Name one film everyone should see. The
Addiction, by Abel Ferrara. This is a seriously weird, creepy and
brilliant movie about vampires starring Christopher Walken. Who would you most like to be stuck in a lift with and
why? I have actually been stuck in a lift (on my own),
and the security guards who jemmied the doors open and dragged me
out were surprised by my glacial calm, a state I arrived at by
meditating on the ‘lift scenes’ from The Shining and
Damien Omen 2. Anyway, I should like to be stuck in a lift with
Sophia Loren, the most beautiful person in cinema history, just
so I had an excuse to gaze at her face, close-up, for a long
period of time. In your opinion, what are the three qualities every
great film should possess? It should be sublimely
beautiful, like Visconti’s The Leopard, or sublimely funny
like Preston Sturges’ Sullivan’s Travels, or sublimely
exciting, like Scorsese’s Raging Bull. What is your idea of a perfect evening? Not
necessarily a film. The most perfect evening I had recently was
being on the winning team in a pub quiz in a London club. Pub
quizzes are sporting contests for the nerd generation. You are the film police for one day, what do you ban? The
Piano by Jane Campion. This annoying, wittering, shallow,
overrated middlebrow film is so much more insidious than honest
rubbish like Sex Lives Of The Potato Men. Which authors and literary characters have acted as
the inspiration for your novels? I love VS
Naipaul’s A House For Mr Biswas, Dickens’ Bleak House,
BS Johnson’s House Mother Normal, the Letters and Memoirs of
Kingsley Amis (his account of meeting Roald Dahl is still one of
the funniest things in the language), Money by Martin Amis, What
A Carve Up! by Jonathan Coe, Girlfriend In A Comaby Douglas
Coupland. Do you have any rituals before you begin writing?
I’m sorry to say that I like to drink an entire two-litre
bottle of Diet Coke while I’m writing for that evil
Aspartame rush. What is the best piece of advice you have ever been
given? “Never drink gin after dinner” is the
weirdest advice I’ve been given. The most sound advice
I’ve been given is: “Be persistent. Persistence is the
key to success.” Your new book Dr Sweet… is a dark comedy – what
is your favourite comedy film or tv series? My favourite
comedy film is the Ealing classic Kind Hearts And Coronets, which
I love more than I can say. Favourite TV comedy: Seinfeld (which
stayed brilliant long after Friends curdled), The Larry Sanders
Show. From Britain: Baddiel and Skinner’s Fantasy Football
League, Rising Damp, The Office and Phoenix Nights. What do you never leave the house without? An
uneasy sense that I have left the gas on. Finally, any tips for the top for film over the coming
months? I recommend Uzak by the Turkish director Nuri
Ceylan, a very beautiful and sad movie about male loneliness, out
28 May. There is also a bizarre documentary coming out soon
called Supersize Me about someone who tried to live entirely on
food from McDonald’s, with horrific results. Dr Sweet And His Daughter is out now. Picador £7.99.
Peter Bradshaw will be appearing at Borders on 27th May, 7pm. ARCHIVE: 3rd week TT 2004 

Vice is the order of the day as Oxford’s theatres
shamelessly ‘sex up’ their repertoire, in an attempt to
banish the Fifth Week blues. From incest in Phaedra’s Love
to the oldest profession in the world in Lulu, this is not a week
for the faint or pure of heart to venture into the OFS, or other
such dens of iniquity. Lulu provoked moral outrage in the nineteenth century with its
prostitute protagonist and portrayal of a society mired in vice
and corruption. Lulu is picked up off the streets as a child by a
wealthy businessman, and proceeds to climb the social ladder via
a series of marriages and affairs, bewitching all who cross her
path. Her complete amorality has destructive consequences as she
leaves suicides, murders and bankruptcy in her wake. Lulu’s complex character prevents the audience from
condemning her outright; this production makes it abundantly
clear that it is society which is to blame. It is a world of
dissipation and decadence, in which children are viewed as sex
objects, teetering on the brink of the abyss of vice, where
husbands are shot by their wives and die whilst drinking
champagne. Lulu is the means by which this society is unveiled,
as she uncovers the hidden desires of those around her. Alwa is
reduced to a worm writhing at her feet and the Countess begs Lulu
to ‘trample’ her. In this sense, Lulu is innocent, a
mere catalyst for the realisation of society’s sordid
fantasies. Yet she is dangerously aware of the manipulative power
of her sexuality. Both her narcissism and her role as reflecting
the degradation of society are realised on the stage, by means of
two huge mirrors which make up the backdrop. Although interesting in theory, the duality of Lulu’s
personality fails to come to life on stage. Victoria Ross
captures the underlying naivety of Lulu, with her ringlets and
‘baby eyes’, but lacks the sexual magnetism which is
crucial if we are to believe in her destructive, enchanting
powers. The erotic speeches are faithfully delivered (albeit in
cut glass Queen’s English), but there is a lack of chemistry
in her interaction with others. Ben Levine looks perfect as
Schoning, his goatee beard bristling with Machiavellian intent,
but he overacts and his movements are unforgivably stiff. Mischa
Foster-Poole is similarly unconvincing as Alwa, hapless and
embarrassed as he talks dirty to Lulu. There are some gems, including Charlie Covell as the engaging
lesbian Countess, who wears a tailcoat over her ballgown and
dominates the stage with her deep, resonant voice. Her
transformation into a gibbering wreck when faced with the
prospect of sleeping with a man is both subtle and amusing. Ed
Behrens is wonderful as Puntschu, the banker with an unhealthy
obsession for young girls, delivering his sleazy lines with a
sinister camp lisp. The beautiful costumes, designed by Rmishka
Singh, deserve a mention as they make an invaluable contribution
to the sense of period. This is a thoughtful production of Luluwith all of the right
ingredients for success. Undoubtedly marred by a lack of sexual
tension on the stage, it remains a provocative and
thought-provoking piece of theatre.ARCHIVE: 3rd week TT 2004 

Judging by the tabloid-esque advertising for this production
(the poster looks like something from the Daily Star), I was
expecting this double bill of American sex to be lurid and
sleazy, typical of the current theatrical trend for shocking, yet
not artistically essential, displays of the sexual act. It was an
immense surprise, therefore, to discover that one of the plays
was written by Albee, of Who’s Afraid Of Virginia Woolf?
fame. His play, The American Dream, is extremely well-constructed,
with a generous splash of anti-American satire. It reverses the
traditional concept of the family unit in a ridiculous manner,
and symbolises in each family member a different sub-category of
American culture. Daddy is the ineffectual masculine influence,
while Grandma is a dotty old woman, and Mommy a bored and
outmoded housewife. The most interesting character is the Young
Man, who represents the American Dream, fully aware of his own
incredible worth, yet lacking in any sort of human quality which
would flaw him and still provide improvement. This production is
entertaining, but crying out for a more inspired style of
direction; it feels laboured at the start, and many opportunities
for stylised movement are left untapped. The play palpably lifts
in energy as the characters begin to move, creating a much-needed
physicalisation of the dialogue. Sex Slaves, by Adele Shank, despite being a weaker play, is
acted far better, featuring a fine performance from Gus Docx as a
film director escaping the frantic world of Manhattan to the
Philippines in search of a bride. The farcical elements of the
play are enacted skilfully, and the unpleasant subject matter,
involving Filipina women reduced to sexual commodities, is
contrasted with some great laughout- loud moments – my
favourite involved plucky Phoebe Wood- Wheelhouse and an
hilariously embarrassing stripping scene. The two plays are book-ends of the absurdist tradition;
Albee’s play is acknowledged as marking the beginning of the
form, and Shank’s signals the dawn of blending the absurdist
genre with its adversary, naturalism.ARCHIVE: 3rd week TT 2004 

Seduction, suicide, and sadism: based on a Greek tragedy,
Phaedra’s Love has been updated to depict a disturbingly
dysfunctional family. Phaedra becomes obsessed by her desire for
her stepson Hippolytus who is a selfish, unfeeling lothario and
the exboyfriend of Phaedra’s daughter. Phaedra’s Love does possess Sarah Kane’s
“trademark ultra-violence” with the play starting as an
uncomfortably intimate drama and moving through incest, rape,
imprisonment and rebellion, to a bloodbath resulting in the death
and destruction of a Greek royal family. However, the director
believes Phaedra’s Love to be Kane’s “most
accessible play” though some areas regarding sexual acts and
mutilation seem uncomfortably drawn out. As disturbing as
Phaedra’s Love is at points, it is well-directed by Lucy
Burns. The destructive mood is conveyed well by a set which has
waste emerging from wounds in the black walls. The acting is of high quality. Hippolytus is well acted by
Philip Contos, who makes himself hateful in his selfish boredom.
Matthew Trueman and Kate Donald deliver strong performances, and
Valentina Ceschi portrays Phaedra’s varying moods and
emotions powerfully. Worth seeing, this psychological roller coaster will send you
reeling. Be warned, it is not for the faint of stomach, and if
you plan to sit near the front, wear clothes you do not mind
staining with the remains of the dead.ARCHIVE: 3rd week TT 2004 

Faust of the Colonnadeis a piece of new writing by David
Cochrane. The play is set in the confines of a Don’s room in
an unknown, ancient university at an unspecified time. It focuses
on the Don’s experiences of an affair with a male student,
and how he has managed to convince himself that it was his fault. This is certainly interesting writing and some of the
performance is really quite enthralling. Henry Shevlin, playing
the Don, is suited for the part and pulls off a good performance
with only fleeting moments of instability. What I did find problematic was the verbosity of the two
leads, especially the Don. While this is supposed to reflect the
language of intellect, in places it ended up muddled and
pretentious, in fact undermining the entire point of its
inclusion. Another problem was the movement of the two actors which was,
at times, a little forced, as if they were moving for the sake of
moving. This weakened the performance rather than maintaining
attention as the focus was drawn away from the speech, causing
confusion. These are however, teething problems of what is a very
commendable script from a promising student writer, and energetic
direction from the enthusiastic Edward Saatchi and Tim Partridge.
Such things should not occupy the thoughts of anyone considering
going to see Faust of the Colonnade. It really is worth the time
and thought to see and understand this production.ARCHIVE: 3rd week TT 2004 

Sing, O goddess, the unutterable stinkiness of Troy’s
script, son of Benioff, that brought countless ills upon the
cinema-going public. Many a brave soul did it send hurrying down
to George Street, and many an actor did it yield a prey to
reviewers and merciless critics. But enough of this Iliad-pillaging. Troy hardly bothers with
it, so why should Cherwell? Naturally, such an attitude from
Hollywood is to be expected; this is after all a
‘re-imagining’ that encompasses the entire Trojan War,
not an adaptation of Homer’s rather more focused tale; it
was inevitable that liberties would be taken. A great deal of the
story has been changed – ten years become three weeks,
heroes die different deaths, the all-powerful gods are now mere
concepts, but still, remember that this is a movie, and even the
most radical of alterations can often be accepted if they make
cinematic sense. No, this multitude of adjustments to a tale
established for nearly three thousand years isn’t what
rankles upon seeing Troy. The disappointment is that ham-fisted
direction and, most crucially, a sniggerinducingly bad screenplay
have turned what could have been the most glorious of the summer
blockbusters into an insipid, uninspired, disappointment. Victor Mature and Charlton Heston could get away with cheesy,
overlytheatrical dialogue in the classic 50’s epics, but
very few of the stars on show manage to rise above the risible
lines they’ve been force-fed. Brad, Bean and Byrne cope
well, Bana struggles manfully, Bloom is, as ever, appalling,
whilst Brian (Cox) turns Agamemnon into a scenery-chewing panto
villain. Perhaps most importantly, as Helen, Diane Kruger has a
face that may have launched 300 or so ships, but a personality
that would have struggled to float a dinghy, leaving us
wondering, without the machinations of the gods, what all the
fuss was about. There are some redeeming scenes; the portrayal of
noble Hector means that we’re rooting for the losing side
when his showdown with Achilles comes, and Peter O’Toole,
between wide-eyed stares, shows us how this acting lark should be
done when pleading for his son’s body. Yet far more common
are terribly misjudged moments, some blame for which lies with
director Wolfgang Petersen (witness Odysseus’ hilarious
lightbulb moment when watching a soldier carve a wooden horse)
but more with writer David Benioff, who is not even above
pilfering wholesale from the likes of Gladiator. At one point,
Achilles tells Briseis that it never ends, and it’s
difficult to know whether he’s referring to the cycle of war
or Troyitself. It’s sadly ironic that a film so insistent on
reminding us that immortality is achieved through memorable deeds
should ultimately prove so forgettable.ARCHIVE: 3rd week TT 2004 

Sprawling, overcrowded, dirty and disease-ridden, the
monolithic complex of Sao Paulo’s House of Detention, a.k.a.
‘Carandiru’, once Latin America’s largest
correctional facility, gained infamy for the military
police’s frenzied massacre of 112 prisoners in 1992. Adapted from prison doctor Drauzio Varella’s book:
Carandiru Station, the film attempts to consolidate the
doctor’s fragmented narrative. It chronicles his experiences
in endeavouring to combat the H.I.V. epidemic prevalent amongst
the ignorant, often promiscuous, drugabusing inmates, leading up
to the day of the massacre. From the outset, a dilapidated
building – dark, dingy and dangerous – mirrors the
standard of care for the agglomerated, forgotten Brazilian
criminal underclass. The film proceeds like a cleverly
constructed puzzle of narratives as the doctor gains trust
amongst the inmates employing good-humoured South American
pragmatism and innate skills of good listening, patience and
chat. Twentysix prisoners reveal tales, often comical and always
highly entertaining; many storylines resembling Mexican
soap-opera plots (watch out for the lovable transvestite
‘Lady Di’ and the chauvinist juggling two women), yet
betray an underlying sense of sadness and personal tragedy. Director Hector Babenco’s sophisticated technique mirrors
Robert Altman’s Short Cuts, alternating between the
‘outside world’ and the omnipresent prison, allowing a
brief glimpse into moments of personal failure. There is a sense
of foreboding as these highly unique and individual characters
plummet, concluding their tales in the lost fortress of
Carandiru. Babenco’s ambitious project culminates in the
massacre; the two hours and 26 minutes seem overdrawn, with so
many stories that the final massacre is somewhat of an
anti-climax, even though the visual violence is shocking. This
could have been a shallow Love Actually style intermingling of
meaningless stories; fortunately it succeeds in creating an
affinity between the audience and the ‘celebrities’ of
Carandiru, highlighting the indignity of their deaths. Political
and social criticisms remain implicit in the actions of this film
due to the lack of an overt worded condemnation of the Brazilian
prison system. Babenco incorporates all sensationalism into a realm of
humanism and compassion. Above the violence and social injustice
rises a battle to survive and maintain a remnant of integrity. A
fictional, quasi-docudrama, prison life seems merely an extension
of a squalid, shanty town existence. The film’s success lies
in revealing the prison as a Brazilian social metaphor and a
microcosm of Brazilian emotional stealth, humour and solidarity
in the face of corruption and injustice.ARCHIVE: 3rd week TT 2004 

Lauded by numerous international film festivals and winner of
12 Japanese Oscars, Twilight Samurai arrives on our shores with
impressive credentials. Treading similar ground to Tom
Cruise’s recent labour of love, The Last Samurai, it
chronicles the twilight of the warrior era in Japan. Unlike
Cruise’s narcissistic blockbuster, however, the central
character here is not glorified for his noble adherence to the
old way of life but for his quietly dignified efforts to distance
himself from the samurai tradition. Seibei Iguchi (played by Hiroyuki Sanada, star of the original
Ring films) lives a hopelessly dull existence in rural 19th
century Japan, scraping together enough money to sustain his two
daughters and infirm mother. His samurai days are long gone since
having to sell his beloved sword to fund his wife’s funeral.
Only the reappearance of childhood sweetheart, Tomoe, lifts the
family’s gloom, but before long an order from his
clan’s chief to assassinate a violent dissenter throws his
hard-earned peace into turmoil, as he is forced to rekindle his
dormant samurai spirit for a ferocious duel. Sanada plays Seibei
to absorbing perfection, combining a sense of desperation with a
grim resilience fuelled by his love for those around him. Rie
Miyazawa also gives luminous support as Tomoe, a revitalizing
presence in the family through her unspoken affection for Iguchi.
It is their simple humanity which is the key to the film’s
power. Anyone expecting a samurai bloodfest in the vein of Kill Bill,
then, would do best to look elsewhere. This is primarily a period
piece and, as you might expect from the elegiac nature of the
film, the pace is appropriately funereal. If the story drags in
places, it is always redeemed by the quietly commanding screen
presence of the two leads. Both a superbly subtle character study
and a poignant hymn to Japan’s lost past, Twilight Samurai
is one of those rarest of cinematic creatures, a film that also
qualifies as a genuine work of art.ARCHIVE: 3rd week TT 2004 

The Charlatans have come a long way from their heady indie
days in the early ‘90s. Coming after a year’s hiatus,
Up at the Lake is a spangly, guitar-powered, disco-ballad engine.
Powering out upbeat anthems such as ‘Feel the
Pressure’, this is The Charlatans at their most technically
brilliant. The album even features the occasional slice of
well-crafted melancholia that creates a stylistic balance.
Perhaps raw invention is something of a martyr to production
values here, with the ballads, in particular, sounding as if
they’ve spent too long in the studio before being approved.
Nevertheless, this is a solid album that showcases exactly why
The Charlatans have been at the top of Britpop for over a decade. Releasing in May was a prudent move: if any recent British
album screams “summer” then this is it. Even the slower
numbers sound as if they should be crooned out at a summer
festival. This is achieved by some delicate instrumentals in
perfect harmony with one another, One surprise is the
adaptability of Burgess’ voice. We already knew that he
could punch out a rock anthem; the surprise here is how sensitive
and soaring his voice can be. This suits the new grown-up aura surrounding The Charlatans.
The trials of musical success allow Up At The Laketo eschew the
stoned-sounding guitar playing and mumbling vocals of lesser
contemporaries in favour of thoughtful lyrics and a subtly
layered sound. Perhaps it can’t strictly be called indie,
but The Charlatans sound as if they don’t care. By being
willing to embrace a less specific, more experimental sound
(underwater piano, anyone?), they avoid sounding like a group who
meet up to churn out the same mindless crap year after year. The Charlatans have achieved a rare thing for such a
well-established band – an album that manages to sound both
fresh and evolved. It is overproduced in parts; ‘Loving You
Is Easy’ would sound more like a Pop Idol finalist’s
song were it not for the guitar rollicking around in the
background. If extensive fiddling around is what’s needed to
produce an album of such quality, it can be forgiven. As Burgess
croons in ‘Bona Fide Treasure’, “the cream of the
crop, with cheese on top.” Set aside comparable acts, this
is quite true.ARCHIVE: 3rd week TT 2004 

When the background music ceased and the speakers rang with a
clean, open strum, no one at the bar knew what to do. Was this a
sound check? Then, after two tests of the mike,
Philadelphia-based folk rocker Denison Witmer launched into
‘Leaving Philadelphia (Arriving in Seattle)’, a
sweet/sad reminiscence of lost community from his most recent
album, Philadelphia Songs. Alone on stage, his picking sharp without being aggressive, he
allowed every note to ring and do its work. Little pockets of
silence hid between the phrases, every bit as important as the
notes themselves. By the time he had sounded the final chord, he
had drawn everyone into the bar. An unpretentious, compelling style characterized Witmer and
his music. He wasn’t in your face. He didn’t try to
rock your world. He just gave 40 minutes of soulful, sincere
music that touched everyone who heard it, and it showed. Witmer’s lyrics, though always aware of the particular
settings of his life (it’s not just a train, but a train
from Leicester Square; not just Paris, but the place where they
filmed Amelie), somehow see beyond the boundaries of his
autobiography. They become relevant for everyone who is away from
their loved ones and yearning to return, or has lost them
forever. They mean something to everyone listening. Once, between songs, Witmer perked his ears up at a ghost of
intruding music from the club next door. “I can rock way
harder than those guys,” he said, then did a Jackson Brown
cover (not rock). Perhaps he can; his rock band the River Bends
releases an album in America this week. But he was more than good
enough just the way he was.ARCHIVE: 3rd week TT 2004