The Roads Don’tLove YouGemma Hayesout 31 October« « A lready with one nominationfor the Mercury Music Prizeunder her belt for her lastalbum, Night On My Side, expectationswere high for Gemma Hayes.It’s easy to see why. The MercuryPrize admirably rewards one of thescarcest qualities in popular musicculture. Originality. Nobody candeny that the Mercury judgesdidn’t pull through this year bychoosing Antony and the Johnsons;undoubtedly a distinctive album,with Antony Hegarty’s androgynousvocals and such varied contributorsas Lou Reed, Devendra Banhart,Boy George and Rufus Wainwright.Unfortunately, in spite of variousmerits, originality is not one whichcan be awarded to Gemma Hayes’latest offering The Roads Don’t LoveYou. In a market recently floodedwith the gentle tones and guitar riffsof such singer songwriters as NorahJones and Katie Melua, Hayes’ pieceoffers nothing new.The warning signs are clear fromthe album cover. The horror provokinglytrite Dido-esque photograph ofa pretty, though typically pop-stocklooking blonde set against an out offocus city background is presumablylaying emphasis on the despair andloneliness which only singer-songwritersseem to be profound enoughto feel.But there is an old adage aboutjudging by covers, and it seems truewith the first track on the album,Two Step. It is catchy, and with theartist’s Irish roots making themselvesknown with echoes of the Cardigans,it is the closest she comes to beinginteresting. However, humourouslypoor lyrics turn a smart and sophisticatedsong into a thoughtless popditty.From then on the album blursinto a stream of homogeneous harmonies,and lacklustre lyrics whichprovide no insight whatsoever intoHayes’ claim that her personalityis stronger on this album than herlast one. If this album is an accuraterepresentation of her personality, Iimagine that a Tamagotchi would bemore stimulating company. Having,in her words, lost and refound her“mojo”, a claim that would lead mostto expect a more innovative soundand style, it is alas still nowhere tobe seen.Of course it’s not all completelybad. The Roads Don’t Love Youis in no way offensive; in fact it isperfectly acceptable, even pleasant,background music. It is ideal for essaycrisis management and treatingthe more severe cases of insomnia.But Gemma Hayes contributesnothing to the genre on which sheis styling herself; what she doeshas been done better many timesbefore, and anyone buying thisalbum expecting otherwise will bedisappointed. She is Avril Lavignewithout the humourous adolescentattitude. She is Norah Jones withoutthe soul. She is Eva Cassidy withoutthe spine-tingling voice and inspiringchoice of tracks. She is essentiallyreally rather dull.ARCHIVE: 3rd week MT 2005

Playing the AngelDepeche ModeOut NowIt’s really easy to write musicreviews of bands you don’t like.Put the promotional CD onthe stereo, ignore the resultantcacophony as a mere formality,bash out six hundred words worth ofsynonyms for “piss-poor” and retireto the bar for a self-congratulatorylibation. Keep to these rules, and theprocedure will be relatively painless.Just remember to avoid introspectionat all costs. Don’t be tempted by somefatuous ideal of fair and balancedjournalism. Take Depeche Mode,for instance. One certainly wouldn’twant to go to the effort of accordingthem a fair, balanced review. It’s justtoo difficult to be nice about them.At first glance, they appear to be themusical equivalent of schoolgirls whofervently believe that stripy tights andrat-nest hair signify a soul of singularbeauty and depth, rather than theaverage hormonal turmoil of puberty.This variety of cheerless pomposity isDepeche Mode’s defining characteristic,despite the fact that, as suggestedby both their quarter-century careerand the publicity photos that makethem look like particularly unwholesomeresidents of Royston Vasey,they are much too old for that kindof nonsense.Nonetheless, their new album,Playing the Angel, bears the supplementarytitle Pain and Suffering inVarious Tempos. Song titles includeA Pain That I’m Used To, Suffer Well,Damaged People and The DarkestStar. They might as well have goneand called the album "My Pain andSadness is More Sad and Painful thanYours", except ace Welsh popularbeat combo Mclusky did that backin 2000. Things are looking unprepossessing,and the music hasn’teven started yet. Pain and Sufferingindeed.The worst element of Playing theAngel is the idea of it. Despite theunsatisfactory premise detailed in theprevious paragraph, it isn’t that bad.Not to say that there aren’t countlessother releases more deservingof the ten odd quid cost of buyingan album. This is more than can beexpected by my profound antipathyto the prospect of listening to it.Actually, the work is dull and a littlepretentious, but alleviated by areasonable production ethic, somecredit for which should go to BenHillier, whose résumé includes workfor Doves and Blur.The zenith of the album, the aptlychosen first single Precious, is a sliceof delicately expansive electroniclandscaping. The exuberant, gospeldrivenJohn the Revelator, despitehaving a synth loop that soundssuspiciously like it came out of somethingby the Sugababes, is a listenableenough ditty, with a particularly emphaticvocal. Both tracks couldalmost be by the Killers, and like theretro copycats they don’t even comeclose to the majestic peaks achievedduring electro-pop’s eighties heyday.Suffer Well seemed to lift a bit fromone of these apogees, New Order’sTrue Faith, transposing it to the perpetualcrepuscular gloom of DepecheMode’s world. It is this stubbornmalaise that makes their new work soboring. As self-indulgent, smack-addledyoungsters, they at least had thesense to inject a bit of style into theirmelancholy. Self-indulgent old fartsjust don’t have the energy to maintainthat. The fact that they are still keptin business by credible labels likeKompakt and Mute is more a tributeto past glories than present strengths.Playing the Angel isn’t too bad. But itisn’t too good either.ARCHIVE: 3rd week MT 2005

Who would live in the olden days? The poor sods had it hard. The minor matter of world wars and inadequate healthcare aside, everything was just so basic. Can we even imagine living in a world without dishwashers and washing machines, internet and mobile phones? We gripe about it now of course, this proliferation of modern technology turning us all into wired-up electronicjunkies, but we wouldn’t be able to go back to the days of sitting round a wireless to hear Churchill’s broadcasts – and most of us wouldn’t want to. The developments of science havemade our lives easier, but also richer and more expansive.But there is also an invisible line in this technology business, which we seem to have crossed. There seems to be a point up to which technology can only improve your appreciation of and ability in a certain field, but after which it rather seems to detract from it. The prime example is the world of music.Music as we know it has changed immeasurably with scientific development, perhaps more than almost any other field. Recording quality is leaps and bounds better than the crackling racket that used to pass for reproduction. Mixing desks have facilitated experimentation with styles and sounds, and even given birth to new genres like dance.Increased accessibility of equipment has made it possible for every household to have one or multiple sound systems. Instruments have been tweaked and honed, and new resources,such as the internet sharing system, have sprung up. In short, the position of the music lover has become easier. But the word ‘easier’ is a false friend – or certainly a two-faced one. Ofcourse the increased accessibility of music is a good thing, but the fact is easier doesn’t always mean better, and can sometimes mean worse. Just look at the iPod. The sleek, white(or pink or blue or olive green) little genius can store thousands of tracks in its clever memory. A few hours on the computer and you can have your entire music collection to be carried around with you on the train, to a lecture, available at the touch of a fingertip. Software like iTunes andthe much debated myTunes enable you furthermore to download tracks onto your computer and from there to your iPod like turning on a tap. It all, undoubtedly, makes much more sense than carting round a hundred CDs in one of those irritating wallets, or worse, faffing around with tapes. But with this ease and efficiency has disappeared much of what is wonderful about being a music lover. Scouting around record shops looking for a rare copy of an album, or nosingthrough random stacks to find something that grabs your attention just because of the cool cover (and then getting it home and discovering it is the best record you have heard in years); these are things of no value in a virtual cyber world. Most of all has gone the sense of slow, deliberate carethat record collectors take over their babies. Putting your iPod tracks in alphabetical order just doesn’t bring the same joy as pouring over your CD collection, carefully wiping jewel casesand dust-jackets and wondering why you never took Captain Beefheart out of his plastic jacket.The same is true of the machines themselves. As controversial as it may sound, an iPod, while a thing of aesthetic finesse, is not a machine designed to be loved. To be flaunted, yes, and flashed around and occasionally stroked in wonderment at its smooth, sleek shininess. But it is not like a record player. Record players are the true music lover’s dream. The machines themselvesare large and cumbersome and cannot be easily transported. They take quite a bit of looking after, what with cleaning their needles, changing their cartridges, investing in antistatic pads and the like. Records, too, must be meticulously looked after; no leaving them around on the topof a cupboard, because once they get scratched they are dead. The process of putting a record on a deck must be done slowly and carefully so as not to damage the record or the stylus. Andof course, you have to get up halfway through to change them over. You can’t skip between tracks except by physically moving the needle, and you can’t arrange playlists or shuffles. They are, in short, hard work. And yet despite all that, or perhaps because of it, they are beautiful, wonderful things.So what can record players teach us about listening to music? That what is quick and useful is not always better, neither in terms of effect nor in terms of overall appreciation. Anything in life worth doing is worth taking time over, and care and conscientiousness are rewarded in an increased overall pleasure. Record collectors unite! And just slow down a little.ARCHIVE: 3rd week MT 2005

The Legend of Zorrodir Martin Campbellout nowIn 1998, The Mask of Zorro, alsodirected by Martin Cambell,was released to general acclaim.A rousing, swashbuckling adventurewith a healthy dose of humour,it made a sequel entirely predictable.Sadly, predictable is certainlythe watchword for this latest offeringfrom the conveyor-belt that isHollywood. The film, essentially aninferior photocopy of the original,is not terrible, but it is terribly mediocre.The sultry spark of the first filmhas vanished, replaced by lazy actingand an even lazier script. Thestory, little more than a series of frequentlyillogical plot devices, opensin 1850 as California votes on joiningthe Union. Zorro is enduringsomewhat less than marital bliss,with his devotion to work resultingin estrangement from his beautifulwife. This potentially emotional storylineis instead played for laughs,as Zorro strives to win Elena backfrom a villain so bland I’ve alreadyforgotten his name. Naturally, healso has to save America.The Legend of Zorro is sporadicallyfunny, but the broad slapstickmerely contributes to its uneventone, as it tries (and fails) to find abalance between grit and sanitisedfamily fare. The introduction of aZorro Junior to the forefront of theaction was always going to be intenselyirritating. One also wonderswhy the skilful swordsman Zorronever actually kills anyone with hissword.Nevertheless, the blockbusterdoes have its moments, and it occasionallyfeels like a better story islurking just out of reach. A mealtimescene proves surprisingly macabreand the rousing fighting ofthe climax is undeniably exciting.On a different front, real emotionis felt when Zorro’s identity is revealed,yet the chief effect of this isto highlight the sterility of the restof the affair.It is a depressing thought that sausagefactory of Hollywood cannotmuster the courage to experimentwith fresh material. Recycling is agood thing when it comes to litter,but not when cinema is concerned.The word ‘sequel’ may arouse producersin Bel-Air, but for me it hasall the excitement of toast.There are exceptions, of course,that prove this rule. This film,as you may have guessed, is notone of them. No amount of scenery,swords, special effects or even(gasp) Antonio Banderas can hidethe unerring feeling that The Legendof Zorro has nothing new tosay. Far from being a legend, thisfilm proved difficult to rememberlong enough to write a review.ARCHIVE: 3rd week MT 2005

Halloween FilmsSee listings for detailsHalloween is in the air. The oddly impressive halloween-bop costume aside, though, none of us seem to have the time or inclination to get into the spirit of things with any pumpkin carving or trick-or-treating. Fear not, as there’s always that steadfast of the scary season: the horror movie. Fortunately, Oxford’s film societies are happy to oblige.On the night of the 31st, Magdalen Film Society is showing James Wan’s Saw (2004). Two strangers (Cary Elwes and Leigh Whannell) wake up in a bleak, neon-lit washroom, chained to each other and unsure of how they got there, or indeed why. The latter question, at least, is answered when the recorded voice of Jigsaw, their sadistic imprisoner, tells them that to survive, one of them must kill the other within the next eight hours. The only means which which to escape from their manacles is a hacksaw: not for the shackles, of course, but for their ankles. In the same vein as David Fincher’s Se7en (1995), Saw has a somewhat holeridden plot and shallow psychology, especially when it comes to the motives of Jigsaw. However, in the midst of the glib macabreness of it all, none of this really seems to matter.The sequel to Saw has just come out in cinemas, sporting the tagline ‘Oh Yes, There Will Be Blood’. That’s all you really need to know about the first film, as well. As if an hour and a half of blood and gore wasn’t enough, following on immediately afterwards is George Romero’s legendary horror film Night of the Living Dead (1968), also at the Magdalen Film Society. Again, the taglines of the movie are to be cherished, with such beauts as ‘They Won’t Stay Dead’ and ‘They’re Coming to Get You … Again!’. This is a movie that does exactly what it says on the tin, following the attempts of a group of people trapped inside a farmhouse to survive the night, with a horde of the living dead outside. Shot in gritty black and white, Night of the Living Deadmarked a new dawn in the horror genre, forsaking any sentimentality or neat conclusions in favour of unrelenting gore and tension, as the group under seige desperately try to cling to their humanity while the inhuman closes in around them.To complete our backwards movement in time, Corpus Cinema is this week showing one of the earliest and most classic horror films, FW Murnau’s Nosferatu (1922). When a real-estate agent, Hutter (Gustav von Wangenheim) visits the sinister Count Orlok (played with spinechillingmenace by Max Schreck), an evil is released upon Hutter’s home town, not to mention hiswife, that should have stayed in the shadows. Murnau’s silent film relies on haunting scenery and eerie music to get across its thrills, rather than the easy shocks of modern counterparts. A testament both to how far the horror genre has come, and the legacy to which it owes its tremendous potency.ARCHIVE: 3rd week MT 2005

After the success of 2003’sscreening, OxShorts, acollection of four shortstudent films, is back.Bollocks, some mightthink: more pretentious ‘ooh lookI’m filming a pidgeon flying over theRad Cam in black and white’ crapfrom English students who’ve beenwatching too much Tarkovsky andTruffaut. Hallelujah, others wouldsay (including myself ): finally, wehave another event outside of FilmCuppers in which student film is represented,however pompous or howeverstunning it turns out to be.The most eye-catching of the filmsis Sam Leifer and J van Tulleken’sdazzling animation, The UnsteadyChough. When at Oxford, MontyPython’s Terry Jones wrote a shortcomic poem about a boozing bird(an avain version of Sebastian Flyte)from Teddy Hall, animated here withCGI, cut-out photographs and cartoonbackgrounds. The quirky resultcomplements the rowdy tone of thepoem, read to us by none other thanJones himself. An infectiously funnyshort, which was deservedly shortlistedfor the 2004 BBC Best Newcomerin Animation award.Thomas Maine’s mockumentaryPunters focuses on another eccentricindulgence of Oxford life: thatcurious pastime of lazily propellingshallow boats down a river with bigwooden poles. Maine injects a humouroustwist by parodying TheBlair Witch Project. Four students,we read at the start, once attemptedto punt fifty miles up the Cherwellto its source. They were neverfound again. Featuring diary-shots ofsoaked Oxonians (“We’ve been tryingto outrun a storm for the last twohours”) Punters is as funny and idiosyncraticas the pursuit it follows.Equally eccentric, yet less amusinglyso, is Stephan Littger’s Memoriesof a Sick Mind. This black comedyfollows a mentally ill man forced tofind a wife before his mother’s death,or the fortune she holds goes to herbeloved cat. The concept is admirablyoddball and the film is well executed.However, it is peppered with tiredmotifs (albeit used self-consciously),such as the horrific cackling of anold lady, and irritatingly punctuatedby redundant shots of insects on thepavement or calendars moving ingusts of wind. Proof that the best studentfilms are the simplest ones.Matt Green and Duncan Brown’sLe Cauchemar de l’Homme Noiret-Blanc (which won the 2004 FilmCuppers) is the exception to thisrule, being as complex as it is inventiveand hilarious. Shot in the styleof a 1920s silent film, it follows ayoung wannabe film-maker who getsembroiled in a sordid tale of murder,obsession and furry animal torture.If this sounds bizarre, that’s because,well, it is. But with fantastic visualsand a darkly comic undertone, this isbizarre in the best possible way.OxShorts is exactly what our studentfilm scene needs: a non-competetivescreening environment thatencourages student film-making ofall sorts. The evening will also featurea talk by director and Oxford alumniKen Loach, and a fifth ‘surprise’ filmthat was tantalisingly withheld fromme. The only thing that the Oxfordfilm scene needs now is an appreciativeaudience. Yes, that means you.ARCHIVE: 3rd week MT 2005

Sarabanddir, Ingmar Bergman,out now: Ingmar Bergman, after nearly twenty years of silence, has spoken again, with a new film,Saraband, showing at the National Film Theatre throughout next week. Even during his 1950s heyday, Bergman, most famous for The Seventh Seal (1957), must have cut a striking, if somewhat daunting, figure. Spiritual to the point of theological, his films seemed to spring directly from the existential crises of late 19th century European literature and philosophy. Yet his ability to craft visual images that swiftly acquired iconic status marked him out as a true master in the age of cinema.Originally made for Swedish television two years ago, Saraband picks up from where Scenes From a Marriage (1973) left off. Divided into ten dialogues between four characters, the film opens with a monologue from Marianne (played with beautifully fraught serenity by the director’s erstwhile muse, Liv Ullmann), who declares her intention to visit her elderly former husband Johan (Erland Josephson). Arriving at his rural retreat, she soon discovers that he is embroiled in the traumatic fallout from the death of Anna, wife of his estranged son, Henrik (Borjhe Ahlstedt). Henrik’s obsessive love for his wife is now directed to his 19 year old daughter, Karin (JuliaDufvenius). A prodigiously gifted cellist, Karin comes to realise that her father’s stifling attentions have crushed rather than nurtured her talents, and her attempts to escape him constitute the chief narrative thread.That Bergman, 86, is still alive and making feature-length films in the 21st century might be seenby some as achievement enough. Given this feat of endurance, it’s possible that anything he produces might be swamped by the audience’s gratitude, the work’s artistic merits meaning less than the simple fact of the film’s existence. Happily, Saraband is much more than a museum piece. The dialogue occasionally feels staged, but more often it gives way to the claustrophobiclyricism that is often to be found in the work of Bergman’s successors, such as Lars von Triers. It is as Bergman’s final statement, though, that Saraband will ultimately be viewed. Johan and Marianne’s exchanges add humour and credibility to the weighty themes of mortality and forbidden love, familiar to Bergman fans. When Johan claims that he now has the answer sheet for his life, one almost gets the sense that Bergman has shifted the goalposts, cheekily allowinghimself the vantage point of a dead man, from which he can not only articulate his last thoughts but also satisfyingly close one of the most remarkable careers in the history of cinema.ARCHIVE: 3rd week MT 2005

When I first heard about theOxdox festival, I couldn’tbelieve my ears: a week ofhundreds of documentary films frommore than thirty countries, showingin five different locations aroundOxford, featuring post-screeningtalks with directors, dancing interludes,video-tech booths, performingmonkeys (a slight embellishment,perhaps, but not out of thequestion), photographic exhibitions,new directors’ workshops, localschools’ film projects. Just scanningthe website makes you dizzy. Aftera much-needed lie-down in a darkenedroom, I launched my plan ofattack to navigate the overwhelmingprogramme of films and events.One cannot fault the ambition ofthe festival, which in its third yearhas struck an impressive balance betweenhonouring some of the genre’smost celebrated directors and promotingthe unsung champions ofdocumentary film-making in 2005.It features a retrospective of the filmsof Nicholas Philibert, perhaps bestknown for Etre et Avoir (2002), alow-key feature documenting theminutiae of everyday life in an infantschool in rural France, whichhas grown to be France’s most successfuldocumentary of all time. Philibertis present for post-screeningdiscussions of his films, as is Britishdirector Michael Grigsby, whose televisiondocumentaries have enjoyedwide acclaim since the 1960s, andKim Longinotto, prominent amonga burgeoning set of female documentarymakers in the UK.Such famous faces are not the onlycause for excitement, however, as thelesser-known films, despite their sundrysubjects and locations, all have incommon not only a duty to informbut a desire to entertain. The festivaloccurs at a curious juncture in theworld of documentary film-making,for both the big screen and the small.The recent boost in popularity of thedocumentary underscores the growingcommon desire for immediatelyself-reflexive art, a knee-jerk culturalresponse in the west to the shock of9/11 and one that has been fuelled inno small part by tabloid scaremongering.The result has seen the qualityand popularity of documentary filmsin the past few years surge in a directlyinverse proportion, explaining theunmerited success of US sensationalistand often propagandist filmssuch as Michael Moore’s Fahrenheit9/11 (2004) and Morgan Spurlock’sSuper Size Me (2004). These filmsserved respectively to impart two little-known gems of wisdom to theirviewers: firstly, that Bush fellow reallyisn’t the brightest button in thebox, and secondly, it turns out thatthe human body doesn’t take well tosubsisting only on McDonald’s finesthydrogenated vegetable fat andcow offal.Thankfully, the Oxdox programmeis wholeheartedly bucking the mainstreamtrend towards such opportunistand uninformative documentarieswith a series of films that offerall that the viewer expects and more.British director Paul O’Connor’sfilm The Only Clown in the Village,for example, purports to serveas a reminder of the continuing andlong-lasting devastation in the areashit by the Asian tsunami last Christmas,the initial blanket media coverageof which has since slowly fizzledout. The film more than fills its brief,however; in addition to its commitmentto such a worthy cause, thrownin is a touching and funny portrait ofthe young Kingsley Perera, the onlyAsian clown registered in Britain,who travels to Sri Lanka to offer hishumble services as an entertainer tothe victims of the disaster, and to rediscoverhis roots.Like all the films I have seen in thefestival so far, O’Connor’s is pervadedby a universal spirit of good humourwhich is both disarming andhumbling to the viewer, given howconspicuously it belies the gravityand hardship of the situation that theindividuals and communities portrayedfind themselves in. Furthermore,the directors featured in Oxdoxappear refreshingly without ego,again unlike the self-serving style ofMichael Moore. This is an approachLonginotto favours in her new filmSisters In Law, depicting the experiencesof female judges in the highlypatriarchal West African society, inwhich she aims for an ’un-authored’vision of a ’universal story’. This descriptioncould well be applied to allof the films in the festival, a welcomethought given the warning from thepromotional blurb which has beenringing in my ears this week: “youwill need to see at least 12 films a daynot to miss out!”Oxdox runs until Friday 28 October.For further information see www.oxdox.comARCHIVE: 3rd week MT 2005