It’s an old story: wife has affair, husband catches pair
‘in flagrante delicto’ and violently murders them,
before fleeing for his life. Perhaps not. For this cuckolded
husband and double murderer was also one of the greatest
composers in Renaissance Italy, and is soon to hit our screens as
the subject of a no-expensespared biopic by the controversial
Italian film director, Bernado Bertolucci. Don Carlo Gesualdo, Prince of Venosa, enjoyed huge notoriety
in his time due to his scandalous love life and his radical
musical style which, sensuous and wild, changed the face of the
previously restrained Italian madrigal. In a recent interview
with L a RepubblicaBertolucci himself commented, “Gesualdo,
with his prophetic fury, confused me from the first time I heard
him. I experienced a carrier of emotions that was almost
expressionist.” The great Italian conductor Claudio Abbado, long a fan of
Gesualdo, stated in the same article, “Gesualdo knew how to
transfigure suffering with previously unheard harmonies. He
exalted dissonance, rendering it an instrument of expression of
the strongest and saddest emotions. And in this way, he thrust
past the boundaries of his time”. And yet, until now, both Gesualdo and his works have been
almost completely forgotten. But not for long: Bernado
Bertolucci, of Last Tango in Paris and Stealing Beauty fame, has
finally admitted that he plans to complete what sources close to
him say is a tenyear project, that will reveal the life and music
of the unjustly forgotten Prince. The film is to be called
Inferno e Paradiso, or Heaven and Hell. The release date is still
under wraps, but reports in the Italian press suggest that the
first scenes, or “ciaks” as they are called in his
native Italy, are expected to be shot this month. So, what can we expect from the famoso Italian? Like his
subjectto- be, Bertolucci is no conservative; his notorious film
La Luna shocked the world with its theme of mother-son incest set
in the world of opera. Last Tango in Paris, the story of two
people who meet anonymously for sex in a Paris apartment, was no
less stunning or provocative. And his latest release, The
Dreamers, caused yet more headlines in September last year by
famously including an incestuous relationship between a young boy
and his virgin twin sister. When Twentieth Century Fox announced that they wanted to cut
some scenes involving sex and nudity in preparation for The
Dreamers’ release in America, Bertolucci was outraged,
allegedly accusing Fox of having “amputated and
mutilated” the film, and suggesting wryly that, “some
people obviously think the American public is immature”. Will Heaven and Hell be as controversial as the Italian’s
previous efforts? It certainly seems that the combination of
Gesualdo’s colourful love life and Bertolucci’s track
record will give ample opportunities for sparks to fly. Gesualdo’s unfaithful wife, Maria of Avalos, was
reputedly one of the most beautiful women in Italy, and when the
Prince killed both her and her courtly lover it caused
shock-waves in Neapolitan society which were recorded in many a
lamenting madrigal. However, his crime passionellewas forgotten
astonishingly quickly, and in 1594, a mere four years after the
dirty deed, he was married to Eleonora d’Este, of the
powerful Ferrarese Este family. His return to grace coincided with a very fruitful period of
madrigal writing which, with their deeply pained, repentant
texts, seem to mirror his anguished guilt. Bertolucci,as ever,
has a different and juicier interpretation: “It really
distresses me that, from which ever way you look at events, you
can’t escape the fact that Gesualdo’s most beautiful
music was composed after he murdered his wife. It is as if his
works were fertilized in the blood of his wife. Gesualdo loved
music too much, Maria loved love too much. I am convinced that
Gesualdo killed his wife because she stopped him from being
creative, deep down, and that he found the pretext of adultery to
free himself.” There’s clearly a lot more to the Prince of Venosa than
meets the eye, and anyone wishing to find out more could do worse
than to dig into either the second edition of Glenn Watkins’
masterly Gesualdo, or Dennis Arnold’s BBC Music Guidewhich
somehow manages to compress most of the content of the
Watkins’ tome into about fifty very readable pages. Those not wishing to burden themselves with literature can
always skip straight to the real thing and put on a CD; Gesualdo:
Madrigals, sung by the peerless French early-music group Arts
Florissants and conducted by William Christie, is one of the
best. As for Inferno e Paradiso: box office heaven or hell? Watch
this space.ARCHIVE: 0th week TT 2004 

Open a newspaper, turn on your television or walk into a
bookstore and there is a high chance you’ll encounter Alain
de Botton: a modern philosopher who uses modern methods to bring
philosophy to a wide audience. One aspect he is particularly
interested in is how philosophy can help us examine and improve
our daily lives, as he makes clear in his bestsellers,
Consolations of Philosophy and his latest book, Status Anxiety. I
meet him in the Authors’ Green Room at the Oxford Union,
which is hosting several events in the Oxford Literary Festival,
after a talk about status to a room of eager literati; he is
happy to expound on his new book, his own status and just why
academic philosophers are jealous of him. Does he worry about rivals, a concern which Status Anxiety
addresses? “I think it’s a completely normal and
natural and universal concern to have, and unfortunately it
doesn’t matter how much you have, you always look at people
just above you. So when I started writing, if someone said
you’re going to have a book in the best-seller list, I would
have thought that’s amazing and I would give my right arm
for that. But when you get it and you think why isn’t it in
a bit longer, why hasn’t it sold as much as Lynne Truss,
those are the impulses, so it’s very, very pernicious.
We’re inherently ungrateful for what happens to us.” Status Anxiety recommends worrying about death as a way of
realising our true status – in effect, that we’re
actually a lot better off than we think. Surely this is just a
way of kidding ourselves, though, since it will make us
complacent and unambitious? De Botton agrees that the middle way
is probably best: “There’s no doubt that if you have no
concern about your status that would be very worrying. I think,
like many things it’s somewhere in the middle –
it’s an appetite – we have an appetite for status like
we have an appetite for food: too much and you gorge yourself and
you die of obesity, too little and you starve.” De Botton is very much a respected presence in the media and
his books attract excellent reviews, which should together give a
sense of security and happiness, so does he worry about his
status? What does he think constitutes his status? “[Writers
can] wonder about the intrinsic value, not just the commercial
value, the artistic value [of their work]. It’s another way
of trying to make sense of your worth. I don’t think I am an
exception – some days writers will go, ‘I got a really
bad review but I’m selling lots’ or, ‘I’m not
selling lots but I got a really good review’.” We move
on to his multimedia presence. De Botton seems u n u s u a l a m
o n g s t philosophers in that he is willing to spread his ideas
in ways other than through dusty, dry academic journals and
great, indigestible tracts which sit, unread, in the Bod (as
academic philosophers’ works are commonly perceived). In an effort to educate and inform, de Botton has taken his
message onto the television ( Status Anxiety and The Consolations
of Philosophy were adapted for Channel 4; How Proust Can Change
Your Lifefor BBC2). Does he think he’s like Socrates,
spreading the philosophical message to the public at large?
“I don’t want to compare myself to Socrates. I suppose
I’m unafraid to take calculated risks with such things as
the Richard & Judyshow, a Channel 4 documentary or whatever,
because I think that there are many ways of getting a message
across. The mass media isn’t stupid, it’s just what
might be on it that’s stupid. I don’t see a conflict
between trying to write seriously about serious themes and going
on television.” So do full–time academic philosophers treat him and those
like him, such as historians David Starkey and Simon Schama (who
both have had several television series), badly? “Oh yes,
you’re absolutely ridiculed. As soon as you, you know, go on
television, and you might be earning three times what
they’ve earned that year in a month, let’s say, you
instantly become very annoying indeed to them, but that’s
their problem. You know, your mother’s going to be delighted
with your success but you can’t expect everyone else to be
delighted.” What about the accusation that de Botton et al
over-simplify their subject and patronise their audience? Does he
think this is a result of jealousy and fear? “To be honest,
yes, I do actually. You know, most people don’t know about
British history or about the history of philosophy or whatever
– how’s one supposed to know? I think it’s a
tremendously patronising accusation ultimately under the guise of
being a helpful and serious accusation – it’s actually
the most pernicious accusation of all – I mean, Simon Schama
is a wounded man, his reputation in the academy is totally
destroyed for no good reason.” De Botton appears angry not on his behalf – he seems able
to hold his own corner – but on behalf of his colleagues who
have succumbed to academic back-biting. It’s one thing to
have a programme about philosophy on television, but it’s
another for this programme to have an effect. In today’s
world of auction shows, home-decorating channels and wall-to-wall
reality TV, does he think he has an influence on people’s
lives? “It’s hard to know. I made two series for
Channel 4, I remember after I did [ The Consolations of
Philosophy] one, the essays of Montaigne [featured in the show]
went to number two on Amazon and that hasn’t happened for a
long while. That’s quite fun. That’s, I think, an
achievement. If I’ve made some kind of contribution, however
modest, I think my life hasn’t been completely wasted. I
think one has to remain intrinsically modest about how anyone can
affect anyone, how a book can affect anyone. On a bad day I think
none of it does anything at all.” Can television handle philosophy, which is popularly seen as
either arcane or impossibly difficult? “ Status Anxietyon
Channel 4 is basically an illustrated lecture with examples you
have to compress. You have to whiz through it, throw out a few
ideas. It’s an error if you think that’s all there is
to say about a subject.” While we’re on the topic on
television philosophy, I have one final question I’ve been
dying to ask: Sex and the City – modern feminine philosophy
or glam-TV? De Botton, if he’s surprised by the query,
doesn’t show it, or at least recovers quickly. “I think
it’s an ideological portrait of modern Manhattan womanhood
filled with messages about what’s good and bad. We tend to
measure ourselves according to models we’ve seen on TV and
no doubt it has led some people to evaluate themselves according
to that idea.ARCHIVE: 0th week TT 2004 

As vices go, nothing gets the adrenal glands pumping quite as
much as gambling. Thoughts of vats of chocolate and gallons of
liquor might send tingles down your spine; dalliances with the
law might give you kicks; I’m sure sex in public places is
an acquired thrill; but you can’t beat gambling: the
anticipation of wining big – it’s a vice that really
lets you know you’re alive. And so having a flutter, at first sight, is harmless enough.
It won’t add two hundred pounds to your already ample frame,
won’t put you in a coma, won’t get you arrested. But,
as with all vices, if indulged in often enough it will still pave
the way to your ruin. It was with this in mind, and a hundred
quid in my pocket, that I headed to Las Vegas, Mecca for gamblers
the world over. Vegas: the city of vice, the centre of hedonism,
the place to party. Vegas is the celebration of sin. They’ve
made it legal, made it 24 hours, dressed it up with whistles and
bells. There are many great gambling tales set in Vegas, glorious
examples of fortunes won and lost. Kerry Packer, the Australian
Billionaire, once lost $20 million at the Bellagio playing poker
at $200,000 a hand. But of course, there’s a flip side to
the coin; he also won $26 million at blackjack at the MGM Grand.
Bond himself, Sean Connery, once aquired $27,000 (in 1963)
playing Roulette and betting on number seventeen three times in a
row – odds of fifty-thousand to one. It’s the idea of
beating odds like that that gamblers live for. For, as all
hard-core gamblers will tell you, gambling is not about the
money. It’s not even about the win. It’s about the
odds. The psychological impulse behind the drive to bet is the sense
of achievement and victory at beating the house. Without the
chance of losing, wining would mean nothing. And the bigger the
odds the bigger the victory rush. An old episode of the Twilight
Zone showed this perfectly: a gambler, having lost all his life,
dies and in the afterlife finds himself once again at the gaming
tables. He’s delighted to discover that he wins every hand
he plays. Then his delight begins to wear off. He can’t
lose. The ‘gamble’ has been taken away from him. He is
in Hell: destined to spend eternity playing the same game with
the same result. Without the chance to lose, all the
gratification of winning has been taken away. It’s an empty
victory. This poses an interesting question about human nature and the
nature of happiness. Most people (bar the odd sadomasochist)
would, given the opportunity, wish to be happy for the rest of
their lives. But would that really be Heaven? Perhaps we need the
lows in life to have the highs. Perhaps without them life would
flatten out into a serious of meaningless moments, accentuated
and heightened by nothing. Remember that when you’ve just
been dumped, your tutor says you’re the dumbest student
he’s ever had and you’re forced to spend your summer
working in MacDonald’s to pay your tuition fees while the
rest of friends are sunning themselves on a beach in Maui. Tell
yourself that these moments are the necessary stones that’ll
pave your way to the days of utter bliss and joy ahead of you.
It’ll be small consolation no doubt, but consolation
nonetheless. In Vegas every gambler I met could instantly be put into one
of these two categories: hard-core – those in it for the
odds, and soft-core – those in it for the money. The sort of
people who played the tables hoping to make their fortunes are
the same sorts who play the National Lottery. This is not
gambling. No self-respecting gambler would play odds of 14
million to one. The odds have to mean something. And the lottery
winner doesn’t jump up and down screaming “I’ve
beaten the odds, what a sense of achievement!” unlike those
who aim at cheating the system. They jump up and screaming
“I’m a f***ing millionaire!” And every week the
other five million or so unfortunates who didn’t win tell
themselves they’ll have better luck next time. It is often said, with much justification, that the National
Lottery is a tax on the stupid. There was also a third category
in Vegas: the ludicrously rich. These are those sad folks who
have so much money they have a hard time spending it. Once
they’ve bought all the fast cars they can reasonably drive
in a lifetime, a couple of Leer jets, and a small island in the
South Pacific, they turn to other things: trading their millions
for a few seconds of thrills. As with US shock-jock, Howard Stern, who attempted to place a
$1 million bet on a single hand of blackjack. Unfortunately for
him he had to squander his wealth elsewhere since every gaming
house in Vegas refused to take the bet. However you choose to
waste your money, remember this: gambling is only a mug’s
game if you actually expect to win.ARCHIVE: 0th week TT 2004 

Salivating at the delicious prospect of Cherwell’s unveiling of the dark, seedy underbelly of Oxford? We always knew it was there, just under the surface of the squeaky clean G and Ds and tame Park End exterior; and this particular vice is a deeper, more powerful force than any old run of the mill, passe illegal vice you can think of.
Before the pressures of Oxford life, we never knew the true value of msn messenger, the hidden joy of drinking coffee or the real function of the pub: ways of delaying the inevitable pain of sitting at our desks and facing the mountain of work that has been building up since minus 0th week.
Delve under the surface of our seemingly hard working student base and you will find a community of hard-core procrastinators addicted to its guilty pleasures. The acute procrastinator is the person who does in fact go to the library, but sits writing lists of all the things they must do before they go to bed or the Top Ten episodes of the Simpsons that cannot be missed. When it’s finished, they will, they assure you, write their essay, but you find them still there a day later finishing a box set dvd season of 24.
However, we can all relax, because our collective problem has been diagnosed, defined, and finally made a real excuse by friendly scientists who are on our side. Hooray! Psychologists have become interested in this widespread phenomenon and have come up with a technical definition of procrastination: ‘to delay voluntarily an intended course of action despite expecting to be worse off for the delay’.
It seems that, despite all our efforts to be individuals, there are in fact only two types of worker – firstly the irritating and universally hated type who can be found in the Bodleian five minutes after their tutorial, finishes their work with two days to spare and then, comically, worries about having not done enough and frightens the rest of us in the process.
Then there is the procrastinator. Apparently some are lucky enough to be relaxed about the whole thing, and do their laundry at 5am rather than their essay, with no trace of anxiety.
For the rest of us, the miserable effects of a looming deadline; that panic stricken feeling and the familiar wail of ‘I’m so stupid! Why didn’t I write my essay instead of spending all night rearranging my CDs into genre sections?’ has been labelled with the comfortingly scientific term ‘voluntary action delay anxiety syndrome’.
True. Unfortunately, although this may give us some leverage with despairing tutors (it may be particularly helpful to label your affliction VADAS, to make it sound more severe) there is as yet no miracle cure.
So what are you going to do now; read Cherwell one more time, go for a drink or make a start on that essay?ARCHIVE: 0th week TT 2004 

Can you summarise The Stills’ sound for the uninitiated?
Our sound is probably romantic pop-rock; melodic with lots of big
choruses. What’s your fantasy festival line up?
It would be pretty close to the Coachella Festival bill that
we’re playing in California. The Pixies, Radiohead and The
Cure are all there. Plus we’d have Pavement and Wilco. Who have been the biggest influences on the band?
The whole band like The Smiths, The Clash and The Jesus and Mary
Chain, but we all have different personal tastes as well. What
are the best and worst things about touring? The best thing about
touring is not having a 9 to 5 job, and the highlight of every
day is playing the show at night. The worst is the routine that
you get into; travelling, soundchecking, living in hotels.
We’ve had eight months straight being on the road playing
gigs. It gets pretty gruelling. What is the best gig that you’ve ever been to?
There’s a few: Radiohead at the Metropolis in Montreal, it
was about a week after they released OK Computer. More recently,
Evan Dando’s solo tour where he played lots of Lemonheads
classics. What’s the most memorable thing that’s been thrown
on stage during a Stills gig?
We’ve had underwear thrown on the stage, which is pretty
cool, except they belonged to a guy – I think one of our
friends had set us up. Thankfully people that have seen us
haven’t hated us enough to throw beer bottles or anything! The sex, drugs and rock- ’n’roll lifestyle: is it a
myth or a reality?
I don’t know! For us it’s a bit of a myth, but plenty
of bands have indulged in it. Motley Crue have done some wild
stuff. I don’t think it’s as available as it used to
be. If you could play with any musician, living or dead, who would
it be?
Slash from Guns’n’Roses, it’d be a lot of fun,
he’s a classic rock and roll star. I started playing guitar
when I was 12 or 13, when G’n’R were huge and all the
kids were playing riffs from Appetite for Destruction. Where do you want to be in 10 years time?
If it all goes right, we’ll have made a few timeless albums
that people really understand and are unashamed to listen to. And finally, Greg from The Stills, what’s the stupidest
question you’ve ever been asked in an interview?
I’ve been asked whether I prefer Crest or Colgate
toothpaste. And what was the answer?
Whatever’s in the bathroom at the time!ARCHIVE: 0th week TT 2004 

This week, The Oxford Playhouse plays host to an epic tale of
war, the fall of a great city and the power of the female spirit
in an innovative production of Euripides’ Trojan Women,
produced by Kieran White and translated and directed by Avery T
Willis. It is a phenomenal production, incorporating influences
from many different cultures to create a unique sensory
experience. From Poseidon’s (Adam Perchard) first entry on stilts,
this is an excellently choreographed and staged production. The
interplay between the characters is good and the script is
interspersed with music and dance in a way that supports and
enhances Willis’ translation. The costumes and the music form a convincing background to the
dance moves. In general, the visual and acoustic elements convey
much of the meaning and effect of the play. Liz Brook’s Hecuba is a fantastic evocation of a woman
who has lost everything. She vacillates between despair and
venom, her face and voice conveying many different emotions, in
an impressive performance which transfixes the audience. Chip Horne as Talthybios successfully manages to portray the
dilemma of a man who is ill at ease with his role and the news he
has to bear. The scene in which Andromache loses her son is heartrendingly
poignant and thoroughly gripping. Elisabeth Gray’s
performance as Andromache is convincing and emotive and Kate
Sagovsky as Cassandra gives an impressive performance of a woman
gone mad. She has immersed herself (as have all the actors) completely
in her role. Her tribal-inspired dance into a state of frenzy,
complete with flamboyant costume and a soundtrack of drumming is
one of the most memorable visual moments of the play. Trojan Woman is without question a play not to be missed
– it is a thought-provoking, intelligent and well-oiled
production which appeals to the senses. Moreover, it is
characterised by both brilliant individual performances and a
cohesive chorus. Several moments send shivers down the spine, and
the dance and music subject the audience to the whole spectrum of
emotions. Get down to the Oxford Playhouse.ARCHIVE: 0th week TT 2004 

It is with some trepidation that one reviews The Critic, a
play which ridicules the very occupation of theatre reviewing.
Sheridan does not, however, merely direct his satirical quill
against critics but against all players in the theatrical world.
Director Luke Sandler has created a period piece, complete with
sumptuous 18th century costumes and a set inspired by Georgian
playhouses. What emerges is a ridiculous yet timeless portrayal
of the bitchy, backbiting world of luvviedom which bears more
than a little resemblance to Oxford’s own drama scene. The play opens chez Dangle (Sheridan Edwards), a hapless
critic and self-confessed theatre groupie who cares more about
theatrical intrigues than real-life politics. Dangle strikes a
comical figure, his voice rising into evercamper intonations as
he becomes indignant at his over-bearing wife. Mrs Dangle
(Heather Oliver) projects her lines confidently and adds zest
with her acidic tongue. As the play proceeds, we are introduced to a host of ludicrous
luvvies, including Sir Fretful Plagiary, a talentless writer who
cannot take criticism. He is admirably (over-) played by Dominic
Mattos, a drama queen mincing around the stage, flapping his
hands and pouting. We also meet Sneer (Alasdair Glennie), a world-weary critic
and master of damning with faint praise, and Puff (David
Cochrane), another foolish writer. These last two are a little
understated alongside the other exaggerated figures, although
both capture the posturing affectation of their characters
through body language. The cast handles the mannered dialogue with varying degrees of
success; for some it seems an effort to recall and project their
lines which results in an occasional lack of presence on the
stage. The dialogue livens up with a slapstick rehearsal of
Puff’s play, The Spanish Armada, which pokes fun at
theatrical conventions from courtroom scenes to death scenes and
a hilarious recognition scene. Actors, directors and critics all
come under fire as we are invited to laugh at the melodramatic
play within a play. A silly play, maybe, but a fun evening’s entertainment
and, dare one say, compulsory viewing for OUDS members. Thespians
and critics alike, we could all learn something from Mr Sheridan.ARCHIVE: 0th week TT 2004 

Rape, violence, murder, jealousy and tongues being cut out may
not be the ideal night out, but Love of the Nightingale
(Wertenbaker) is a punchy and engaging production that should not
be missed. It is an adaptation of the Greek myth of Tereus and Philomele,
in which a young woman journeys from Athens to rejoin her older
sister in Thrace, under the care of her brotherin- law. The story
focuses on the relationship between Philomele, the younger sister
played with affecting vulnerability by Poppy Burton- Morgan, and
her brother-in-law Tereus (Tom Richards), only recently married
to her sister Procne. As the journey progresses and is delayed by
Tereus, it emerges that his motives are far from honourable, and
he is crushed by the weight of his passion for Philomele, leading
him to violence. The play is occasionally confusing and the split-stage method
does not help this uncertainty. As the play develops, the
separation becomes more obvious and it begins to seem compulsive
viewing. This is helped not only by excellent direction but also
by an extremely talented cast: Raj Gathani is particularly good,
and his opening fight scene with Huw Davies is a treat. Fight
director Miles Warner has obviously put real effort into the
choreography. Where the production falls down is in its casting
of one actor to play so many different roles. It becomes hectic
with the same actors changing persona within seconds. However the
performance remains slick, professional and satisfying
throughout.ARCHIVE: 0th week TT 2004 

Kill Bill Vol. 2
Phoenix & Odeon No single figure in recent years has influenced the world of
movie-making as resoundingly as Mr Tarantino. His place in
cinematic history is already firmly assured, thanks to the slap
in the face that his first two films gave to Hollywood and all
its cosy conformity. Following lukewarm reaction to Jackie Brown,
though, he was faced with the challenge of finding a new
direction in order to remain creatively relevant amid the horde
of copycat directors striving for that trademark Quentin
‘cool’. The answer? A hibernation of six years followed
by Kill Bill, the self-proclaimed realisation of his moviegeek
dreams. Volume 1, with almost every scene saturated in pumping
blood and littered with dismembered limbs, showed him taking his
penchant for ultra-violence to ludicrous levels. Yet the audacity
of the battle choreography and the sheer innovation of his
directorial vision made it a relentlessly entertaining
experience. It’s almost hard to believe, then, that Kill
Bill was originally intended to be released as a single movie, so
different are the tone and pace of this second half. Elaborate kung-fu remains the staple of the story but there is
no trace of the cartoonish gore of Volume 1. Instead, Tarantino
opts to give his violence a brutal, palpable realism reminiscent
of his earlier work. Most surprising of all, though, is that the
movie ventures boldly into sentimental territory wholly
uncharacteristic of its director – and die-hard fans will no
doubt be equally shocked that these latter stages are actually
handled with a sincerity which belies their idol’s cynical
persona. Still, credit where credit’s due, it is Tarantino’s
muse, Uma Thurman, who carries these scenes and indeed the whole
movie. She gives another dazzling turn as ‘The Bride’,
which, with its hints of an insecurity and emotional rawness
beneath her character’s icy exterior, saves Kill Billfrom
descending into a mere “roaring rampage of revenge”
with no human interest whatsoever. As she mercilessly ticks off
those last few boxes on her ‘Death List’, the
cliff-hanging revelation of Volume 1 is interwoven into the
story, giving her mission an added poignancy, whilst flashbacks
also shed light on the tangled relationship between The Bride and
the previously unseen Bill. Sadly, though, this still can’t save the film from
ultimately being something of a disappointment when compared to
the first. The ending, in particular, is a definite let-down as
the script simply peters out in dialogue rather than concluding
on the monumental bang Tarantino’s been teasing us to expect
all along. During production, he told the press “I’m
making this movie for me. Everyone else is along for the
ride”. Self-indulgent and flawed as Kill Bill may be,
it’s still one hell of a ride worth taking.ARCHIVE: 0th week TT 2004 

Odeon S.A.D. has a lot to answer for. Obviously there’s the
escalating suicide rate in Scandinavian countries. And then
there’s my high expectations of Fifty First Dates. At the
end of a hot, lazy Sunday, I could imagine nothing, and I mean
nothing, more perfect than ending the day with a summery rom-com.
I could barely contain my excitement as I set off for an evening
with Adam Sandler and Drew Barrymore. First impressions were good: the tropical Hawaiian setting,
the sunny Bob Marley soundtrack, and the dancing walrus. All the
ingredients for a happy two hour saccharine fest were in place. The opening scene outlined Harry’s (or was it
Henry’s?) commitment issues. A dedicated marine vet,
Harry/Henry’s idea of fun was pursuing, in a nice romantic
hero sort of way, meaningless sex with American tourists visiting
the island. But when he spies Lucy (Barrymore) constructing waffle houses
in a crowded café, years of womanising are instantly terminated.
The only, although pretty fucking significant, problem is that
Lucy has no short-term memory; a freak car accident involving a
pineapple and a cow has caused her brain to erase the contents of
each day as she sleeps. It’s a challenging premise to work around, and
Harry/Henry has to pull out all the imaginative stops in his
charming attempts to capture the heart of an amnesiac. The ethics
of sleeping with a brain damaged woman who can only mentally
experience a one-night stand didn’t seem to trouble the
hysterical Odeon audience too much. The sensitive issues of Lucy’s fear and distress at the
daily news that she is seriously dating an apparent stranger are
efficiently bypassed by Harry’s clever use of multi-media
resources. It’s a shame to reveal the finely crafted
intricacies of the plot, but the innovative details of Harry and
Lucy’s courtship demand sharing. So, it goes a little something like this: boy meets
afore-mentioned female, waffle-house building amnesiac, is
irresistibly attracted, and intensely stalks and harasses for
some time (in a funny way). Then for the genius part; he makes a video for her to watch
each morning reminding her that she’s lost her mind, but
that she does know who he is, she gets a little upset for the
morning (fair enough really), and by the evening kind-hearted
Harry has got laid again. I don’t know about you, but the adjectives
‘tender’, ‘funny’ and ‘enchanting’
really sprang to mind. ARCHIVE: 0th week TT 2004