Bad Education @ Phoenix Pedro Almodóvar’s latest film on sex, religion, and
abuse is unlike anything you will see in the coming months. In a
film that took over ten years to write, bring into production and
film, the complex lines not only highlight the abuse faced by
Enrique and Ignacio, but the love that underlies it all. In
interview, Almodóvar has been keen to emphasise that this film
is not auto-biographical. However, I feel that taking into
account that he was abused by his priest as a child does bring an
added poignancy to a stunning, moving vision of love. Father Manolo (Daniel Giménez Cacho) runs and is literature
teacher at a Catholic school. Manolo becomes infatuated with
Ignacio (Nacho Pérez), who in turn has fallen in love with
Enrique (Raúl García Forneiro). The love triangle persists,
resulting in a masturbating session in the cinema between the two
boys. This culminates in the two boys being caught in the toilet
together, hiding from the prowling Manolo. Ignacio ends up
selling his body to Manolo to save his beloved Enrique. Manolo
does not keep his promise – Enrique is sent away from the
school, and Ignacio left in the indomitable hands of Manolo. Flashing forward to another decade, Enrique (Fele Martínez)
is a publisher, and Angel (Gael García Bernal) wants a job as an
actor, but also happens to bring a film with him. The script is
his account of his childhood – it seems that Enrique has not
forgotten either Ignacio whom he hasn’t seen for over
sixteen years, or Father Manolo. Twists and turns follow, subtle details that could not have
been thought of in anything less than ten years, and the true
plot of Ignacio, Manolo, and Enrique’s childhood is
revealed. The film is not only beautiful, captivating, haunting and
moving, but also hilarious. Javier Cámara steals his scenes and
is absolutely hysterical in his comedic role. Likewise, a sports
day scene involving the priests in full gowns is both hilarious
and shocking. Whilst Manolo enjoys picking his boys, we see a
gowned priest as goalie diving for a ball. This is both
hysterical and a relief from the sordid paedophilic content of
the specific scene. Almodóvar deals delicately with the issues
of abuse; there is no graphic detail, indeed little vocal either.
However, the tension can be read on the actors faces, and in that
respect, the two children playing Enrique and Ignacio, had,
perhaps the most engaging scenes in the film. Delicate, beautiful, with stunning actors, and transvestites,
this film received a standing ovation at Cannes – it will
leave you speechless.ARCHIVE: 4th week TT 2004 

Don’t believe everything you read in the papers, the old
adage goes. Or, if it appeared in the hugely influential American
politics mag The New Republic in the late 1990s and carried the
by-line Stephen Glass, don’t believe anything you read. At
all. Shattered Glass tells the story of real-life hotshot hack
Glass (Hayden Christensen), who was fired from the magazine for
making up 27 of the 41 ‘exclusive’ stories he wrote,
including, crucially, an account of ambitious internet hackers
which was picked up by Forbes online and exposed as being a
tissue of falsehoods. The bulk of the story is a quietly gripping thriller, as the
net tightens around Glass and his efforts to save his skin get
more desperate. Billy Ray’s film effectively captures the
atmosphere of paranoia and professional jealousy that pervades
such publications, and includes some impressive performances.
Peter Sarsgaard has received the lion’s share of
critics’ praise, for his reinedin portrayal of Glass’s
gruff editor Charles Lane. But it is Hayden Christensen, released
from the role of Anakin Skywalker who surprises, displaying an
acting talent hitherto unseen. Deliciously charming or incredibly
irritating, depending on your point of view, he is always ready
with smooth-tongued flattery, eyes innocently beaming behind his
spectacles. His exposure offers punters the pleasure of seeing
the slimy sycophant who is constantly making coffee and bringing
the boss bagels finally getting his comeuppance. Ray’s
portrayal of the group dynamics of the small, self-regarding
magazine is the great strength of the film. The abuse of trust
and the ease with which people will let themselves be deceived
indicate the pressure on writers in a highly competitive world to
make their work more attractive and entertaining, even if this
involves playing around with the truth. What’s missing is
any psychological insight into Glass’s fabulism. Why did he
do it? Nobody seems to know, least of all Glass. Employing a
device used in numerous recent films, the director mixes
day-to-day reality with Glass’s fantasies in a manner both
amusing and disturbing. But we are given no insight into how far Glass himself
believes this fantasy: is Glass a slicker-than-youraverage
con-man, a less charming version of Leonardo di Caprio’s
desperate people pleaser? Or is he a deeply disturbed young man
who verges on being a sociopath? There are odd paradoxes in the
liberties apparently taken in telling a ‘true’ story
about a journalist fired for taking liberties with the truth, and
for the most part Ray simply sidesteps the whole issue of fiction
versus fact by refusing to speculate on Glass’ motivation.
In this respect, Shattered Glass is dangerously similar to its
own protagonist – too slick for its own good. With Piers
Morgan still reeling from multiple counts of false reporting,
Billy Ray’s sharp, subtle account of renegade reporter
Stephen Glass seems timely.ARCHIVE: 4th week TT 2004 

First things first: don’t let the title deceive you. This
may be a movie about melancholia, but it’s also an absolute
riot; hugely inventive and utterly bizarre. Filmed in grainy
black and white, it’s a nostalgiasoaked homage to the
screwball comedies and melodramas of early cinema, but with a
wicked wit and manic energy entirely its own – the sort of
film the Marx brothers might have made if they’d been on
speed. This still doesn’t do justice to the sheer insanity of
the whole enterprise though. It centres around a doubleamputee
called Lady Port-Huntley (Isabella Rossellini) who, in the 1930s,
organises a competition to find the world’s saddest music. The winners of each round are rewarded by getting to slide
down a shoot into an enormous vat of beer to celebrate. Lady
Port-Huntley gets fitted a pair of false glass legs filled with
beer to replace her lost real ones. Oh and there’s also a
telepathic tapeworm thrown in for good measure, as well as a
nymphomaniac amnesiac and a photosensitive Serbian cellist. Sure, this may not sound like your average bundle of laughs
but it’s exactly this refreshing randomness to the humour
which, almost, manages to carry the film. Best of all are the
competition’s two ultra-camp and brilliantly irrelevant
commentators (their response to a sombre entry from Siam –
“ah, the Siamese, no one can beat them when it comes to
dignity, cats or twins”). There’s also more pointed
satire in the way the crooked American representative buys the
help of all the poorer defeated nations to put on a horribly
kitsch Broadway-style extravaganza. But ultimately the movie feels like a joke that overstays its
welcome just that little too long. The humour dries up towards
the end, leaving us characters too ridiculous to care about. If
only it could have lived up to that initial flair, it might just
have been a comic gem. Now that really issad.ARCHIVE: 4th week TT 2004 

Faithless
No Roots
Out 7 June Before we start, there’s something I have to share: Maxi
Jazz does something to me. And no, this review is not about to
transform into some bizarre kiss and tell story. On the contrary, Maxi Jazz used to make me feel like a very
naïve child. What I am ineffectually trying to convey is the
enigmatic experience projected by his vocals; the almost
prophetic authority of that chanting; the voice that forced the
nation into submission with the anthemic ‘Insomnia’. Indeed, Faithless have been an important British band of the
last decade, in a genre where achieving lasting relevance was
difficult. MJ’s beat driven narratives propelled and
elevated the house revolution and they even fostered the
pre-Eminen talent of a certain Dido. New album No Roots continues to do these things. Sister
Bliss’s big beats aren’t really the soundtrack to youth
culture anymore though, rather a nostalgic reminder of pills,
parties and puberty. The Faithless sound has homogenised. The
massive mainstream success of Sunday 8pm struck a commercial
chord, which the band is continuing, somewhat relentlessly, to
strike. Political consciousness still pervades the fifteen new tracks.
On recent single ‘Mass Destruction’ , Maxi Jazz recites
‘we refuse to see that people overseas, suffer just like
we’. This may be true, but radical messages need a better
vehicle than the aging late 90s production with which Faithless
insist on packaging their sound. P*Nut and Sister Bliss’s ‘Mass Destruction mix’
makes efforts to rehash the single’s bland conventionality,
and manages to raise the funk factor a smidgen. It becomes the
relative stand-out track amongst uniform lowlights. The phenomenal Horace Andy and Massive Attack collaboration of
yesteryear is poorly imitated with the addition of guest vocalist
LSK. His mellow vocals generate an easy listening, chilled reggae
vibe on tracks like ‘I Want More’ but don’t quite
hit the mark. Maxi does his stuff throughout, yet the pounding
rhythms, forced rhymes and stock repetitions, ‘Miss you
less, see you more / Love to know you better’ (x 14) just
don’t resonate anymore. His confusion is manifest: on
‘Pastoral’ he questions ‘all I need to know is
what more I have to do?’. Well, MJ, I for one recommend
nothing. Faithless have past maturity, I think its time for a
dignified retiremen.ARCHIVE: 4th week TT 2004 

Reviewers have described Kathryn Williams voice as
‘delicate’ and ‘ethereal’; physically she is
much more corporeal. This was just one of the anomalies that
crept up in Sunday night’s performance, in which Williams
sang mostly songs from her recent album Relations intermeshed
with tracks from her last set Old Low Light. Her songs are
beautiful, in particular the rendition of ‘Birds’ by
Neil Young, with a sense of the real emotion in what she was
singing. Perhaps she had a little too much emotion. Williams did seem
to be taking herself a little too seriously, understandable given
her lyrics. “You put your lip-gloss on, you’re dressed
up to the top of your knickers,” etc was a little hard to
take. Perhaps it is that Williams occupies such a middle of the
road market; her album Relations was Radio Two’s album of
the week and her audience comprised mainly of middle aged men and
teenage girls. Moreover, the ‘fragility’ of
William’s voice translates to weakness in a live set,
frequently drowned out by the noise of the instruments. Given that I’m a Kathryn Williams fan, it is surprising
that I am so critical, but I felt her set was overwhelmingly
disappointing. The songs that on the albums sound so beautiful
and poignant, were performed in a manner rendering the sentiment
little more than: “I’m so sad, why don’t boys like
me?” This is a pity because I’m sure Williams feels
that they do mean much more than that. Sunday night’s
performance did little to demonstrate Williams’ abilities.
If you like her music you’re better off buying one of her
albums, the live version isn’t comparable.ARCHIVE: 4th week TT 2004 

Ryan Adams does get around. In addition to his four solo
albums in three years, Adams is also responsible for a
tongue-incheek, punk-thrash album under the moniker The Finger,
the charmingly titled We Are Fuck You. The connection to New
Yorker Jesse Malin is that he was the other half of The Finger,
so to speak. Indeed the associations between Malin and Adams go further.
The pair have toured together with Adams producing Malin’s
debut adding guitar and backing vocals on his second album also. Comparisons between the two therefore, are inevitable and
coming off a pair of poorly received albums ( Rock N Roll and
Love is Hell), Adams can be forgiven for looking over his
shoulder. The Heat is a neat album. There’s little in the way of
sonic invention; this is simply a case of giving a tortured soul
an electric guitar and backing band and taping the results. It is
at this rock and roll simplicity that Malin excels. His voice has a sinewy elasticity that rides over some huge
Springsteen-esque riffs. Back-toback songs ‘Basement
Home’ and ‘Hotel Columbia’ are the pick of a
consistent and wide-ranging set of songs. The former is an
utterly beguiling, effortlessly simple piano ballad. The latter
is a shirt-off, chest-beating, balls-out anthem. The only bum
note is the hackneyed closer ‘God’s Lonely
People’. The title is cringing and the lyrics are worse.
Fine Art… garnered some excellent reviews, and The
Heatsuccessfully builds on a growing reputation.ARCHIVE: 4th week TT 2004 

Before reaching for the play button on your stereo, you would
be correct in thinking you are about to listen to an understated,
‘lets-just-give-it-ago- and-see-what-happens’ album; it
promises to last a mere 33 minutes and 35 seconds. The unoriginality of the title of The Futureheads debut album
(given its name due to “complications and some more
thinking”) shouldn’t put you off. Even the fact that
the band’s name is unashamedly “more or less
nicked” from the Flaming Lips’ album ‘ Hit to
death in the Futurehead’, has not stopped critics from
boldly suggesting that the four northern lads are set to
revolutionize the pop-punk scene. The cover is a bit of a let-down, but this album is worth
giving the benefit of the doubt to. The first bars of the opening
track ‘Le Garage’ lure you in gently, and deceptively,
since there is nothing gentle either about the rest of the track
or the remaining thirteen. Its surprisingly short length is a
cunning trick, since this tantalizing opening leaves you sitting
on the edge of your seat wanting to hear a few more snippets. The musical appeal gains momentum as you delve deeper into the
album, with energetic bursts of rock and jerky, repetitive
rhythms. The lyrics are haphazard at times, but maybe that just adds to
the punk-pop effect. This is headbashing stuff, but in a pure,
unadulterated British style. And what a style it is. This is one
debut album well worth a listen.ARCHIVE: 4th week TT 2004 

A split watermelon. Ripe and bursting, its seeds spilling out
of its flesh. Women singing, talking, sifting rice. A wedding has
passed, another is coming. This is the scene that greets us at
the opening of Persian Brides. The rest of the novel is full of
similar visions, always of women and always of their pasts, their
sexuality and the limits imposed on them by society. We follow
the fortunes of Nazie, a Jewish child of eleven who wants to
marry soon and become a kuchik madar, a little mother. Then,
there are the village characters: Mamou the Whore, who was
impregnated by the king of the village demons, the regal
matriarch Miriam Hanoum, heavy and stolid Homa, the wolfish
Moussa – Nazie’s betrothed. Each is vividly described
and contributes colour to the nebulous fabric that Rabinyan
weaves. The story may seem vacuous because of its clear lack of
progression, but then, maybe that’s the point of it. The
meandering style Rabinyan uses suggests neither a beginning nor a
conclusion to the narrative of these women’s lives. We have
three densely described segments in the book: the first,
‘The Night of the Watermelon’ outlines Nazie’s
desire to become a grown woman and Flora’s pain at being
abandoned, the second focuses on Nazie’s unfortunate birth
and the third describes the journeys both women undertake to be
united with their spouses. The plot suggests a scheme of
development but Rabinyan’s characterization is such that we
have no resolution to hold on to, not just at the end, but at any
point in the novel. Her richly concocted brew of imagery and superstitions, her
language of azizams and mashallahs; the focus on representation
rather than analysis, then, is all part of an effort to ring true
to a rural and normally unrepresented voice. It is an attempt to
faithfully represent the Jewish-Persian voice Yet, I find that
the very ‘Chagallesque’ quality of Rabinyan’s
writing detracts from engagement with her characters at a
profounder level. Even if we were to read Persian Bridessolely
for the delightful escape it offers from the asphalt tint of
urban Western life, it is a rather predictable escape. Rabinyan presents us with a world in which Persian odalisques
lie wistfully, like tantalising fruit, where a certain lyricism
pervades the air. Though enchanting, it is nothing new. The world
Rabinyan creates for us is foreign not because of the strangeness
of its customs but because her characters act as if they were
forever on display, never allowing us to sympathise with them. So
while Persian Brides is an intoxicating brew, it is one that
leaves you with no hangover to remember it by. Neither does it
create any fantastic hallucinations.ARCHIVE: 4th week TT 2004

If you scorn fashion and designer names, disdain the Bridge on
a Thursday night, and prefer Marks and Spenser’s to Harrods,
avoid this book like the plague. If, however, you constitute part
of Oxford’s pashmina-wearing clique, buy it, along with a
notebook, a biro and some highlighters. Bergdorf Blondes is the
first novel by Plum Sykes – Worcester College graduate and
achingly trendy BrIt-Girl in New York, where she’s a
contributing editor at American Vogue. Oh, and she earned a
whopping $600,000 advance for the book. In the last few weeks,
she has appeared in every major newspaper in Britainsome people
love her; some people don’t. Bergdorf Blondesfollows the fortunes of Moi, the narrator, as
she lives the life of a fashionista – think Sex in the City
with more haute couture – and introduces us to a world of
private jets, Harry Winston diamonds, cads, labels, labels, more
labels, Park Avenue Princesses and millionaire heiresses.
Although it looks like Sykes is writing about the life she
herself loves to lead, there is a certain amount of sarcasm in
this book. I think. Surely there aren’t women who opt for a
caesarean section so that they ‘can pick the kid’s
birth-sign.’? After a while, you are not quite certain
whether Sykes is enchanted by the Society world, or repelled. She
certainly revels in it, though. Speaking of women she sees in
photographs, Moi asks herself, “how did women cope without
Bobbi Brown bronzer and Lancome’s Juicy Tubes for lips in
twelve shades?” Although it’s fun in its way, this is very much
‘chick-lit.’ By the end of it, I felt like I’d
been on a girl’s shopping trip for way too long. Some of the
references feel a bit incongruous – Proust and Plath sit
strangely alongside conversations about Vera Wang (she’s a
designer, dahling) or the absolute shame of owning a DVD player
and DVD (it shows that you don’t go out enough). By the
closing pages, I confess Moi and her circle of friends were
wearing thin, as were the innumerable descriptions of
‘cute’ men. But hey. I aint no chick. If you want a
glitzy, quilted and shining insight into the fairytales realm of
shopping and exotic boyfriends with their own jets, where parties
are judged on the sharpness of their folded napkins, and where
wearing last season’s Manolo Blahnik stilettos is social
self-flagellation, this is for you.ARCHIVE: 4th week TT 2004 

Oxford emerged from the dressing room after tea on day two in
the knowledge that their first innings had already won the match
and that there was every chance that they could defeat Cambridge
by an innings and take the bonus points on offer. Cambridge pair Harvey and James began day one at the crease
until a solid partnership of 60 was broken by Munday. On a
bowler’s wicket, time at the crease was vital and it was
apparent from the start of play that forging partnerships would
be essential. Cambridge faced an onslaught from the Oxford
bowling combination of Munday and McMahon, and in a hugely
important passage of the game on the first morning their upper
and middle order collapsed. A lot had been expected from the
Akram twins – Adnan and Arfan – at numbers three and
five, yet both succumbed to Munday. Rod Marsh, the former
Australian wicketkeeper and current ECB National Academy
Director, was in attendance with an eye on McMahon, an Oxford
Blue, and will have been impressed by his 3-26, while Munday took
5-52. Cambridge went into lunch on day one at 79-9, though when they
re-emerged Wright put on 24 runs before being caught off the
bowling of Suman with the score at 123. Knappett, the Oxford opening batsman, was caught excellently
by Harvey at 1st slip off the bowling of Wright, who was bowling
a very effective line and length that was jarring up at incoming
batsman Parker and troubling opener Selvey- Clinton. But in a
decisive period with both batsmen enduring numerous close shaves,
the Oxford batsmen settled and were able to take the upper hand.
Oxford were able to build on consecutive boundaries from
Selvey-Clinton in the 10th over, with both batsmen riding their
luck and benefiting from the occasional errant balls from Buckham
and Edwards. Though scrappy at times, particularly with Parker
being dropped in the slips, the level of skill displayed was
awesome and a 120- run partnership developed. Even when Parker looped a catch off the bowling of Wright, the
scores were level and any further runs would simply allow Oxford
to press for bonus points and, though Selvey-Clinton soon
followed Parker back to the dressing room after edging a Wright
delivery when on 69, the damage had already been done. The loss
of two wickets still left Oxford with the chance of pursuing an
innings win. Number 10 Suman doggedly put on 45 at the start of
day two, and when the innings finally came to an end, Oxford had
not only a first innings victory, but also a tidy lead of 125
runs. The consistent line and length of Wright was rewarded with
figures of 5-64, but otherwise the innings was “very
poor” in the words of Cambridge Captain Webley. Chasing a first innings deficit on such a bowler-friendly
wicket Cambridge were always destined to struggle, and the loss
of the top three before the total reached 70 runs seemed to
signify a tacit, subconscious concession of the match. The loss
of James’s wicket off the bowling of McMahon suggested a
loss of belief, and it was unsurprising that Cambridge, their
middle order failing again, found themselves at 86-6 after the
dismissals of Webley, Akram and Mason in quick succession. Even
defensive play from Kay, which saw him survive until the 55th
over, was not enough to put Cambridge in a position of strength.
Oxford went to tea knowing that maximum points were well within
grasp. Cambridge, though, responded well and in a well constructed
and patient innings, Park, in a significantly long 8th wicket
partnership of 89 with Wright, put on 70. His score at number 8
was extremely important to Cambridge, pushing them past the 175
run total required to score bonus points. The stubbornly
effective partnership saw off the remaining overs of the day and
secured some pride.ARCHIVE: 4th week TT 2004