If the idea of an actor dressed in a tailcoat covered in Jammy
Dodgers intrigues you, then you should go and see Alice. A
must-see for connoiseurs of the weird and the wonderful, this
outdoor performance based on the books by Lewis Carroll is a
faultless piece of theatrical whimsy. The premise is that Alice makes her way across a giant
chessboard meeting various characters in her quest to become
Queen. Although not entirely faithful to the books, the script is
familiar, incorporating well-known characters and events such as
the Mad Hatter and his tea party. Yet it remains fresh enough to
keep even the most devoted Alice disciple guessing throughout. It
should be said that this is no kiddies’ production. They are
welcome, but there is no Disneyesque slice of saccharine. The Mad
Hatter (Iain Drennan) is a perfect mix of menace and black
humour, while Pia Fitzgerald shows her versatility as both the
imposing Red Queen and the frivolous Live Rose. The acting is
uniformly excellent, finding the difficult balance between
childlike innocence and dark comedy (particularly in the case of
Amy Jackson as Alice). The set, in an atmospheric walled garden of Queens College, is
transformed into a fantastic fairyland of sparkling glass
raindrops, twinkling lights and looming plantlife. Clever use of
perspective makes the scene appear much bigger than it actually
is, and reinforces the fantasy element of the play by delineating
the space between the actors and the audience. In short, this
brilliant and original play makes it strongly advisable to take a
trip into Wonderland (and hopefully it won’t rain).ARCHIVE: 2nd week TT 2004 

Take one perennial play of the English tradition, stage it in
the beautiful surroundings of the oldest college in Oxford, and
watch the magic unfold. Nothing could be more of a sure-fire
success than Univ Players’ garden production of An Ideal
Husband, a feast of witty repartee and biting social comment set
in the dizzy heights of upper-class London. It is beautifully
presented, with careful attention to detail and a dazzling array
of period costumes, and enthusiastically performed by a cast made
up of Univ students. Directors Zeynep Kayacan and Naomi Wilkinson have shunned
modernisation in favour of a completely traditional approach,
down to the gloves, hats, canes and classical music. The ladies
are all elegant distaste and archly-raised eyebrows, while they
allow themselves to be escorted by the gentlemen to supper. The
ensemble acting is polished and almost fautless. Nanw Rowlands is
wonderful as a “frightfully plummy” Mabel and Jamie
Rann turns in a first-rate performance as Viscount Goring, while
Lady Markby is played with a fabulously aristocratic tone by the
hilarious Heather Oliver. The whole atmosphere is one of propriety and etiquette, under
which the sordid matters of power and money bubble. Wilde takes
care to remind the audience that scandal is both the requirement
and the destruction of the whole social structure. As Mrs
Cheveley (Rachel Clements) points out, “it is the game of
life as we all have to play it.” This energetic production is packed with laughs, and stands as
unquestionable proof that the Univ Players are a force to be
reckoned with in the world of Oxford drama.ARCHIVE: 2nd week TT 2004 

There’s no doubt about it; John Holmes was big. He made
over 2,000 films during his career and, aided in no small way by
his prodigious appendage (the exact stature of which, Cherwell
cannot divulge) became porn’s first superstar during the
industry’s seventies heyday. Not bad for a skinny guy from
Ohio, with a crap moustache and a dodgy lung. Predictably, though, this fame was fleeting, and the beginning
of the eighties found him washed up. An impressive pharmaceutical
intake took its toll and, as past, present and future disappeared
up his nose, Holmes became increasingly reliant on the wrong kind
of people. James Cox’s film takes up the story of his life here, in
1981, eschewing the dubious past glories to focus instead on the
one-time king of the adult movie world’s involvement in the
brutal murders of four people at a house on Wonderland Avenue. His precise role in the slayings never came to light; whether
an active participant or an unlucky dupe, Holmes was acquitted,
and never revealed the truth. As such, Wonderland employs a Rashomon-esque approach,
exploring the various possibilities by taking separate looks at
conflicting versions of the story, all with the flashy editing
and grungy hues seemingly obligatory for any film depicting
drug-fuelled depravity. It’s not so much gritty as soiled, the world inhabited by
the burntout skin flick star revealed in all its scuzzy glory,
and though we do occasionally see a more human side to the man
– the strange triangle formed by him, his wife and his much
younger girlfriend is one of the most interesting, if
underdeveloped, parts of the story – this comes second to
his portrayal as a cowardly, desperate fuck-up. Wonderland relies to a great extent on Val Kilmer’s
performance, imbuing his seemingly worthless character with
enough faded charm to suggest that there may be varying levels of
truth. The real John Holmes was a mass of contradictions – a
vociferous campaigner for mandatory AIDS testing in his industry,
he nevertheless continued to make films despite learning he had
the disease – so perhaps it’s only right that here we
are left with questions rather than answers, both about events on
Wonderland Avenue and the nature of the man himself. Naïve victim or craven manipulator, it’s difficult to
know, and though this lack of conclusion does leave an empty
feeling, it seems in keeping with the subject that all should
remain largely mysterious.ARCHIVE: 2nd week TT 2004 

Never is a cinematic experience more depressing than when the
mobile phone advert at the beginning of the film is the best
thing about it. Unfortunately Van Helsing was such an experience. This is a $150 million dollar film that isn’t funny,
isn’t scary and isn’t sexy. Even the delectable Hugh
Jackman turns in a rather uninspiring performance. The film opens
with Van Helsing (a comic book super hero out to rid the world of
vampires, werewolves and deranged psychopaths) in a gothic
nineteenth century Paris, fighting an oversized Dr Jeckel who he
finishes off by throwing from the top of Notre Dame. Spectacular?
No, only vaguely amusing. Van Helsing works for The Order, the
self-proclaimed ‘last defence against evil’ who reside
in the Vatican under the direction of the Pope. The Order equip
him with Nineteenth Century versions of James Bond gadgets. He
has his very own Q, a geeky little friar who accompanies him on
his adventures and provides him with such inventive machines as a
gas propelled arrow shooter and explosive balls that stimulate
the heat and light of the sun. To cut straight to the uninspiring chase, Van Helsing finds
himself in Transylvania to fight, you’ve guessed it, the
invincible Dracula. Of course Dracula isn’t really
invincible, it’s just no one knows how to kill him. And of
course Van Helsing finds a way which has something to do with
lightening, Frankenstein’s monster, mutant Dracula babies
and the love of a good woman whose brother happens to be a
werewolf. If that little summary doesn’t put you off, you’re
probably one of those sci-fi aficionados who’ll like this
film no matter how dire it is, and will go and see it regardless.
For the rest of you, I implore you to save your cash for other
activities. For the geeks out there, here is a little more of the
story. Kate Beckinsale is said good woman, a big screen version
of Buffy, clad in leather trousers and a tight bodice with a
flowing main of silky locks to complete the sex-object. Beckinsale is Anna Valerious, the last of the Valerious line
whose job it is to kill Dracula. She has some good attempts but
needs the arrowtouting Van Helsing to close the deal. Cue Dracula
and his posse: Igor, a bunch of dwarf nasties, and his wives who
like to indulge in erotic clinches of the lesbian variety. Anna
and Van discover, horror of horrors, that Dracula intends to
unleash into the world hundreds of thousands of his mutant
babies, no doubt clanging the death knell for mankind. Anna does
her part by getting captured and breathing heavily in her tight
bodice. Van does his part by turning into a Werewolf, killing
Dracula and thus all his mutant babies. The world is safe once again. That is until Van Helsing 2 is
born. Oh, God, please, no.ARCHIVE: 2nd week TT 2004 

Paul Morrison’s first film, 1999’s Solomon and
Gaenor, was a tragedy about an Orthodox Jew’s illicit affair
with a miner’s daughter in the impoverished Welsh valleys of
the 1910s. His second is another period piece but it is a much
more palatable one. Set in 1960, it tells the story of one long
summer in the life of 11-year-old David Wiseman (Sam Smith), a
Jewish second-generation immigrant whose passion for cricket far
outweighs his ability. David’s German-born parents are viewed with suspicion,
but with the arrival of the Jamaican Samuels family next door
they are displaced as the neighbourhood scapegoats – it may
be only 15 years since the end of the war but it is only two
since the Notting Hill Race Riots. Friends encourage David to
ignore his new neighbours, but after Dennis Samuels, (Delroy
Lindo) father of the new family, erects a cricket net, the
usually shy David cannot resist the lure of the game. The story is predictable. David flourishes and is picked for
the cricket team; becomes more confident and more popular until
he thoughtlessly betrays his mentor. Ultimately though, he of
course realises that friendship is more important than athletic
prowess, missing an important fixture to prove his loyalty.
Wondrous Oblivion is saved from cliché however by some wonderful
performances and the quiet privileging of individual
characterisation over emotional histrionics. There are a couple of major movies where cricket games take
place (Joseph Losey’s Accident) and there has been one film
about first-class cricket (Anthony Asquith’s The Final
Test), but there has never been a first-class film about such a
potentially slow sport. Wondrous Oblivion doesn’t break the
cinema’s duck in this area, for while cricket provides the
film’s dominant motif, it is a metaphor for self-respect,
friendship, teamwork and living in amicable rivalry. In its
portrayal of human relationships, it is in a league of its own.ARCHIVE: 2nd week TT 2004 

Morrissey, ex-frontman of The Smiths, returns for his first
album in seven years with impeccable timing – all the
hottest new bands express their admiration, and the critical
retrospectives of The Smiths are as universally positive as they
are ubiquitous. And finally, Morrissey, so long without a deal,
has found a record company prepared to push his product to the
masses. With the stage set for a triumphal comeback, the
Mozfather gives his performance – and few will be
disappointed. This is unashamedly a pop-rock record. Producer Jerry Finn
(Blink- 182, Green Day) adds multi-layered production to every
track, plus occasional interesting departures from classic indie
sounds – electronic swooshes, largely tasteful doses of
synths, and even some drum and (subtle) dance beat programming. The tracks on the whole are slightly laid back. However there
are enough rockers to please fans of a heavier sound, making for
a pleasing diversity, from the Didoesque ‘I’m Not
Sorry’ to the storming, euphoric, ‘First Of The Gang To
Die’. While some may yearn for the yelp of his early years,
with his voice now fully mature Morrissey is a joy to listen to,
handling the aching falsetti and forceful choruses with equal
ease. Lyrically, most songs are not up with his best, but then we
are talking about one of the finest lyricists ever. Themes are
diverse, from outward looking ‘America Is Not The
World’, a criticism of US cultural Imperialism, and
‘Irish Blood, English Heart’, a lament about the shame
of being English, to the introspective ‘How Can Anybody
Possibly Know How I Feel’ and the crisis of faith that is
‘I Have Forgiven Jesus’. All are seen through the Pope
of Mope’s cynicsm (let’s face it – it’s
Morrissey, something wouldn’t be quite right if he went all
‘Shiny Happy People’ on us), and accompanied by his
barbed wit. Not for him the banality of “lockjaw popstars /
so scared to show intelligence”. “You Know I
Couldn’t Last”, he laments on the album’s epic
closer. The irony of course is that Morrissey has now been plying
us with the finest Indie for 20 years. Whilst he can still manage
albums as good as You Are The Quarry, long may it continue.ARCHIVE: 2nd week TT 2004 

Despite this being their first home-coming gig for some time,
it was a pretty unhyped event. Inside the venue, there were true
Supergrass fans from the days of the Jericho Tavern. The unfashionable New Theatre, with its rows of seats,
prevented even the most enthusiastic of fans from doing anything
more than nod their head in time. Following on from the excellent 22-20s (who must surely strike
out on their own soon) Supergrass seemed a little nervous. Whether it was the fact they were performing their less
popular material at first, or the white lighting which made the
stage look empty, for the first half of the gig, they looked
decidedly uneasy. This changed, however, when the lights dimmed and Gaz and Nick
reappeared with acoustic guitars on a leather sofa. The audience
seemed drawn to the stripped down sound and raw vocals, and sang
along. After this acoustic interlude, what followed was
brilliant. More up-tempo rock and roll numbers were included between
classic songs like ‘Be Alright’, and ‘Pumpin’
on the Stereo’ and the audience loved it. This was the
Britpop Supergrass tat Oxford remembered and loved; better
lighting displays and clever use of live action images. The experimental Supergrass didn’t hit the right notes,
and seemed unwilling to play their familiar songs. Loyal fans
know the Britpop sound they like, and maybe Supergrass will
acknowledge this.ARCHIVE: 2nd week TT 2004 

While it’s one thing to have influences in the music
industry, it is quite another to wear them as proudly as White
Light Motorcade do. The four wiry, leather-clad New Yorkers aim for a glorious
clash of sound between vintage punk (MC5, The Stooges) and the
melodic fireworks of 90s Britpop. It sounds like a bad idea and,
as you’d expect, it doesn’t work. The album results in something reminiscent of Jet’s Get
Born. Several of the songs have good hooks and winning melodies,
but they are delivered in a way devoid of any spark of
originality. This is a problem not just for White Light Motorcade, but also
for the current wave of ‘rock and roll’ acts. Music is
rarely totally original, but if you want to see a tribute act go
to your local pub. White Light Motorcade could learn something
from such advice. Coupled with this, the album’s tracks have
been glossed, buffed and produced to with an inch of it’s
life. ‘Open Your Eyes’ uses trademark Noel Gallagher chord
changes to no effect whatsoever and ‘Useless’, the
band’s attempt at a lighters-in-theair anthem, is let down
by frontman Harley Dinardo’s weak vocals. Things look up briefly during the catchy thrash of
‘It’s Happening’, but Ash would probably still
reject it as sub-standard. NME called White Light Motorcade “the saviours of
rock.” I can’t agree. The kindest thing to be said for
Thank You, Goodnight is that it makes all the right noises,
nonetheless it feels completely hollow.ARCHIVE: 2nd week TT 2004 

Let’s be honest, most people never venture further than
Europe. When the cheap spirit of wanderlust awakens, a group trip
(courtesy of Easyjet) to the sun-kissed regions of Spain soon
cures the travel-bug. Often the holy trinity of boozy paradises
– Majorca, Minorca and Malaga – in association with
Club so and so, adequately nourish the Joepublic soul with the
sublime necessities of sand, sea, sex and more sex. Meanwhile Africa merely registers as that place where Bob
Geldof “did his bit for us, for those skinny kids”.
Often the seasonal destination of many a “Hoorah Henry”
and the hutbuilding wealthy Gap year student, “cos laahk yah
know, I raahlly wanna help the children”, Africa remains
distant and inaccessible to most. A continent that conjures up
images of expense, famine, disease and poverty couldn’t
really be a holiday destination for the masses, could it? Lonely
Planet’s excellent new travel guide, Africa on a Shoestring
aims to dispel the miasma of thought surrounding the continent. A mixture of social comment, history, practical information
and observational humour, this sturdy tome is an invaluable guide
for any budgetconscious traveller aiming to explore the
impressive diversity of Africa. From the Roman and Pharaonic
temples of the Maghreb (North Africa), to the spicy charm of the
East, the platelicking cuisine of the West and right down to the
jaw-droppingly inspiring natural sites of Southern Africa, any
adventurer on a tight budget can experience the continent to its
fullest, particularly students suffering from the monstrous
after-effects of a student loan. The emphasis is on
“shoestring” and so each page is conceived with this
concern in mind; the helpful itineraries to plan budget
backpacking around specific regions of Africa, from North to
South, “the Maghreb Meander” to “French
Footsteps”, must be looked at. With this endlessly useful
one-stop reference guide, you can’t really go wrong. Lonely
Planet adds yet another jewel to backpacking culture.ARCHIVE: 2nd week TT 2004 

Colin Macintyre (aka Mull Historical Society) pleads
“I’m not cool anymore, stay with me honey” on the
opening track, ‘Peculiar’, of third studio album This
is Hope. Following up on the mainstream success of 2003’s
Usit contains eleven tracks of innocuous melodic pop that aspire
to latter- day Beatledom. Indeed, coolness is not the impression secured by repeated
exposure to the album; MacIntyre’s production, mixing up his
Hebridean lyrical fixation with orchestral and choral samples,
sounds more suited to a pipe and slippers, than to air guitaring
with a JD in hand. Moments of retro redemption prevent Mull Historical
Society’s full immersion in the spirit of blandness
popularised by David Gray and Coldplay. ‘Casanova at the
Weekend’ owes a significant debt to Coldplay and their
contemporaries. ’Death of A Scientist’, however, is a
welcome interjection of Kinks karaoke and ‘Your Love, My
Gain’ safely traverses into the territory of the classic
nostalgic ballad. A harmless exercise in creating an album largely composed of
audio non-entities, the lacklustre listening experience that is
This is Hopeis not a complete ‘Hebridean Disaster’.
Perhaps an attempted wreck is what MacIntyre was seeking to
reveal to his mainland audience. If it was, he failed, but only
just. Instead of this, the Mull Historical Society has
prematurely matured, and produced, hope and an egalitarian
soundtrack for Bovril drinkers everywhere.ARCHIVE: 2nd week TT 2004