the other objects that
are exhibited can feel similar to how admiring the emperor’s new
clothes might feel: there is nothing obviously meaningful or
aesthetically pleasing about the white pole leaning against the wall,
for instance. It is sometimes difficult to know where the gallery ends
and the work of art begins. Gazing at a white MDF board nailed around a
pillar I have to check that I am not just appreciating the gallery’s
maintenance work. The distinction between high and low culture, art and
non-art is blurred by the seemingly random collection of objects.
But then perhaps that is the point. Landzbergas is rejecting the
realism often associated with the sculpture of the Soviet Era.
Lithuania emerged from Communism in 1991, became a democratic republic
and joined the European Union in May of last year. Fifteen years on
from independence,
its fragmented quality may be interpreted as expressing a playful freedom which reflects how Lithuania has broken away from the ties of restricted self-expression.
It is quite possible for cynicism to get the better of you when viewing
the exhibition. Landzbergas’ work certainly yields more questions than
it does answers. Nevertheless the exhibition is thought-provoking and
his playful characterisation of sculpture is enjoyable. For a small exhibition, the work is strangely rich in interesting ambiguities.ARCHIVE: 2nd week MT 2005

Long-time childrens’ author Mark Haddon took the bestseller lists by surprise with the success of his last offering, Whitbread
winning novel The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time. He
returns this month with another taste of the unexpected: his first volume of
poetry, the copiously titled The Talking Horse and the Sad Girl and the
Village Under the Sea.
Haddon’s voice throughout the volume is at once authoritative and
self-depreciating. “Look at you. You’re reading poetry”, Haddon taunts
his reader in Trees, continuing the self-conscious dialogue established
in the opening poem Go, Litel Bok. He puts out an official warning from
his board of poetic censors with This poem is Certificate 18 and in
Poets, he takes a fond but far from sentimental look at the workers of
his own profession.Like the poet’s he describes, Haddon sees the striking in the ordinary: like them he is aware of “how the
poured creamer pleats and billows in their coffee”, and sees when
“cigarette smoke does its poisonous little ballet”. This poet finds his muse in
life, but also in art, and he draws the two together beautifully.
The poems are packed with references to and inspiration from other
works, from Horace, through Chaucer, to the modern poets and beyond.
Ben Nicholson’s painting Christmas Night, 1930 is vividly described in
a poem of the same name and John Buchan’s novel The House of the Four
Winds is condensed into an intriguing narrative poem.
Time is a conspicuous presence in the book. Modern and ancient
entwine
with ease. Haddon produces fresh, lucid translations of a selection of
odes from Horace, which charge the book with a sense of the impending
and ephemeral, yet in their tales of jealous lovers and torrid affairs,
remind us that some things never change.Sharp, human and at times surreal, this first output of verse by Haddon
showcases a bold imagination and a confident talent. Let us hope that
there are more such surprises in store.ARCHIVE: 2nd week MT 2005

Broken Flowersdir Jim Jarmusch4/5Director Jim Jarmusch won the Grand Prix at Cannes 2005 for Broken
Flowers, for which he also wrote the screenplay. Known as something of
a
recluse, his last film, Coffee and Cigarettes, epitomised his indie
brand of vignette-style observation and penetrative dialogue.Broken Flowers goes some way to replicate this approach and the eerie
nostalgic mood of his other well-known film, Ghost Dog: The Way of the
Samurai. Art-house, without being self-consciously so, the film hinges
on a superb performance by Bill Murray, who seems to have reinvented
himself as the character actor to fill Robert DeNiro’s place, left
empty after his descent into Meet the Fockers self-parody.An excellent script by Jarmusch serves up a highly original and amusing
premise. The resolutely single Don (Bill Murray) has just been dumped
by his latest lover and yet again resigns himself to being alone and
left to his own devices. Instead, he is compelled to reflect on his
past when a mysterious pink letter comes through his letterbox. It is
from an anonymous former lover and informs him that he has a nineteen
year old son who may now be looking for his father. Don wittles the
list down to four women and is urged by his neighbour Winston, an
amateur sleuth and handy man, to go on a cross-country trek in search
of clues from his old flames. It is clear from the start that he will
make this trip completely against his will, and his grumpiness, set
against the wonderfully effervescent Winston, makes him a character to
sympathise with right from the outset.Soft and slow-moving, the film then slips into something of a highbrow
road trip that reworks the genre’s standard conventions. Murray, with
his trademark deadpan that recalls previous outings in The Life Aquatic
and Lost in Translation, injects subtle humour into scenes that are
excruciatingly observed and infuriatingly implicit. Only Murray could
command a silent screen for two minutes with his understated mannerisms
and deeply lined face that creases softly as the accumulation of memories, painful and not, builds up.
The acting is a joy, and the four lovers (Stone, Conroy, Lange,
Swinton) intrigue with their different intensities and nuances. There
is the animal whisperer, the closet arranger, the realtor and the
hill-billy: all offer a different insight into the
common factor of Don. The film brought to mind Wes Anderson’s About
Schmidt, which is curiously ironic since Murray is a favourite of
Anderson’s. Both films are subtle explorations of the tiredness of an
existence too thoroughly lived-in, and the curious release when a
closure with the past is reached in old age. Broken Flowers is
touching, never sentimental, and eccentrically funny in its
observations, rather than relying on one-liners.That each scene fades out and each new scene fades in underlines
Jarmusch’s artistic leanings. So too does the abundance of symbolism.
Murray brings pink flowers to each of his lovers, in the hope of
raising some reaction to give the letter’s sender away. Even his
tracksuit bears some significance to the plot. Young men flit
hauntingly through his travels. Which one of them is his son? The
question is never stated by the unobtrusive direction. Yet the more you
try to analyse the clues on offer, the less obvious the solution
becomes. We are finally confronted by the essential principle of the
road movie, that it is the journey and not the destination that
matters. This is a beautifully shot film of clues: watch it closely.ARCHIVE: 2nd week MT 2005