Roland Emmerich, the director of The Day After Tomorrow,
doesn’t pull any punches when it comes to making a political
statement. The most iconic scene in his earlier hit, Independence
Day, involved the White House and its occupants being obliterated
by a UFO. This time round, he’s devoted an entire movie to
condemning the Bush administration and, in particular, their
laissez-faire attitude to environmental issues. In The Day After Tomorrow’s world, the main culprit is
the US Vice-President who (as well as happening to bear more than
a passing resemblance to a certain Dick Cheney) stubbornly
ignores the warnings of hot-shot climatologist Jack Hall (Dennis
Quaid) that global warming is spiralling out of control and
threatening to trigger a new ice age. As he tells Jack, in words
which couldn’t be more clearly linked to the Kyoto
agreement, “Our economy is every bit as fragile as the
environment”. So, right on cue, the world’s weather begins to go
haywire. Hailstones the size of footballs batter Japan, birds
migrate south in their millions and the oceans everywhere begin
to rise ominously. As an exercise in building suspense, this
first hour is masterful as Emmerich creates a powerful sense of
impending apocalypse. A little later, when catastrophe really
kicks in, it’s dazzlingly done but all too brief. In truly
spectacular scenes, LA is devastated by eerily convincing monster
tornados and a 100ft tsunami drowns New York in seconds. For some unfortunate reason, though, this halfway point marks
the film’s dramatic peak and it settles down into a state of
near inertia once the new ice age descends. The remainder focuses
on Jack’s efforts to trek cross-country through the
blizzards to save his estranged son Sam (Jake Gyllenhaal),
who’s trapped in ice-bound Manhattan. The biggest flaw of
all is the casting of Dennis Quaid. Usually fairly watchable, he
here exudes about as much screen charisma as Richard Whitely in
an average episode of Countdown. Gyllenhaal’s presence is
even more inexplicable. Reprising the brooding adolescent angst
that made his name in Donnie Darko, his talent is wasted in
cumbersome dialogue. The Day After Tomorrow does deserve some credit for attempting
to raise awareness to an urgent environmental issue but, for all
its Bush-bashing and anger at US insularity, it doesn’t
quite ring true as a protest. You can’t shake the impression
that it’s just a disaster movie which stumbled across a
politically relevant central theme, since Emmerich’s true
priority clearly lies in his cutting-edge CGI. In the end, for
all its delusions of grandeur, The Day After Tomorrow proves to
be just another forgettable summer blockbuster. The day after you
see it, you wont remember a thing.ARCHIVE: 5th week TT 2004 

I usually have to steel myself for watching a Kim Ki-Duk film.
Ki- Duk has made a name in Korea as an uncompromising director:
his films are brutal, and frequently take as their protagonists
criminals and prostitutes, the marginal and the selfharming.
Tracing the education of a young monk from childhood to old age,
each episode illustrated by a different season, Spring, Summer,
Autumn, Winter… and Springmight seem at first glance to be
an anomaly in his oeuvre. But beyond its poetic composition and
references to Buddhist mysticism, it deals with the same
alienated and marginal characters struggling to attain some kind
of peace. The setting is a floating Buddhist monastery in the middle of
a remote lake in present-day Korea. In the film’s first
chapter, an elderly monk educates a small boy, whom he teaches to
treat the natural world with respect. The boy torments a fish, a
frog and a snake by tying heavy stones to them, and the old monk
does the same thing to the child, warning him that he will always
carry such a burden in his heart. When we next see the boy, he is
an adolescent, in love with a sick girl brought to the temple to
be cured. The monk cautions him that lust turns into the desire
to possess which in turn leads to murder. The boy ignores the
advice and goes out into the world. He returns to the monastery
at later points in his life, first in Autumn and the in Winter,
and on each visit we see the elder man’s prophesies borne
out, the inter-rim incidents linking Spring, Summer… to the
themes of Ki-Duk’s earlier works. By the time we return to
the Spring, the man himself is now an old monk, living in the
monastery, raising a child as he himself was raised. The film is characterised by the fine balance between
truncated anecdotes and a nuanced sense of time passing.
Incidents gather resonance between episodes, so that the monks
collect leaves in the first episode for a medicine that we see in
the second. In the small monastery, the painted wood, simple
alter and bird-shaped wind chimes accrue a poignant familiarity
over the decades of the narrative. Although not as gut-wrenching as some of Ki-Duk’s
previous works, the film is certainly as melancholy. The
director’s real divergence from his usual path is in the
hope with which he imbues the film. It’s a very rare thing
indeed to come out of a cinema floating on a cloud of goodwill,
and an ever rarer one to come out of Kim Ki-Duk film in such a
state. But Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter… and Springseems to
be able to transfer some of the calm and inner peace of the
Buddhist faith on which it meditates, even as far as Jericho.ARCHIVE: 5th week TT 2004 

Avril Lavigne
Under My Skin
Out Now Avril Lavigne is a strikingly attractive woman. Her huge dark
eyes, lank hair and ripped jeans make her the perfect
‘alternative’ preteen crush. She is so attractive, in
fact, that she is positively diverting. Which is more than can be
said of her music. For those with extremely short memories, Radio 2 picked up her
debut single ‘Complicated’ back in 2002 and unwittingly
created a phenomenon. Fourteen million copies of her first album
Let’s Go later, and she returns with her sophomore effort,
Under My Skin. Lavigne is now at the same crossroads faced by
artists like Alanis Morissette, who sold a similarly staggering
number of her debut Jagged Little Pill. Her follow-up Supposedly
Former Infatuation Junkie took a risk in exploring a less
commercial sound. Lavigne has taken no such a gamble. Under My Skin feels distinctly like a retread of Let’s
Go. There is the merest hint of a heavier direction thanks to the
crunching guitars on ‘I Always Get What I Want’ and
‘Freak Out’. Production duo ‘The Matrix’ have
been replaced after a wrangle over song-crediting by Chantal
Kreviazuk, most recognizable for songs featured on Dawson’s
Creek. Whilst the guitar amps have been turned up, lyrically Lavigne
is back in the same safe territory – the traumas of being a
teenager. First single and album highlight ‘Don’t Tell
Me’ describes the perils of an oversexed boyfriend and is
probably a reference to Lavigne’s vow of chastity.
‘Forgotten’ describes the end of a messy relationship,
and ‘Fall to Pieces’ tells of becoming emotionally
dependent on someone else. It’s as generic and as universal
as any record label executive could want. Lavigne has a writing credit on every song, but this is no
guarantee of quality. ‘Slipped Away’, dedicated to her
dead grandfather, does her no favours, (“I miss you/I miss
you so bad/I don’t forget you/Oh it’s so sad”).
Poetry it ain’t. Lavigne is a talented singer , but the
overall impression is of a pretty face acting as a front for the
boardroom, targeting a specific demographic. There is nothing
that suggests Under My Skin won’t shift another few million
CDs to a misunderstood youth. The irony is that the record
companies understand them enough to produce albums perfectly
targeted to prise away their pocket money.ARCHIVE: 5th week TT 2004 

Contrary to understandable but misguided popular belief, PJ
Harvey does not belong in the waify indie chick-rocker
department. Her second of two sold-out shows at the Zodiac
demonstrated that she is straight-ahead hardcore. Unlike other alternative female acts that are gaining fans and
press attention, PJ Harvey doesn’t do onstage mind games or
hysteria; with her it’s all professionalism and power.
Thursday’s performance was an elegant example of lo-fi
purity. The band, as revealingly minimal yet unyieldingly tight as
Harvey’s yellow tube-tee dress, maximized the Zodiac’s
primitive overkill sound system with forceful, stripped,
percussion- driven renditions of old favorites, along with newer
songs. Harvey’s unique vocals ran their gamut from the
controlled schizophrenia of ‘Taut’ to the lovely,
lyrical energy of ‘Good Fortune’. If this show is any indication, Harvey’s sixth studio
release, Uh Huh Her, will be more of a return to her earlier work
than the lush production of Stories. ‘Who The Fuck’ and
‘Uh Huh Her’ showcase Harvey’s selfdeprecating
angry freak-outs; ‘Shame’ and ‘You Come
Through’ (played during the second encore) recall the dark
lo-fi mastery of earlier albums while achieving the accessibility
of Stories. The two encores may have been the highlights of the show. The
building persistence of the percussion on ‘A Perfect Day
Elise’ and ‘To Bring You My Love’ empowered two of
Harvey’s most ethereal and wrenching songs, respectively, to
new, hardhitting heights of catharsis. And, we got to see the
dress again.ARCHIVE: 5th week TT 2004 

Nothing beats the good old days of 1977. How the 17-year-olds
managed to come up with classic, catchy rock is anyone’s
guess. Pity they blew it. Ash’s follow-up to their pop album
Free All Angels is certainly truer to their old rock roots.
Classic, scandalously repetitive lyrics remain, with catchy,
cheap rhyming choruses in full sway. Tim’s voice is still as recognisable as ever, and having
enjoyed the American pure rock influences they experienced on
their ‘Free All Angels Tour’, they teamed up with the
former Foo Fighters producer to create this heavier album. Opening with the Metallica-esque ‘Meltdown’, they
move seamlessly into ‘Orpheus’, the recent single, this
was exactly the rock vibe Ash needed to perform. Feisty drumming,
catchy melodies and the strong bass that runs through into
‘Evil Eye’ reveal Ash’s new, but nostalgic,
direction. They have also, re-discovered their ability to mix
rock with pure unashamed beauty. ‘Starcrossed’ is a
classic Ash track with a strong chorus reminiscent of Free All
Angels, with the youthful exuberance of 1977. This leads onto the
darker ‘Renegrade Cavalcade’ and ends with the mournful
tone of ‘Vampire Love’. Ash have learnt from their starry pre-“Nu-Clear
Sounds” sound. 1977 was pivotal, whilst Free All
Angels’ classic pop showed Ash selling their souls, in order
to have something worth fighting for. Meltdown sees another
change. They have created their own battle trying not to blow it.
Ash have returned to their rock roots, but not as far back as
their 1977days – maybe only 1987?ARCHIVE: 5th week TT 2004 

They told us Quiet is the New Loud in 2001. Now, the Kings of
Convenience are back with their Riot on an Empty Street. As the
title might suggest, the vibe hasn’t changed. The record
opens with ‘Homesick’, its fuzzy, layered vocals and
lilting guitar setting effectively the hazy tone for the rest of
the album. With the next track, ‘Misread’, we move swiftly from
a folk feel to the gentle groove of lounge music. After another
few tracks of sleepy introduction, the pace picks up and
‘I’d Rather Dance with You’, a lo-fi pop ditty
whose naively expressed sentiments cannot help but endear the
listener, provides a mid-album wake up call. Lyrically, the album is based in narrative and notably
self-conscious; “Space for us to shake in here like this
tune” At times, this can seem prosaic, even stilted, but it
sits well as a neat contrast with the dreamy quality of the
music. One of the standout tracks of this record is definitely its
finale, ‘The Build Up’, with guest vocals by Leslie
Feist, whose voice, strong but resonating with the warmth of such
emotionally powerful artists as Jeff Buckley, soars over the
simple instrumental. With her debut release Let it Die, the climax of her already
rich musical history, out in the UK from 28 June, Feist is
definitely worth keeping an eye on. All in all, this album may not be entirely what you’re
used to listening to. Saying that, however, it’s well worth
a listen and would certainly make a great soundtrack to some slow
motion summer sun.ARCHIVE: 5th week TT 2004 

The Imps and the Revue are the two main branches of Oxford student comedy. The more famous Revue has existed for 50 years and its members have included people such as Michael Palin, Dudley Moore and Rowan Atkinson. The Imps have, surprisingly, only existed since the beginning of this academic year, following
inspiration at the Edinburgh fringe festival during the summer, although they seem to have been around forever and have already made themselves into an Oxford institution. It seems, therefore, logical that the two should come together to create one Kaboomshow at the end of what has been a very successful year for the two groups. The problem facing these groups is that it is so easy to rubbish what they do, especially if one starts comparing the Revue’s sketches to those of Monty Python or the Imps to Whose Line is It Anywaybut this would be to overlook what they are actually trying to do: to create new comedy and, more
importantly, to entertain. This is not a bunch of pretentious students trying to be the next Chris Morris but a group of people having fun and trying to be humorous. One of the main criticisms banded around about the Revue and the Imps is that they appeal to a low sense of humour; that they just are not clever enough for the educated Oxford audiences, but this is part of what they are trying to do. They want to move away from the pretentious and, in places, incomprehensible comedy of their predecessors to get people laughing again, and from the response they get, they seem to have achieved this. The fact is, that despite the sneers that the comedy groups will inevitably get, they are both on the whole very funny. This is helped by the huge amount of talent in the two groups. A central circle of extremely talented people unites the two groups, but in both the stand out performance comes from the
director of the Imps, Jon Dick. Although his confidence and ability can tend to overpower the weaker members of the groups, this in no way harms the performances, it just makes the fact that he is going from Oxford to start improvisational comedy in the big world of Chicago, the home of the art, seem like a pretty smart move. There are other stand-out performances, in the Imps – the fantastically energetic Rachel Ball and, in both the Revue and the Imps, the brilliant Jim Grant and the director of the Revue, the delightful Drummond Muir. If any criticism can be made it is that some of the Revue sketches, or the characters within the sketches, are slightly derivative or clichéd but this does not make the performances any less enjoyable or funny. Since the main point of Kaboom is to entertain, as long as it does this, what is the problem?ARCHIVE: 5th week TT 2004 

Texas is the backdrop for this remarkable collection of short stories, which portray characters including drug addicts, out of work actors and a porn movie director, all trapped in barren existences and haunted by memories of their past. The tales, operating on the margins of a degenerate society, are dark and unmitigating, and just brimming with suburban savagery.
Lara Turner Slept Here tells of a woman’s fruitless search for a brother who disappeared from an amusement park in LA when they were teenagers, only to reinvent himself as a notorious drag queen, Cunt A Kinte; The Cheerleader’s Kiss showcases a failing screenwriter, Jed, who scrapes a living by plagiarism. When his wife Mia leaves him, he is forced to address his latent feelings for his gay best friend, Carter.
Levinson’s delivers his stories with punch and intensity, and this swift style goes a fair way to explaining their immediate popularity. Sure, it feels like the kind of writing that ought to command praise and evoke interest, yet time and time again Levinson misses the mark and leaves us searching desperately for non-existent depths of profundity. Levinson’s intention is to trigger misunderstanding and a sense that his tales defy comprehension by any “outsider”.
To alienate the reader in such a way is ill-advised at the best of times but any slim chance of success is undermined by poor prose; at times, Levinson’s syntax itself, let alone his stories, demand of the reader a vivid imagination. We encounter such pretensions as “crepuscular dark” and sentences like “Damon thought suddenly of Suzanne and how he’d expressed to her his concerns about growing into his father” are all too prevalent and should never have been allowed into print.
The title story, in which friends seek help from a group called “How to write your way out of hysteria” is easily the best of a shoddy bunch, carrying with it more than a suggestion of the author’s own solace amongst words, but doesn’t quite redeem the general lack of clarity and resonance.
Levinson’s first work ultimately falls by its own hand, as its surfeit of detail and melodrama undermine a manful attempt to address hidden aspects of society.ARCHIVE: 5th week TT 2004 

I was handed this book on the way to the gym. Wandering
through sun-dappled cloisters, the sounds of birdsong and cricket
practise enveloping me, I thumbed idly through the first chapter.
Nothing could quite prepare me for the hard-hitting nature of
this novel. By the third page I am deeply involved in lesbian sex
with a hooker in a graveyard. As if that wasn’t shocking enough, by page ten I am
trying desperately to hold my own in a world of strobe-lit flings
and comedowns from drugs I have never heard of, described in
language I never knew existed. I totally and utterly fail. Having thrown the Oxford English Dictionary into the nearest
skip in a rage of apoplexy at its inadequacy, however, I resolve
to plough on nonetheless. So, enthroned on the left-hand exercise
bike in LA fitness, I follow foul-mouthed, fouler-tempered Millie
O’Reilly from solitary drinking binges to molesting
teenagers in club toilets, on a trail of selfdestruction
punctuated by passages of amazingly evocative description. One
such passage depicting an ecstasy-enhanced thunderstorm over the
Merseyside docks is spellbinding; those expressing the ineffable
joy of voiding one’s bowels when coked up, less so. Alluringly promising "a female perspective on the harsh
truth of growing up in today’s Britain", the author,
though sufficiently compassionate, fails to create a character
which those eager to discover this new perspective can identify
with. Arena may have called Walsh the female Irvine Welsh but she
falls far short of this title in Brass. Insufficient depth is
given to the emotional build-up to Millie’s odyssey of
self-abuse, and her eventual break-down, though inevitable
enough, seems to come when the author’s, rather than the
heroine’s, stamina fails. That said, however, Walsh presents a shocking portrait of the
underbelly of Liverpool Cathedral’s area; an understanding
of which creeps up slowly but suddenly overpowers, much like,
Walsh assures me, a particularly pure Ecstasy tablet.ARCHIVE: 5th week TT 2004