The piazza was crawling with women. I would have felt like a
kid in a candy store, had they not all been wearing habits. It
was a muted rainbow of black, white, blue and brown veils waving
in the wind, as the young women alternately giggled and cheered.
They reminded me of the teens in clips of the first Beatles
concerts, both in their giddiness and in the sense that they
properly belonged in some different era. But the man inspiring
their enthusiasm was not from Liverpool. He was the frail,
octogenarian leader of a billion Catholics. And his fans had come
not just to revel, but to repent as well, in a city which melds
reveling and repentance like few others. The Wednesday morning Papal audience is usually the high point
of a trip to Rome for the pilgrimtourist. But this week was
different. This was Settimana Santa – Holy Week, the
crescendo of the Christian calendar. Wednesday was only the
beginning of a string of church services at St Peter’s. It
was my fifth trip to Rome, so the wideeyed wonder that marks the
firsttime visitor had eased a bit. The list of must-see sites
that had governed my first visits – the Vatican museums, the
Piazza di Spagna, the Forum – gave way to the aimless
wandering through which Rome truly reveals herself. More than any other time of the year, Holy Week sees a mixing
of holiday and pilgrimage. Men and women in clerical garb make
their way through groups of university students on spring break,
camerawielding tourist packs, and Clark Griswold-esque families
following a tight program from the Trevi Fountain to Piazza dei
Populi. Yet in the face of this relentless movement, this city
conserves its secrets in shadows and quiet light. Nineteenth
Century pastel buildings crowd narrow streets, with angles that
even at the height of day frustrate the sun. The calmness is
never totally overcome. Whether holiday or pilgrimage, I can never come through Rome
without a visit to the Spanish steps. From the top of the steps,
one can see the dome of St Peter’s and the white marble
heights of the monument to Vittorio Emmanuele, the father of the
modern Italian state. After a moment reflecting on the skyline, I
stroll down to the Cappuccin Church, known for the macabre
display of centuries-old monastic bones in its crypt. In it,
skeletons in monastic robes stand watch over the inscription
‘What you are, we once were, and what we are, you too will
be’. The guitars are just out of earshot. Of Rome’s many layers, faith would seem to have been
squeezed by the tectonic shifts of politics and culture: the
former with the unification of Italy and the end of the Papal
States in 1870s, and the latter in an ongoing struggle between
tradition and progress. This means a richness, one that lives in
each step across the cobbled stones of Campo dei Fiori in the
southern part of the city centre, where I spend the late
afternoon. There is nothing reserved here – all is sound and
movement, swirling around the ancient figure of a hooded Giordano
Bruno, clutching a book in both hands. His head is bowed, toward
the Vatican, but in judgement rather than reverence. His
judgement is on the Vatican authorities who had him burned for
his theological ‘errors’ at a stake set in that very
place. Yet now it seems – with the Enlightenment perhaps
vindicating his obstinacy – he should be looking up and
gloating about history’s judgement. That such a statue
stands in Rome’s centre suggests the uneasy relationship
that remains between the city’s temporal and spiritual
leaders. I make my way south from the city centre, keeping my map in my
bag, wondering which of the city’s four hundred churches
will appear before me around the next curve. After a day of
wandering, following the Pope’s morning audience, I find
relief from the hordes across the river to the south, in the
Trastevere section of the city – so named for its location
across the Tiber River, or ‘Tevere’. In the Piazza di
Santa Maria in Trastevere, lights blink on to meet the twilight.
Tables spill out of restaurants along with smells that will
capture not just the stomach but the soul. The Piazza is alive
with a spirit very different from St Peter’s in the morning.
Replete with habits of a different sort, it is more of revelling
than repentance. Around the fountain at its centre, carefully
coiffed young Italian men summon their charms to woo
scarlet-haired goddesses. These women will catch your eye and
vanish like dreams so intoxicating it hurts to wake up. While this goes on, the Church of Santa Maria rises up in the
square’s southwest corner. Its face is darkened with age,
and with the thick blackness of modernity that hangs in the air.
The church is open late during Holy Week. Inside, in dark corners
defined by clusters of flickering flame, searching souls kneel
alone. Their moving lips suggest that on this night, in this
place, solitude may be more complicated than it first appears.
Curious passers–by wander in. Some step purposefully, as if
to assert themselves. For others, steps falter for fear of
violating something – some space from another time. One woman dressed for a night out makes her way up the aisle,
craning her neck at the carvings on the ceiling as if in a
museum. Then she slips into an empty pew. Light flickers on
golden mosaics, multiplying the force of the flame. She sits
quietly.ARCHIVE: 6th week TT 2004 

As Britain’s greatest fashion export, Paul Smith is
remarkably modest. “Frankly,” he says, “I’m
not exceptional at design. I’m medium.” This comes from
the man whose collection is sold in thirty-five countries and has
over 200 shops in Japan alone. It’s true his clothes do not
have the flamboyance of John Galliano’s couture creations,
nor are they reminiscent of the bizarre eccentricity associated
with Alexander McQueen’s collections, but the Paul Smith
stripe is instantly recognisable and his much-coveted bespoke
suits are famous for their superb tailoring and idiosyncratic
detail. When you consider he works in an industry known for its excess
of pretentious luvvies and supercilious fashion junkies,
ego-maniacal designers and snobby editors, his down-to-earth
nature is surprising. He seems very relaxed and is happy to
answer my barrage of questions. I wonder if his friendly manner
is a result of his accidental entry into fashion. “I wanted
to be a professional racing cyclist, but truthfully I don’t
think I would ever have got there. After I crashed with a car I
discovered this pub where all the arty students in Nottingham
went. It changed my world.” Mixing with photographers,
graphic designers and painters inspired the young Paul Smith to
realise his creative potential. With the help of his girlfriend
Pauline, who is now his wife, and some savings, Paul Smith opened
a tiny shop in 1970 and officially entered the world of fashion.
Remarkably, only six years later he went on to show his first
Paul Smith menswear collection in Paris. Today there are twelve
different collections including a range of furniture. Despite running a huge empire, Paul Smith has clearly kept his
two feet firmly on the ground. “I have never taken fashion
too seriously. It’s important because the industry creates
jobs, pays mortgages and keeps families going.” Of course,
he is only too aware of the power of fashion, “Design
affects people in different ways: some feel sexy; some feel
slimmer; some handsome. A pilot without his uniform loses his
authority, you wouldn’t be too happy if he was dressed as a
punk. In the same way a man in army uniform looks and feels
tough. The way we dress reveals something about ourselves and can
help project an image.” And with his flair for colour and
sense of style, Paul Smith helps his customers to project that
image, whatever it may be. He stresses the importance of mixing a good business sense
with design. “It’s not good enough to be a great
designer, you have to have a head for business too. Why should a
designer know what VAT is; I thought it was a vodka and
tonic!” I think he’s winding me up, but he has a point.
“Fashion is only a small part of what I do. For me the more
important aspect is continuity in business. Keeping up the Paul
Smith quality year after year. It’s quite easy to become
famous, but it’s hard to maintain your fame and
reputation.” His world-wide success hasn’t made him
complacent. “I think I’ve been lucky with life. But I
do believe you get out what you put in: Japan was not luck; it
took eighty trips.” This man’s energy clearly has no
limits. “In fashion, it’s only about today and
tomorrow. Someone can overtake you in the fast lane if
you’re not careful. You have to keep moving to stay
ahead.” He stresses the importance of looking hard to create
something fresh, original and genuine but is keen to point out
that this rule applies to all businesses, not just fashion.
“Everything is so formulaic right now. Frankly, I don’t
think there’s much difference between the Pradas and the
Guccis and the Starbucks and the Coffee Republics. Everybody is
imitating everybody else.” Copying is apparently “the
disease” plaguing society. I ask for his solution to this modern malaise. His answer is
“individuality”. He firmly believes “you can find
inspiration in everything; if you can’t then you’re not
looking hard enough.” In fact this mantra is the title of
his autobiography, which he published last year. He’s been
inspired by cushions in Zambia, textures in Guatemala, the
colours of buildings in Lithuania and banners in China. Frequent
travel combined with photographs in books and magazines provides
an endless source of inspiration “but I could be inspired in
Birmingham if I had to be.” He admits that making money is
also an inspiration for his designs. “I like to make things
that are different, but that will sell and make money too. I try
to strike a balance between attention grabbing and classical
designs. It’s like life itself, you have to get the balance
right.” While the rest of the fashion pack are creating what he
disparaging refers to as “cookie-cutter fashion” Paul
Smith now does hand tailoring “so that every suit has its
own quirky imperfections”. And therein lies his formula for
success. His collections fuse a sense of tradition with mischief
and humour that somehow appeals to both the British as well as
the Japanese buyer. Over thirty years after opening his first (tiny) shop there,
the doyen of design is returning to his native Nottingham roots
with a Paul Smith boutique due to be opened this Autumn. Similar
in concept to his Notting Hill store, which is actually a house
divided into rooms showcasing accessories and antiques as well as
collections, the Nottingham shop “is a listed building,
built in 1736, I think. We’re opening the ground and first
floors.” Rumours abound of an underground grotto, but Paul
Smith says nothing to confirm or dispel the latest speculation.
Given that each shop is individual and unique – he even sold
Dyson vacuum cleaners in one store – grotto or not, the
Nottingham store won’t disappoint. I wonder how he sees the future of Paul Smith, the company. He
laughs. “My stepson was involved for twenty years and was in
line to takeover, but now he’s decided to be an actor. I
have a excellent management team all in place, the only weak spot
is me.” Or, perhaps more accurately, the lack of him. He has
no plans to take on a big designer, “I want someone with my
signature to carry on the Paul Smith name in the right direction.
Established names would want to promote their own visualisations;
it would no longer be Paul Smith. I have two great design
assistants, but if I’m not around, the ideas always take on
another form and become a completely different animal.” Truthfully, I can’t imagine this energetic man handing
the reins over too soon. “I know I should slow down and stop
working. I think I’ll ease out slowly. Maybe, I’ll work
a four-day week.”ARCHIVE: 6th week TT 2004 

Everyone talks about how wonderful Pimm’s and punting are
– you practically hear nothing else during Michaelmas and
Hilary, and when Trinity comes round, everyone is too busy
Pimmsing and punting to talk about how wonderful they are. You
may, however, be a novice in this most Oxonian of areas, thus
hereafter are basic instructions on how to dip your toes into the
water (or not, rather). The perfect pint of Pimm’s: the secret is to use much
more Pimm’s than you might have been told to – if you
use the recommended ratio, you will end up with something which
tastes like orangeade. The perfect ratio is one-third Pimm’s
to two-thirds lemonade. If you have ever seen a well-made jug of
Pimm’s, you’ll know that plenty of fruit is required;
if you are going to do it properly, you need lemon and cucumber
slices, strawberries, and mint leaves. As well as looking pretty
and like it may be vaguely healthy (five portions a day,
anyone?), the fruit segments will end up saturated with
Pimm’s and will wait for you at the bottom of your glass. Punting technique: a punt pole is technically called a quant.
First, get the punt, the pole, the paddle, some mats and a river.
This may sound obvious, but this is an elementary guide. To move
forwards, lower the quant into the water on the left-hand side of
the punt (if right-handed), wait for it to touch the bottom and
walk your hands down it; try to keep the quant parallel with the
side of the punt. Other methods are possible –
experimentation is part of the fun, so go wild. Once your hands
are at the top of the quant, pull it out and repeat. You steer by
pulling the quant through the water behind the punt. Enjoy!ARCHIVE: 6th week TT 2004 

In the summer of 2003, a group of five first-year students
from Somerville travelled to Ghana in West Africa. They had
planned to meet up with the 6,000 books they’d shipped over
from England and set up a fully-functioning children’s
library. If only life were that simple. To start at the beginning, the impetus and leading driving
force behind the plan for the library was cheery oxford socialite
Hattie Begg. She had previously spent four months of her Gap
year, way back in ’02, volunteering in a Ghanaian hospital
in the former British colonial capital, Cape Coast. During this
time she developed a great relationship with her jovial Ghanaian
host, Molly Yankey, whom the library was eventually named after.
In order to try to address Ghana’s chronic literacy problems
at the most local level, Molly encouraged Hattie to return with
some enthusiastic friends to set up a local reading resource
centre for the hundreds of children willing to learn but without
any real opportunity to do so. On a cold and wet English April day the draw of scorching hot
African sun certainly appealed. And hey, the charity bit sounded
well worth a whirl. So as a team we went to work that Summer like
very active squirrels desperately collecting acorns for an
extremely harsh winter. We organised the bar at the Somerville
garden party, put on charity golf tournaments and raffles, and
generally sold ourselves to fund raise money for the materials we
would need out there. With our travelwash, sun lotion and mozzie nets packed we were
ready to set off. We were gonna rock over to Africa and wack up a
library in just under a month. If we finished early maybe we
could get in a bit of beach time as well. No, actually. The
sailing was rarely plain and we faced often very demoralising
challenges every step of the way. From the outset, the expedition
got off to a disastrous start. Cancelled Ghana Airways flights
saw us grimly disillusioned whilst we camped out at a sweltering
Heathrow Airport for three whole days amongst sprawling queues of
volatile travellers, who were rapidly losing their sense of
humour at the situation. Being a group of girls, at this point
floods of tears often seemed our best option to appeal to the
good nature of the airport staff. Ghana, let alone the library,
seemed a very long way away at that point. Upon finally reaching our destination we eagerly anticipated
our first glimpse of the building that would house our library in
Abura, Cape Coast. On arrival at the location we were met with
the stark sight of solitary raw breeze blocks which encased a
floor of mountainous sand and rock, over which the odd darting
lizard scurried furtively for shelter. A month away from the opening date and the vast amount of work
required was sharply brought home to us. We were going to have to
get very busy and make a lot of contacts if we were to achieve
our objectives in such a short space of time. This became
particularly clear when we learned, with horror, that our 6,000
books (donated by the kind British public) intended for the
library were trapped in the mindboggling swirl of Ghanaian
shipping bureaucracy and top level corruptive forces. Getting our books released from the port would prove to be a
longer-term goal; in the mean time we concerned ourselves with
the here and now i.e. getting a mere shell of a room into a
groovy-looking book haven full of child-sized furniture and
horrendous clashes of bright colours. Long, hard days were spent
purchasing materials, digging, painting, tiling, eating goat etc
and keeping our Ghanaian builders motivated. If only British
builders were as receptive to gifts of bread, biscuits and
pineapples. As the work progressed, more and more of the local
children came and watched us work, often gaining a dubious
education from Glamour, Heat and Rugby World magazine, and the
assorted hits of Christina Aguilera and Disney’s Aladdin. However, it was difficult to get across the actual purpose of
the library given that its essence, the books, were still nowhere
to be seen. We were beginning to get a little panicky about this
as time slipped away from us. Eventually after numerous trips to
the shipping port of Tema, six hours from where we were based, we
decided to enlist the help of TPA (Teaching Projects Abroad)
which run several charitable projects in the area. Their
political muscle as an NGO and registered charity provided our
negotiations with new weight and this, combined with a briefcase
packed full of unmarked US dollars, eventually saw the books on
their way to the newly christened ‘Molly’s
Library’. After a month of extensive renovation work, we were ready to
open the library to the public, and promoted it on a number of
primetime TV and radio shows. Given that the project, in many
ways, was very much like BBC’s flagship interior decoration
show, Changing Rooms, we felt just like a frantic Lawrence
Llewelyn-Bowen prior to the big launch, and hoped the children
would appreciate our somewhat wild use of colour. However, these
worries were put aside. The lavish opening ceremony in front of
the local community, the village chiefs and the Ghanaian media
went fantastically well and it was very rewarding to see such
genuine enthusiasm and excitement for what had been achieved. One year later, the long-term future looks bright for the
library. This summer, four more students from Oxford are making
the trip to West Africa to continue the project. They are
planning to establish the second stage of the library, a much
needed, fully stocked reading room for college and university age
Ghanaians. We very much hope that this will be another small step
towards the provision of education that will one day open doors
for Ghana. If you have any books you would like to donate,
particularly textbooks and reference works, please get in touch
and we’ll happily take them off your hands. E-mail Maeve
Gill at Somerville College. ARCHIVE: 6th week TT 2004 

"So, do you have any exams?”Almost every day for the
past few weeks I have been confronted with this question, and the
response is always the same. “No,” I answer sheepishly,
and then proceed to give a lengthy speech explaining that even
though I’m American and only here on a one-year programme as
a visiting student and have no exams, I really am working; this
year really counts for something; I need to make sure I do
well… Chances are that at some point you’ve run across someone
like me. At times it seems that Oxford is practically infested
with us. For American university students, spending part of their
education abroad is becoming more and more common – as
popular as gap years are in England. And, Oxford is certainly an
attractive location: the rigour of the academic system, the
opportunity to work in small tutorials (quite a different
scenario from the crowded lecture halls of many American
universities), the challenge of adapting to a surprisingly
different culture, the chance to view our own country from a new
and often critical perspective, and quite simply the opportunity
to study at one of the world’s greatest universities manage
to attracts us Yanks in droves. Now that my year abroad is
drawing to a close, I realise that while all of the above reasons
factored in my decision to come here, they were not my genuine
motive. During the past few years, I have noticed that the pace of
life has been accelerating at an alarming rate. Looking back on
my first days of university orientation, I remember how
incredibly long that blissful week felt. New faces, new
opportunities – it felt like life was just beginning. It
didn’t take long for me to sink into the routine –
essays, projects, part-time jobs, summer vacations that slipped
away before I could even fully appreciate them. As much as I
detest clichés, I cannot help but asking, “Where has the
time gone?” I came to Oxford looking for newness. By immersing myself in a
completely different environment, I hoped to slow time down. And
I often think that this feeling of restlessness, this anxious
desire to halt time’s passing, plays a part in many foreign
students’ decision to study here. Is this a form of
escapism? I cannot deny it. However, like all attempts at escape,
the relief is only temporary. Time moves quite strangely in Oxford. I think most of us can
agree that Trinity is considerably shorter than Michaelmas. And
yet, I feel that somehow, I’ve succeeded in slowing time
down. America’s national obsession with success leads to a
yearning for achievement that sometimes eclipses the thirst for
knowledge; finishing with high grades is more important than
actually enjoying your subject. While all the Oxford students
whom I’ve met genuinely strive to work hard and do well,
they seem to keep life in better perspective. They play hard and
work hard. This year has given me the chance – for the first time in
a long while – to learn my subject for its own sake.
However, while I could tell you all about the influence of
Calvinism on the poetry of John Donne or Wordsworth’s
concept of empathy, these are not the most important things that
Oxford has taught me. I’ve learned that the best time to
walk though the streets of Oxford is Sunday night, when all of
the bells are resounding at once. I’ve learned that after
procrastinating for three hours and finally completing an essay
at 1am, kebabs are the best food anyone could ask for. Despite my weakness for sentimentality, the simple fact is
that soon my fellow exchange students and I will be leaving.
Admittedly, in some ways this year has felt like an extended
vacation, albeit a very work-intensive one. For finalists this is
certainly not the case. However, to a certain extent all
university students are indulging in escapism to a degree. No
matter how hard we work, we are still fleeing from the reality
that soon the situation is going to change. “Enjoy
university,” a former teacher once advised me,“because
once you get out, it’s all nine to five.” But I would rather not view life in that way. I want to
believe that there will always be chances for adventure, always
something new to learn. Saving money to travel, taking up a new
hobby in one’s forties, going back for further education
– all of these could be dubbed “escapism” to a
degree. And yet, these are things that make life fulfilling. Call
me a hedonist, but I’ve come to believe that life is
something to be enjoyed. And, in moderation, a little escapism
does no harm at all.ARCHIVE: 6th week TT 2004 

What image are you trying to put across and how would
you describe yourselves? Whilst we say that we have an
“uncool” style, the uncoolness actually is pretty
natural. Musically, we are into melodic guitar pop music. Not
your ‘arms in the air, getting drunk tra la la’ stuff. Are snowmen always scary? No snowmen are
really cool. Especially the Raymond Briggs, Aled Jones Snowman. I
imagine Raymond Briggs to look like Father Christmas. Where did you find your influences in Southampton? There
is no real music scene in Southampton, and there are many bands
doing all sorts of different things. There also wasn’t much
to do, so we just jam in the garage with a few close friends. We
don’t mix in trendy London circles, and are not influenced
by London. An average night for us would be jamming, and watching
a Dave Lynch film. What is your perspective on London? London is
a con. We did one gig there and never went back until we were
signed. So what films are you watching? City of God.
The whole vests, scruffy jeans, and Bene with his glasses are
really cool. There is an unobtainable coolness about them, the
whole Rio de Janeiro gangster scene, that isn’t like the
American stereotypical stuff – the scruffy gangster look.
Any David Lynch film too; we watch them every night. And what bands are you listening to? Zutons,
Bees, Broadcast, Scalaa Belgium Boy’s choir that sings
covers. I particularly liked Bitch by Meredith Brooks, and
Bittersweet Symphony. How do you find touring? It is absolutely
non-stop. Last year during touring, we only had a few days off at
any one time. Which bands have you recently tried to get tickets
for? We tried to get tickets to see the Pixies at
Brixton Academy. But, a few weeks ago, they asked us to play with
them. So having had not tickets, we ended up playing with them. So, Prince? Prince is how we all met. We were
the last few dancing to ‘Alphabet Street’ at this club
called Thursdays. Then Aaron joined later. Is music a fair reflection of life? Well it
is for us. We live under a flight path, and that kind of gave us
the inspiration, not only for lyrics and melodies in our songs,
but the inspiration to strive for perfection. What was the influence for the falsetto vocals that
Greg uses? It’s a style that is a sure fire way of
making sure we are not absorbed into the current scene. The
twinkly bits are very unique. But in terms of style it’s
very much influenced by Radiohead, Muse, Jeff Buckley.ARCHIVE: 6th week TT 2004 

Stephen Berkoff’s Messiah: Scenes from a Crucifixion
claims to be outré, obscene and blasphemous, which at times it
certainly is. Lines like Jesus’s “Whatever happens,
don’t let them break my legs or I’m really fucked”
are proof positive that this is a piece of work is aimed at
shocking an audience, conditioned, believers and heathens alike,
to the conventional ramblings of Christian doctrine. Mel
Gibson’s The Passion of The Christ was as controversial as
Playdays compared to this reading of history’s most
notorious homicide. The gospel according to Berkoff goes as follows: Jesus is a
man intent on fulfilling the prophecies of the Old Testament, but
understands that “The Messiah will never come, so we have to
create one.” This requires feigning his own gory demise only
to “rise” again three days later, thus providing the
credulous with a presaged redeemer of mankind. The establishment
of a hero-cult is certified when it goes wrong and Jesus dies,
but the disciples stick to their conspiratorial story and a
religion is born. This is, at times, literary masturbation of the basest
variety, more jerk-off than Berkoff. Some of the dialogue is
simply dreadful. The man who sees himself as the saviour of
British theatre, Berkoff should adopt a mantra: “I am not
the Messiah” might be a good place to start. Yet the
indulgences of a writer must not be blamed on those attempting to
perform, and so Scenes from a Crucifixion is redeemed by the
verve of the acting and intelligent use of space, exploiting the
full gallery recesses of the OFS. The excellent Kerry Norman as JC is a zealous, Machiavellian
politician pre-execution, but struggles a little on “The big
‘x’” (who said being crucified was easy?). His
performance is supported by a chorus which has the suppleness to
portray Jewish clerics, disciples and Roman soldiers with equal
proficiency. Also to savour are the muscular histrionics of a
Judas who looks like he spent his thirty pieces of silver on
Creatine, and Tom Richards’ appearance as an extraordinary,
lascivious Caiaphas. The portrayal of Satan is so hackneyed (red
shirt, “menacing” cockney accent, forked stubble) that
the only surprises are the absence of attendant familiars and
pronged tail. Having said this, Tai Shan Ling, as the dark one,
is fabulously energetic and seductively, malevolently lucid, in
another arresting performance from one of Oxford’s premier
players. I wouldn’t sell my soul to Beelzebub to see this, but if
you resist the temptation to see only Berkoff’s mediocrity
in Lisa Maule’s production, you should be repaid with a
decent enough evening.ARCHIVE: 6th week TT 2004 

There is no beginning, no end. As the audience enter, the
actors are already on stage and it’s up to us to work out
where we are. Plunged into the middle of things we immediately
identify with the unsure, awkward Amy, who is stuck in the middle
of an emotional tug-of-war between her mother and her boyfriend. From their first meeting, it is clear that Amy’s devotion
to the conniving, selfish Dominic will compromise her
relationship with her mother. Amy’s unshakeable view that
‘love conquers all’ is a glossing-over of the less
acceptable truth: that in a choice between love for her ageing,
lonely mother and her boyfriend, her boyfriend wins. The three generations, Amy, her mother and her grandmother,
are each fighting their own personal battles: unexpected
pregnancy, unfaithful husbands, impending death. The brilliant
symmetry of Hare’s play thwarts the traditional order of
nature as deftly as the play thwarts conventions of theatre. What begins as an interesting parallel between mother and
partner and daughter and boyfriend becomes a parallel pattern of
frustration, as it becomes apparent neither can work. The
once-sparky grandmother drifts into senility to be cared for like
a child, and Amy’s death makes concrete the pitiful plight
of the mother, whose vitality fades with her failing stage
career. The comedy of the opening scene is deceptive in light of the
sadness that follows. As the laughs fade into silence, we find
ourselves drawn, unprepared, into tragedy. The cast handle this
metamorphosis excellently. While the opening act is well played,
driven forward by the exceptional comic talent of Laura Mazzola
as the mother, the true acting capabilities of the cast seem to
grow with the increasing sadness of the play. The interaction between the characters, and the theatricality
of their personalities is flawless. In a play so conscious of its
own artistry, the production succeeds superbly in both
naturalness and melodrama, claustrophobia and loneliness. A
first-rate show.ARCHIVE: 6th week TT 2004 

Continuing the theatrical trend for all things al fresco this
term, Creation Theatre Company have returned to Headington Hill
Park with the chaotic comedy Much Ado About Nothing. Director
Charlotte Conquest has played up Shakespeare’s Mediterranean
setting with sizzling flamenco dances and vibrant costumes,
making it the perfect play for a balmy summer evening. The most striking aspect of this production is its use of
space. The stage is a simple red square but the action is
projected on different levels by means of a treehouse nestled in
a magnificent oak. The expanse of parkland behind the stage
proper is used to full effect to create extra comic gems,
supposedly taking place off-stage. This heightens the dramatic
irony which lies at the core of Shakespeare’s comedy, as we
see characters approaching long before those on stage do. The
scenes in which Benedick and Beatrice ‘accidentally’
overhear gossip about their tempestuous relationship make
particularly good use of the versatile stage set. The pace is
relentless with characters entering from unexpected directions,
(and occasionally on bicycles) having performed lightning-fast
costume changes. The cast have a rollicking good time evoking a
real sense of girlish mischief and laddish japing. The mood
becomes briefly more sombre at Hero’s ‘funeral’
with an atmospheric torch-lit procession, but the production
really excels at the slapstick consequences of mistaken identity.
The watch scenes are, as always, a little tedious and silly but
they are redeemed by Tom Peters’ wonderful turn as the
arthritic Verges with his cumbersome walking frame. Peters makes
use of the same physical gags in his main role as Benedick;
rubber-faced and dynamic, he plays up to the audience as a
swaggering confirmed bachelor. His only match in the strutting
stakes is the razortongued Beatrice, played by Elizabeth Hopley.
She sensitively tracks the change in Benedick’s sparring
partner from cross-dressing livewire into a more emotional,
softer character. Dudley Hinton’s lovelorn Claudio is the
archetypal callow youth with puppy dog eyes and a boy bandesque
white suit. Julien Ball is also consummately smooth as Don Pedro,
from his Godfather-inspired entrance complete with mirror shades,
trimmed goatee and medallion, to his swift wooing of Hero for his
lovestruck friend Claudio. Conquest’s production is full of light comic touches
seasoned with splashes of Sicilian colour. As long as the British
weather holds out, there is no better way to round off the Oxford
term.ARCHIVE: 6th week TT 2004 

Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban
Ozone and Odeon Wands out! Harry is back, older, angrier and with better
special effects than ever before. The third film in the series,
The Prisoner of Azkaban, is a departure from the
‘kiddie’ films that came earlier in the series.
It’s probably unnecessary to rehash the familiar plot here,
but undoubtedly scary, often funny and always very, very magical,
Harry Potter is bound to be the hit of the summer. Purists might not appreciate the omission of various details
important to the book, particularly those regarding Harry’s
background. A large part of what made the books so special was
their richness of detail. Nevertheless, considering the
running-time of the film, an awful lot of important stuff has
stayed in. The Dementors are authentically chilling (and crusty),
and Buckbeak manages not to look like a dodgy animatronics
effect. On the whole, the special effects are just what is needed
to give the film its proper magical style. Thankfully, however, this film is not just about special
effects. There are plenty of real human emotion here: anger,
terror and love, all in two hours. The performances from the
adolescent actors are nothing short of excellent, even
threatening to upstage seasoned performers such as Maggie Smith
(Professor McGonagall) and Michael Gambon (Dumbledore). Daniel
Radcliffe, as Harry, manages to capture the juvenile confusion
juxtaposed with maturity that is so central to the Harry we are
familiar with from the books. Never lapsing into childish
petulance or cheesy ‘grown-up’ acting, Radcliffe is
Harry. Equally good performances come from Emma Watson (Hermione)
and Rupert Grint (Ron) as Harry’s loyal companions. Watson
and Grint have a palpable electricity between them which bodes
well for the later films. This film also sees the introduction of Harry’s
godfather, Sirius Black (Gary Oldman). There were rumours that
Oldman was a casting mistake for the role, however his talent
shines through as he embodies the dangerous yet affectionate
personality of Black very well. There are new characters too,
which creates an exciting medley of the familiar, for diehard
fans, and the new, for those who might not be au fait with the
books. New director Alfonso Cuaron has picked up where Chris Columbus
left off, and has twisted Columbus’ fairyland into something
much darker. There is still the abundance of magic and Quidditch,
but there is definitely a new sense of evil in this film. The
cast have responded well to this and the effects have managed to
convey a feeling of spine-chilling fear. Yet despite this, it
doesn’t prevent Harry Potter and The Prisoner of Azkaban
from being a truly enjoyable film.ARCHIVE: 6th week TT 2004