You’re probably wondering why, in the month of May,
I’m talking to you about the sort of accessories you’d
normally associate with winter. Before you stop reading, let me
remind you that a) although you may have been lulled into a false
sense of security by the recent glimpses of sunshine, this is
Oxford not the Mediterranean, and rain/cold/greyness can strike
at any time; b) in the world of fashion, you need to think ahead. In the Autumn/Winter 2004 shows, designers provided us with
lots of treats in the accessories department and I think quite a
few of them could be put to good use right now. The key with
accessories is to be original so try to avoid buying from the
High Street chains. In Oxford this is no easy task, but there are
a few individual stores where you can find original pieces. Try,
for example, the newly opened Lolapoloza on Blue-Boar Street (see
below), or the Covered Market. Perhaps I’m preaching to the converted, this being the
kingdom of the Pashmina after all (see the pontifications of the
Lower Camera), but I still insist that scarves add that extra
touch to any outfit. I admit, Pashminas are the perfect
transition item when it’s too warm for a winter coat and too
cold to ditch any kind of cosy clothing, but girls, let’s
remember that there are other types of scarves! Be brave: try out the far more original and up-to-the-minute,
fifties-style silk chiffon scarves – they both complement
fashion’s current love for ladylike chic, and are
surprisingly warm too. If you want to be truly ahead, replace
your scarf with a cape, again another nifty between-seasons item
and one which featured heavily on the Autumn/Winter 2004
catwalks. Capes like Missoni’s rainbow striped version can
brighten up an otherwise plain outfit whereas neutral versions
like those shown at Celine and Helmut Lang are likely to become
staples in many a fashionista’s wardrobe. There’s no need to persuade you that belts look good in
any season but fashion designers’ current obsession with the
waist means that this accessory (a belt, not a waist) is assuming
more importance than ever before. There is a reason why Kylie has
decided to hang up her hotpants and don waist-enhancing corsets
and wide belts instead – they look good. A key trend at the
moment is to wear belts with long tops or summer dresses over
jeans. For colder days, simply replace the dress with a jumper a
la Matthew Williamson. Coin belts, the choice of Karl Lagerfield
at Chanel, or vintagelooking distressed leather versions, look
great slung casually low on the hips. You may think of gloves as more of a necessity than a fashion
item but things are about to change – many designers ranging
from Jasper Conran to Dolce and Gabbana featured gloves in their
recent shows. Suppress any images in your mind of granny’s
knitted mittens; we’re talking about tight, sleek gloves
made of the softest leather and oh-so-covetable. On the continent, the stylish people have been using the glove
as a key fashion accessory for some time now, creating
beautifully crafted versions in all the colours of the rainbow. Outside of London, the UK has been slow to pick up on this
trend but the aforementioned Lolapoloza shop in Oxford is one of
the places where you won’t be stumped for choice they are
shipping the Italian versions over here and I suggest you take a
peak before writing off the idea that gloves are a fashion item
you can get excited about.ARCHIVE: 4th week TT 2004 

Amélie Nothomb dresses entirely in black and gets up everyday
at four in the morning to drink vinegar and write novels. So goes
the hype. She is also France’s brightest literary star, the
bestseller in Paris and a gothic alternative to such books as
Three Blondes Go Dating from the depressing, fifthrate category
Chick Lit. Nothomb has tapped into a literary niche and very
comfortable it is too, I’m sure. Nothomb is the latest “enfant terrible”, according
to Ellemagazine, a literary sensation, with an “acidic yet
passionately romantic view of human nature”. You can’t
board the Paris Métro without encountering someone reading her
work. Her books, like their 5’2” creator, are tiny,
rarely more than a hundred and fifty pages long, which is ideal
for commuters. She has become part of pop culture in France, a
phenomenon with a cult following of fans, the Nothombophiles
– an intense group, who dress up as Amélie and write her
letters saying, “I am your double”, despite the
photographs, which show to the contrary they look nothing like
her. But mania is blind, a fascinating, crazed symptom of the
modern age. Publishing, like the record industry, is a
sensationalist business. From The Beatles to Harry Potter and
wizarding lunatics, fandom is part of our world. Nothomb is a perfect example of how popular culture and
publicity works. Firstly, she is a heroine, who has overcome a
stream of adolescent obstacles, from loneliness, to alcoholism,
though to anorexia. At the age of 17, she discovered writing and
Nietzsche, which apparently saved her. After reading the Twilight
of the Idols she was moved by the philosopher’s observation:
“In the school of war that is life, what doesn’t kill
you will make you stronger”. For the same reasons that
Michelle and Gareth won Pop Idol, Nothomb has made her name
– people love the David and Goliath storyline, in which the
weak, fat or stuttering individual conquers all. Secondly, she works hard. As well as the vinegar and early
morning starts, Nothomb has reeled off four books a year, since
the age of twenty and is currently working on her 51st novel. She
writes for ten hours a day, before going to her publisher’s
office and reading the crazed fan-mail, buzzing around on
approximately three hours sleep. In the Fame Academyof life, she
is the star pupil this week, with the limelight shining full beam
on her latest novel, her UK debut, The Book of Proper Names. The “slyly outrageous Nothomb both disturbs and
amuses” us in this coming-of-age fairy story that tells the
tale of “Plectrude”, who is born in a prison and goes
on to become a beautiful ballerina-cum-anorexic. In the end
Plectrude shoots her friend, Amélie Nothomb, in the head. This
meta-fiction/publicity stunt is in fact quite entertaining.
However, there is something about it which is intrinsically
French and impossible to read without imagining the ‘Môn
amour’ accent it was written in. Nothomb is part of the Zeitgeist, with her Tim Burton style
and dark, satirical wit – she belongs to the fashionable
genre of the obscure. Her personal history provides the ideal
backdrop for her surreal novels. She was born in 1967, in Kobe,
Japan and spent most of her childhood moving around Asia; she
never went to school, had no friends and taught herself Latin and
Greek. She claims she was an alcoholic by the age of three and an
anorexic by thirteen. All this strikes me as unreal, somehow
classically quirky, typically weird, the elaborate construction
of a marketing team. Parisian critics have described her as a
“Euro- Exotic cocktail”; however, she also moulds
herself to what she writes. The Book of Proper Names is more
interesting when you know that it was written at four in the
morning, by a weird little person dressed in a black, under the
influence of vinegar. However, Nothomb is not alone in her use of publicity magic;
the art of madness has been mastered by many aspiring artists
seeking fame. The Romantic poets cultivated a reputation of
living in a radical commune, smoking copious amounts of opium and
having casual sex, occasionally appearing at intellectual soirees
on the point of collapse. Byron, an unattractive, club-footed
little man who sat up all night eating biscuits and crying,
managed to spread the rumour that he was “mad, bad and
dangerous to know”. Staging publicity stunts is an old and
profitable trick of the art world, as Salvador Dali would know
only too well. So, why do we still fall for it – Amélie Nothomb: the
Parisian princess of darkness? Despite Nothomb’s miserable
history, her life is surely all parties, luxury apartments, fast
cars and stylists now? Do we seriously believe that a Goth can
remain truly Gothic after millionaire success? Surely a bit of
the gold would rub off on her personality. But this is part of
the attraction and fascination in our fameobsessed culture and we
buy into it all – even the idea of Nothomb floating around
in her Olympic pool wearing a black Victorian ‘bathing
costume’ and top hat.ARCHIVE: 4th week TT 2004 

Ten years after the legalisation of homosexuality, Lithuania
still rates among the least tolerant of it in Europe. According
to a survey by the European Values Study, Lithuanian attitudes to
homosexuals rank at around 2 on a scale of 10 of acceptance
– far below that of its Baltic neighbours and less than a
quarter of that for the region’s most liberal nation, the
Netherlands. According to the Lithuanian Gay League (LGL),
lawyers in UK, Canada, USA, France and Belgium have approached
both them and other authorities claiming that Lithuanian lesbians
and gays are seeking asylum on the grounds of sexual orientation
persecution. Undeterred, I set off to the capital touted as ‘the new
Prague’ in early autumn for a week in one of Europe’s
most charismatic countries. I chose to suffer for my miserly
morals by opting for a coach journey to get myself there in the
cheapest fashion, and found myself stuck between a surly Pole and
an unforgiving wall. Arriving fatigued but frolicsome in Vilnius
40 hours after leaving the UK, my initial impressions made it
worth it as I meandered through what claims to be the largest
‘Old Town’ in Europe on my way to my holiday abode.
Gazing at the jovial Lithuanians chatting away in Vilnius’
cobbled streets with the sun glistening over the city’s many
spires, it seems hard to believe that anti-queer sentiments could
exist in what seems to be such a harmonious city. The first stop on my reconnaissance mission of Vilnius is what
many gay Lithuanians view as their chief opposition – the
Catholic Church. Vilnius Cathedral originates from the 15th
century, the golden age of Lithuania under Grand Duke Vytautas,
when its empire extended almost to the Black Sea. Modified many
times since, it is now a gleaming white bastion of the Lithuanian
RC Church, visible across the city. The baroque cathedral sits in contrast to the nearby
masterpiece of St Anne’s Church. Built with over 33 types of
brick, it is a Gothic treasure with spires, arches and buttresses
galore. According to local historical sources, it impressed
Napoleon so much that he declared that he wanted to take it back
to Paris “in the palm of his hand”. The omnipresence of
this and so many other churches in Vilnius’ old town reminds
any visitor that Lithuania is strongly Catholic. Despite a papal
declaration that homosexuals ‘must be accepted with respect,
compassion, and sensitivity’, many view the Church’s
stance locally as apathetic with little effort made to tackle
local discrimination. The real culprit in many forms lies in the previous Soviet
rule. From the initial occupation in 1940, homosexual relations
were criminalised in a law. Article 122, which stated “Man
Lying With Man: Sexual relations between men… shall be
punishable by incarceration for a period of up to five
years,” was only repealed under international pressure in
1993. The fearsome relics of the Soviet era are still visible in
Vilnius, most notably in the former KGB building which has now
reopened as the Museum of Genocide Victims. This house of horrors
is a testament to the terrors of the Soviet reign; surviving
inmates act as tour guides through the grim cells. As you pass
from cell to cell you notice various spine-chilling details: the
straitjackets left on the hooks; the bloodstains on the walls;
the padded doors which muffled the prisoners’ screams. At
times these contained up to twenty people with barely room to
stand, but if this weren’t torture enough, inmates sat in
fear of the punishment cells. Talking to others earned oneself a
stay in the isolation cell, where you would be stripped and left
in the dark with a mere hole in the floor as a latrine; not
talking to the guards would leave you blindfolded and beaten at
random in a padded cell. Back in the colourful streets of the Old Town, however, one is
far removed from these horrific scenes. Terrace cafés and craft
markets are found lining the quaint streets, and there is more
than enough to occupy oneself with here as you explore the myriad
nooks and crannies of the capital. Whether buying the spiced
local gingerbread or scouting for the region’s best amber,
it’s hard to resist picking something up. Lithuanians are
well-known in the region for their cheerful nature, and tend to
be happy to chatter away to you in the scraps they know of your
own tongue. Entering Vilnius’ only gay club that evening, the
atmosphere is so different. The dubiously named ‘Men’s
Factory’ is the only hideaway for Vilnius’ queers where
they can meet other men in total safety – gay-bashing around
the city is not uncommon. Located in the rear entrance of a
disused warehouse, its events are only publicised within groups
such as LGL. Steel bars cover the entry and you have to knock to
enter through a turnstile. What lies within is a polarised sphere
of an intense and repressed gay society. The dance-floor plays
the stereotypical techno for embracing scantilyclad lesbians, but
from here branch off a number of rooms lined with cushions and TV
screens showing gay porn. The club has been created with sex in
mind, when much of the gay public just wants safety and equality.
After a drink, I head out again into Vilnius’ cold air,
waiting for a time when queers can meet the straight society in
the middle and gay Lithuanians can finally air their pride.ARCHIVE: 4th week TT 2004 

Like reading Vogue? Shop for clothes at GAP and Next although
you’d prefer to wear Karen Millen outfits? Sounds like
massive desire suppression to me. Fortunately, Bicester Village
might offer you a good outlet. A factory designer outlet in fact. What you find in Bicester Village is a cluster of 80 designer
shops including Karen Millen, Max Mara and Bally selling last
year’s fashion. And because it’s last year’s,
it’s reduced by up to 60 percent. My favourite trophy was a
Max Mara needle-striped navy suit for £250. That’s a lot of
money, but it’s only about half as much as a comparable suit
would have cost me in London. A trip to Bicester Village is easy to fit into a busy
student’s schedule. It’s only 30 minutes away from
Oxford by coach, with departures roughly every 30 minutes from
Gloucester Green. Conveniently enough, it’s open 7 days a
week: weekdays and Sundays from 10am to 6pm, Saturdays and Bank
Holidays from 10am to 7pm. After all that shopping, you may feel you’ve saved enough
money to treat yourself to a good Italian meal at
Carluccio’s, or you might prefer a snack at Prêt à Manger. In case it all sounds too good, a word of caution. You cannot
find decent GAP jeans anywhere in Bicester, or a couple of Next
tops to go with them. If you are looking for clothes that simply
keep your body warm, stay in Oxford. Bicester Village is more for
those who treat fashion as the art of aesthetic self-expression
without expressing the constraints of a student budget.ARCHIVE: 4th week TT 2004 

We are forever told, through government initiatives, race
equality organisations and indeed much mainstream liberal media,
that an acceptance of ethnic and cultural diversity is the
foundation of a tolerant and modern British society. However,
there remains, and perhaps there always will, a deep-rooted
distrust of ‘foreign’ influences in social
organisations and foundations. To some extent this must, of
course, be blamed upon archaic notions of superiority in civil
vocations but this is often accompanied by a fear that our own
citizens are unable to reach the skill required; the nagging
question of why do we need foreign nurses and teachers? Many a
debate could indeed ensue from such points but there is a simple
question that is rarely asked in such national institutions as
the NHS and state school system: is cultural and national
diversity a benefit in itself? Although there are many examples of foreign citizens in
British institutions there are few instances of British citizens
in foreign institutions in the UK. Founded in the early 1970s
while enthusiasm for the maturing European Union was at its peak,
however, was a series of schools across the continent that
fostered precisely this situation. Often associated with major
science research centres that required multi-national staff these
schools provided education for their children with the explicit
aim of both maintaining independent national identity while at
the same time experimenting with cultural fusion from an early
age. Having left a traditional prep school aged eight, I was
unprepared for this novel institution. At such an age we are
supposed to be receptive spongelike figures, ready to absorb
whatever is thrown at us, but I was already baffled. Separated in
language sections that we would stay in for the rest of our
school careers there was no option of changing classes and in
fact I was to stay in the same class with several friends for
eleven years. Large English, French and German sections dominated
the year group while smaller Italian and Dutch sections also
existed and the children in these ‘sections’ were
taught everything in their native languages alongside a second
language of their choice. Now obviously such a culturally diverse and unique education
clearly bred a generation of liberal Europhiles, multi-national
but lacking in distinct roots who would sooner jet off and work
in Swiss banks than study for a job in the NHS. Bollocks it did.
In many ways the sectarian system of language groups caused
strife and for my first years there all my friends were in the
English section. However, this is only partially true: none of my
friends were ‘English’, none had two British parents
and it was this type of set-up that the school thrived on. In individual families there was cultural diversity and I was
soon friends with people from over twenty countries without even
leaving my own classroom. And there was certainly no lack of
national pride or spirit. World Cups and European Championships
(the killer) would regularly degenerate into slanging matches
while lessons were often cancelled depending on the nationality
of the teacher and whether their team was playing. All the usual stereotypes and associated judgements existed
too: special directions were pinned to doors at parents’
meetings ready for the arrival of the Italian parents, always
half an hour late; rules had to govern German mothers who would
park across three spaces in the car park (saving them for
friends) ignoring the beach towel jibes from others; and Dutch
students always knew the best people to get dope from (often
their dad). These widespread national rivalries had the effect,
however, of resigning us all to the fact that we were different
and would always be so while at the same time forcing us to
accept it and indeed enjoy it. Visits to friends’ houses
were like trips abroad: one friend had no English food in the
house and only German TV, a little bit of Hamburg we used to call
his home, and an Italian I knew had cured hams and sausages
hanging above the dining- room table and even vines in the
garden. What these schools display so eloquently is that a fusion of
nationalities and culture need not destroy individual
nationalities or cultures, and that actually people can gain and
grow from interaction with their fellows without loosing their
own identity. Frightened of foreign influences, people are losing a crucial
opportunity to absorb and adapt; a necessary step in even basic
evolution. Such a display of weakness shows a lack national
pride, not a defence of it, by fearing the effects of foreign
cultures individuals stall a natural process, not of destruction,
but fusion.ARCHIVE: 4th week TT 2004 

Racism is a word that gets bandied about a lot nowadays. And
with good reason. It seems as though, despite years of PR about
being PC, most cultures are just as insular and isolated as
they’ve always been. Since the EU and the opening up of
borders to diverse cultures and peoples there has been a
significant amount of emigration and immigration. But this has not led to a merging of differences, a fusion of
mixed races, religions, ideas and identities. We have not all
joined together in the proverbial melting pot. At first sight
this is a bad thing. Networks of Europeans come to England, to
live by the language, suffer the climate, prosper (hopefully) by
the economy. But, mostly, they continue to live and work within
the same groups that they came over with, a reassuring stability,
perhaps, in a new and perplexing life. For it is always easier
for true natives to experience the excitement of other cultures
on their home turf. The English can enjoy the delights of Indian, Chinese, French,
Italian, Spanish cuisine on a daily basis, not several metres
from their front doors. But if they chose to take this further
and actually emigrate (a popular phenomenon of late) they too
tend to flock together, finding refuge in the ex-pat community,
fish and chips and Radio Four. True, we all love to experience other cultures, sometimes even
immerse ourselves in them completely, but, after all that, we
will still yearn for things that remind us of home, little
touchstones that reassure and comfort, things that tell us we
belong. Travelling has to be one of the most stimulating experiences
in life, new sites, new foods, new languages, new lives. But,
oddly enough, at the same time as expanding one’s world view
it can also shrink it, bring one’s own cultural identity
more sharply into focus. It’s an incredible thing that when you are halfway across
the world and you suddenly hear your native tongue spoken in your
native accent. Instantly a bond appears. ‘Are you
English?’ You enquire excitedly. ‘Yes’, they
answer, ‘I’m f r o m Derbyshire.’ ‘Oh!’
You e x c l a i m . You’ve never been to D e r b y s h i r
e, you have no intention of ever going there, but this is a bond
between you both. Out there in the big wide world, among people who sometimes
seem so different from you they could be from another planet,
these tiny things feel important. Most English – reserved at
best, and bloody unfriendly at worst – who won’t talk
to their fellow inhabitants in a lift unless under duress, will
spend hours in intensely irrelevant exchanges when encountering a
fellow ex-pat abroad. We travel to see other things, know other countries, this is
wonderful and exciting and stimulating. And, after a time away,
in a country where you don’t understand the jokes,
don’t quite get the cultural references and can’t get
hold of Marmite or Marmalade for love nor money, a little piece
of home can seem like an oasis in a desert, or a good cup of tea
on a cold, drizzly winter’s day. We use our cultures to connect to each other, find reference
points that we can share, reassure ourselves that we are
understood, we are not alone. Whenever I met an English person in America I just used to
talk about English TV. After six months of weird American cable
drivel I delighted in recalling old episodes of Faulty Towers and
Blackadder. I am about as unpatriotic a person as one could hope to find.
I despise our weather, am embarrassed by our politics and bored
by our food. I love to travel to other countries and love to
experience other cultures. Yet I am not, and perhaps sadly never could be, completely at
home in them. England is home to me, and long after I’ve
left (for I’ll emigrate as fast as I can get a job and a
visa) it will still be a part of me. I’ve been raised in
England, steeped in its way of life for so long that my identity
is obviously inextricably fused with my culture. There is no
escape. This is why it takes generations of living in a country other
than your own before you can reasonably feel part of that
country’s culture, before you can reasonably call yourself a
native. And what does it matter? The beauty of this world is its
diversity. I love that I can experience different, strange, weird
and wonderful things wherever I go. It would be a sad day when we all dropped our cultural
identities in favour of some kind of fused oneness. We must keep
our differences, celebrate them, and take oppourtunity to
experience as much of other people as possible.ARCHIVE: 4th week TT 2004 

Nowadays, the innocent appreciation of the breast is a limited practice at best, excluded from popular culture and forcefully confined to pervy Scouse readers of Viz and a regiment of cropped-haired women belonging to a certain all-female college. Think about it: the emergence of feminism has made people feel guilty about the merits of the mammary. Even your average Essex girl in her white-stilletoed glory feels the burden.
When accosted by the geezer-like cadences of “phwoar, look at them knockers” at the The Slug and Something-or-other pub, the Essex girl obligingly talks of objectification and sexism, despite the attention she gets from her 32DD jugs.
Appreciating a breast’s circularity, its noble roundness, its pink, brown and olive warmthis invariably perversion to most people. Should we call the great breastobserver, the artist Poussin, a pervert? Should the genius of Virgil, who said, “can heavenly breasts such stormy passions feels”, be accused of voyeurism?
In such an unjust world, figures like Jordan a.k.a. Katie Price only do the breast greater wrongs, with their own travestied aesthetic. Her long awaited autobiography Being Jordan is not a glimpse into the real identity behind Jordan, but a biased history of her failed performances. Anyone who was lucky enough to hear Jordan reading extracts from the book on Radio 1 will know that not only did she have no clue what was in the book, but when she came to read it aloud it contained some tricky words far beyond her comprehension.
It is not unusual these days to intellectualise an odd phenomenon (Big Brother, Pop Idol, etc.) but let’s be honest, the only reason Jordan exists is because of her mammoth breasts and unnatural propensity to shed clothes in jungles. To be fair, one would find more interest in the medical records of a septuagenarian trying to rid himself of his leathery man-breasts than in this botched clap-trap; Jordan is the mere embodiment of plebeian culture obsessed with Footballer’s Wives, Heat and blondness, a cultural booby-trap, period. Now, back to the innocence of breasts.ARCHIVE: 4th week TT 2004 

When you are on tour do you have any bizarre
backstage/ dressing room requests or superstitions that
you’d like to tell us about? I don’t believe
in any of that superstition bullshit, all that we do before the
show is to gather round, shake hands and last of all I kiss the
backing singer on the cheeks, then just get out there and do the
show. If you could work with any musician, alive or dead,
who would you choose? It would probably be Tony Bennett
or Frank Sinatra. My mum and dad used to play them all the time
when I was a kid and they have such great voices. I could only
ever try to emulate them. I wouldn’t mind singing with
Anastacia these days, she’s got a great voice. What were the last three things that you bought? Two
bottles of water and a packet of sweets. I don’t go in for
any of that celebrity stuff, I just go out and do stuff for
myself wherever I can, including going to the local shop. What is the most bizarre thing a fan has ever given
you? I was once on a kids TV show and told people I
really liked cookies. The next time we performed these kids were
pelting us with packets of cookies. They were really quite nice
actually. Who would you most like to be stuck in a lift with and
why? Probably Tony Blair. I’d like to ask him what
the hell he’s doing at the moment in Iraq and what he’s
doing with George W. Bush. Who or what acts as your inspiration? No
doubt about it: my family. I do everything for them. Would you ever consider replacing Pete Waterman and be
a judge on Pop Idol? Yes, I wouldn’t mind doing it
actually. I don’t think I’d be like Simon Cowell or
someone, but I’d really enjoy doing it all. Although
I’d be unhappy with the exploitation of all those kids. Plus
you’d get paid well! There has been a resurgence in Eighties music and
fashion – what do you think has caused this? I
think the stuff was just really good. It wasn’t all about
money and greed like people say now. It was a time of charity and
stuff, band aid and a lot of giving. I can’t work out the
clothes though! If you weren’t a successful musician, what do you
think you would be doing? I’d probably be a doctor.
I wanted to be a cockney doctor, but I just couldn’t do the
maths at A-level. Do you have any advice for young singers who are keen
to follow in your footsteps? Be totally dedicated,
it’s gruelling, but most of all get a lawyer because
there’ll always be someone trying to rip you off, especially
when you’re young. What things do you never leave home without?
My mobile phone. You never know when that call that’ll bring
you a fortune will come in! And finally, you became well-known as the leadsinger
of Spandau Ballet; have you ever been tempted to try any ballet?
No. I was at a party with Kim Wilde and she saw me dancing and
said how hopeless I was. They did offer me the chance to dance at
the Lido once. I’m 17 stone and 6’4” though for
God’s sake!ARCHIVE: 4th week TT 2004 

Pimms, punting and plays – what more could you ask for
from summertime in Oxford? This year’s Trinity Lawns Play
combines children’s classic and Tarantino as The Trinity
Players bring the legendary Toad, Badger, Ratty and Mole to life
in their beautifully crafted production of The Wind in the
Willows. With a central cast that bristles with charm and
charisma, the massive shoes of these much-loved characters are
capably filled by the likes of Tom Mendelsohn as a capricious but
lovable Toad, Aled Roberts as a buttoned- up Ratty, and Charlie
Morrison, whose portrayal of the world-weary carthorse from
Wolverhampton is bound to raise a smile. Kenneth Graeme’s 1908 novel is known to us all, but
Bennett’s play brings to the surface less obvious facets of
the original work, as his irony fuses with the original text.
While embracing the innocent humour and iconic status of the
original novel and its characters, director Hannah Eastwood has
emphasised the more sinister aspects of the play to add a
menacing undertone to this otherwise benign tale. The evil
undertone could, in the hands of a less capable director,
collapse into a farcical pantomime, but the malicious energy of
Lucy Colter (Chief Weasel) and her bunch of rodent ruffians is
carefully staged, providing the necessary foil to the homely
antics of Toad and his gang. Add to this the complications of a
Mole-Rat- Badger love triangle, and the stage is set for crises
both public and personal which add an extra dimension to this
classic tale. For those of us who are less interested in the finer dramatic
nuances, this is well worth seeing if only for the interesting
set. Set designer Mike Ward cleverly recreates riverbank life
with a set styled as the contents of an enormous school bag,
incorporating a huge textbook and an inkstained handkerchief
which unwinds to become the river. It is striking and effective,
complementing the picturesque Trinity verdure. Like the best plays, what makes this production engaging is
that everyone seems to be having a good time. In its endearing
simplicity, this production is the perfect antidote to exam
stress.ARCHIVE: 4th week TT 2004 

American Buffalo @ OFS Arrogance is prolific in the thespian world of Oxford, in both
character and production. Though in productions of real quality
it is excusable, to find a play that is not only brilliant but
also completely removed from this ridiculous and, to a degree,
offensive snobby seriousness is refreshing and rewarding.
American Buffalo is, in a word, superlative. It is directed and
acted with aplomb, and funny when it needs to be in an unforced,
natural way. At no point is the acting strained and even the
American accents are exemplary, something that student drama
usually falters on. The play is a heist story sans heist, based in a junk shop in
Middle America. When the owner of the shop, Don, sells what he
thinks is a worthless nickel for a huge profit, he and his friend
Bobby hatch a plan to rob the man who bought it of his coin
collection. Their plans are intercepted and changed by Teach, who
convinces Don to leave dopey Bob out of the plans. The play is
really about small-town plans by smalltown minds and their
inevitable failure. Far from being depressing, the play is really
very funny and entirely compulsive. It is the acting that makes this production as good as it is,
although it does have a good basis in the award-winning script by
the legendary David Mamet. All three actors are fantastic: Mark
Grimmer is brilliant and affecting as Don, perfectly cast and
never once faltering. His reaction to Teach’s speeches about his junk shop is
particularly interesting and his underlying affection for the
simple, ex-drug addict Bobby is touching. Harry Lloyd carries the
part of Bobby so convincingly that I cannot imagine him speaking
or acting in any other way; his skill is not only in speaking but
his movement, his twitches, looks, walk. Everything is carried
with such ability that the audience cannot help but fall
hopelessly in love with the character. Michael Lesslie, as Teach,
is also wonderful and, as the others, entirely convincing. He
provides some of the most humorous moments of the play and his
involvement in his character is obvious from his ease in
encapsulating the essence of Teach. The direction is first-rate: Ben White evidently has a huge
amount of skill and imagination. This is his last production for
the team behind the play, Cookie Jar Productions; he should be
commended for an outstanding swan song. Any bad points about this
production should be left unsaid. Go! It is the best production
you will probably see this term.ARCHIVE: 4th week TT 2004