The ‘X-Men’ comic books and cartoon series have attracted a fierce loyalty from fans since its genesis in the 60s. The first X-Men was fervently anticipated by fans, anxious to see how Usual Suspects Director Bryan Singer would adapt their beloved story to screen. Singer did a sterling job, directing a dark, millennial tale that faithfully captured the civil rights sympathies that inspired the original comic series. In the recent DVD, Singer described the first movie as merely a trailer for X2
Beginning with an assassination attempt on the US President by a mutant, X2 has both factions of mutants, those led by Professor X (Patrick Stewart) and Magneto (Ian McKellan), joining forces to defend themselves against the hostile human government. The vanguard of this campaign is led by a maniacal apotheosis of the military-industrial complex, Stryker (the superb Brian Cox), a figure from Wolverine’s mysterious past who is hell-bent on wiping out what he sees as the mutant threat. Stryker kidnaps Professor X and attempts mutant genocide by abusing X’s telekinetic powers.
X-Men’s strength and versatility lies in its limitless number of characters and issues, which has enabled the stories to evolve over the decades and through different mediums. The problem that Singer faces in translating X-Men to screen is juggling the number of X-Men and the rest of the mutants, and the audience’s ability to keep track of what’s going on. Both are compromised. There is still no Gambit or Beast; two of the best X-Men; and towards the end of the film the strands of the film tangle. Despite so many characters clamouring for attention, Hugh Jackman’s Wolverine stands out, stealing scenes with the raw energy of a young Clint Eastwood. The kids are very good, with Anna Paquin returning as Rogue and Aaron Stanford playing an intense, rebellious Pyro to whom Magneto counsels, “You are a god among insects. Never let anyone tell you any different.”
X2 taps into American fears about terrorist attacks, and the strike on Professor X’s school is particularly well-staged. Singer notes well the various analogies between mutation and more prosaic political and cultural concerns. When Iceman ‘comes out’ as a mutant to his parents, his mother asks him, “have you ever tried not being a mutant?” There’s much made of military experimentation and Wolverine’s history, of the really sinister interface between mutants and human technology.
People who haven’t read the comics or watched the cartoons will be nonplussed by X2, but fans should enjoy it. Expect lots more.
ARCHIVE: 2nd Week TT 2003

Welcome to Collinwood is to Ocean’s Eleven what Danni Minogue is to Kylie: a less fashionable little sister. Sharing producers (George Clooney and Steve Sodenburgh) with its sibling, Collinwood features the same basic premises: a group of crooks attempting to pull off a heist. Clooney only makes a cameo appearance dressed as a Rabbi, which doesn’t really have the same sex appeal as a doctor’s coat. But, I digress.
Welcome to Collinwood is the story of the pursuit of the perfect crime. When a fellow in-mate informs Cosimo (Luis Guzman’s petty criminal) of a ‘Bellini’ – a sure-fire, get-rich-quick job, he enlists his girlfriend to find him a ‘Mullinsky’ – a clown to serve his sentence while he executes the plan. But all the potential Mullinskies want in on the Bellini, even though their bungling may turn the whole caper into a ‘Kaputschnik’. Once it has been established we’re not talking abouta pasta sauce and some kind of Russian weapon, the film follows the fortunes of boxer Pero (Sam Rockwell) and his downtrodden gang (William H. Macy, Isaiah Washington, Michael Jeter) as an apparently simple operation goes terribly awry.
However, Welcome to Collinwood suffers from belonging to the tired, done-to-death genre of heist films. In theory, it should escape this pigeonholing due to its quirkiness and cheek, yet it lacks mojo to pull it through. There’s a terrible ‘been there, done that, laughed at the gags’ feeling, as it is impossible not draw comparisons to Woody Allen’s Small Time Crooks, or Home Alone. Perhaps more skilled direction from the Russo brothers would have saved Collinwood, but still just the imitation copy which does not pull it off. Would you splash your cash on a Danni Minogue thong? No, I thought not.
ARCHIVE: 2nd Week TT 2003

The Dandy Warhols are a band emblematic of student cynic chic: their we-take-drugs lyrics on Thirteen Tales of Urban Bohemia evoked a supremely stylish laziness. The Dandy Warhols, like everyone else, ooze don’t-give-af**k style, their ludicrously named front man Courtney Taylor-Taylor permanently sporting a sneer that could sour milk (and stunning cheek bones, if you will allow me to digress).However, it seems the band have woken up from their lethargy, rather like Placebo’s embrace of electronica after Without You I’m Nothing, winning back the fans lulled into melancholia by their self-indulgent misery. Likewise there is an enjoyable range of energetic 80s beats on Welcome to the Monkey House, as well as a number of intriguing motifs, from the orgasmic panting on synth-pop singalong ‘The Dope’ to the funky ‘I Am Sound’, which is hugely reminiscent of David Bowie’s ‘Ashes to Ashes’. The Warholsbeing well-known for their sense of faux-irony and the kitsch. One can’t help but feel that times Taylor-Taylor (who co-produced the album with Duran Duran’s Nick Rhodes) is over-sexing his performance; his husky drawl is perhaps too provocative for comfort.
The Warhols keep up a steady stream of toe-tappers, although the album occasionally loses its energy: it sometimes diminishes into characteristic apathy. However, there are enough lush layers of sound for the album serve as ambient background music for any student gathering involving tie-dyed blankets and incense sticks (‘The Dandy Warhols Love Almost Everyone’ being a prime example), as well there being adequately danceable tracks, such as the bass-driven ‘You Were the Last High’. They even come close to rocking out on ‘Heavenly’, although that kind unbridled enthusiasm is curtailed soon enough. Unabashed indulgence would be the death of the Warhols’ endearingly chilled-out sound, but Welcome to the Monkey House shows them pulling their socks up just enough to save them from camp-pop obscurity. Out Monday.
ARCHIVE: 2nd Week TT 2003

The New Noakes International, fronted by Pete Oxley, played the Wheatsheaf to promote their latest album Blue In Black and White. New Noakes comprise bass, drums, keyboards and Oxley on electric jazz guitar and electro-acoustic. Playing a style rich and varied, the band seem to be well-acquainted with the Wheatsheaf crowd, which helped in creating a laid-back yet engaging atmosphere. It was a crowd that was a little older than one generally finds in Oxford bars, but they were not all jazz aficionados. Perhaps this is where the real skill of New Noakes becomes apparent. Alternating between the recognisable structures of jazz, and more mellow blues-infused songs, the band give the audience a real sense of the diverse sounds and moods that a four piece instrumental band can conjure up. Luckily they never completely abandon their jazz roots. A whole spectrum of genres are touched upon – from acoustic pop to straight jazz and avant-garde – but there’s no self indulgence or clever ‘intellectual’ aspirations. The solos, while clearly demonstrating proficiency and accomplishment on the various instruments, were not outlandishly virtuoustic (as one often finds with emerging jazz groups trying to consolidate their place on the scene). They nonetheless quickened the heart-beat. Worth checking out.
ARCHIVE: 2nd Week TT 2003

The successor to the Another Late Night series, Late Night Tales continues the tradition of getting artists to choose and mix the music that has shaped their own sound. This time round, the team has collared the legendary N.O.W. a.k.a. George Evelyn. What follows are a series of funky, tasteful selections with hip-hop leanings, all adequately displaying N.O.W.’s eclectic tastes and influences. Included with each song is a narrative based on the original song lyrics. These narratives are written by Whitbread Award winner Patrick Neate and read by Brian Blessed. Of course it’s absolute garbage, but at least N.O.W. is on top form. Out Monday.
ARCHIVE: 2nd Week TT 2003

As a self-confessed art philistine, I look Georges Seurat’s nineteenth century pointillist painting Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte and see only a group prim and proper Victorians relaxing in a park on a gloriously sunny Sunday afternoon. Stephen Sondheim and James Lapine, however, saw in it the potential for the musical Sunday the Park with George, turning the figures of the painting into vivacious and engaging characters. As soon as I heard the word musical’ I seriously considered not turning up to the preview, convinced that I wouldn’t able to fight the urge to giggle whenever the actors broke out song. But to my surprise, within few seconds Sunday In the Park with George managed to convert me into a fully-fledged musical addict. The play focuses upon the relationship between the title character and his mistress, Dot. George, a brilliant if self absorbed painter, might possess the artistic vision to transform a group of hooligans into a band of angels with a single sweep of his brush. Yet by an ironic twist of fate he is blind to the world around him, losing Dot, who is expecting his child, to a pastry maker. With masterful choreography, the entire cast join together in the central episode to recreate their positions in the painting and reveal the angst behind Seurat’s image of Victorian bliss. Doomed to relive this never-ending summer’s day, spending a Sunday in the park with George becomes an existential nightmare for the figures in the picture. This metaphor resonates throughout the entire play, harrowingly symbolic of Dot and George’s feelings of stultification.Sondheim’s material is top notch but the actors also deserve some credit for the play’s success. Thomas Eyre- Maunsell delivers a fine performance as George, but it is Chantelle Staynings who is the real star of the show, her childlike pouting encapsulating Dot’s desperate attempt to capture her lover’s attention. The trip to the theatre would be made worthwhile if only to hear her impressive vocal range during Dot’s mesmerising solo. So if you’re like me and the word ‘musical’ makes you want to run a mile, my advice is to give Sunday in the Park with George chance. It might just change your mind, pushing the boundaries of the musical to new limits. With its darkly comic undertones, the experience resembles The Picture of Dorian Gray more than any performance of Annie or the shockingly awful Moulin Rouge. The keen psychological insight demonstrated in this play proves that musical theatre is capable of engaging the intellect of its audience, while also making them smile. Perhaps the most impressive proof of this production’s lingering impact is that I walked home grinning, as its unforgettable lyrics flowed in and out of my head.
ARCHIVE: 2nd Week TT 2003

With just six actors and a five-person crew, the idea of staging any Shakespearean drama with so few people can only be described as ambitious, and it would require something a little different to separate this performance from the insipid surplus of banal Shakespeare plays circulating in Oxford. The latest of the BT’s rare forays into Shakespeare seemed a menacing prospect, what with the cast’s suggestion that the title be amended to The Tragedy of Richard Duke of York: It’s Not For Girls. And menacing it certainly was. The cast exudes an edgy verve which lends disturbing realism to an already violent plot. Rob Crowe is commanding as the imperious Duke, combining arrogance with dependence upon Raj Gathani’s sepulchral psychopath, Jack Cade, and George Norton’s Machiavellian pantomime-villain, Warwick. Their coup d’état for the throne the pathetically ineffectual Henry VI, played by director Tom Richards, culminates in the decisive Battle of St Albans. The audience is subjected to a sensory onslaught as a percussive beat and low lighting create a dark, sordid battle scene infused with genuine poignancy, as Dave Opperman’s Clifford mourns his dead father. Richards had envisaged “a naturalistic presentation of violence”, and the choice modern dress, rather than period costume, allows the stunning fight choreography to express raw emotion which transcends its historical setting. Yet in terms of sheer malevolence, Becky Hug’s brutal portrayal of Henry’s wife, Margaret, puts the Battle of St Albans shame. The sneering disdain the she-wolf of France’ for her well-meaning husband combines with a vicious desire for vengeance against York, and unsettling performance by thirteen- year-old James Utechin York’s young son makes his murder even more shocking. Despite a consistently high standard of acting and presentation, however, his death heralds sort of ‘pity fatigue’. Whether the fault of the play or the players, so many people die within such a short space of time that the audience are left teetering on the brink of apathy. York’s frenzied death scene is more disturbing than tragic, but Crowe’s stage presence remains powerful and sustains the poignancy of the dénouement. This is the sort of play that can into one of two traps, through being either hopelessly over-played or distorted by modern theatre’s mania for innovation. Instead, it skims the edge of both pitfalls without succumbing to either. A well-staged production with a decidedly professional sheen, its eclectic blend originality and conventional performance are sure to overcome the shortcomings of an emotionally draining plot.
ARCHIVE: 2nd Week TT 2003

With a musical as popular as My Fair Lady, audiences invariably go to see it with fixed preconceptions as to how it should be performed. In this production, directors Hannah Croft and Benedict Morrison have chosen not to stray too far from the direction and setting as they were intended, out of respect for the play in its original form and a desire not to put on another one of those hypermodern, edgy Oxford shows that seem to dominate the student drama scene. Based on the Pygmalion myth, the story of My Fair Lady is one with which most of us are familiar. The attempts of Henry Higgins (Gabriel Vick) to teach cockney flower-seller Eliza Doolittle (Rachel Parris) correct diction and etiquette and then to pass her off as a member of the upper classes are central to the politically–charged story of class aspirations and divisions and personal snobbery. The fact that Henry falls in love with the Eliza he creates adds poignancy that is well exploited by the cast. This production could easily have fallen into the temptation to play up the camp value of the genre, but the low key approach that the directors have chosen allows the writing and songs freedom from cliché that they deserve. The main cast play exceptionally well together and their acting shows a level of enthusiasm and enjoyment that anything but forced. The self assurance in Gabriel Vick’s and Ferdinand Koenig’s performances is well complemented by the perfect comic foil of Benjamin Smyth. Parris is no Audrey Hepburn, but she brings her own fragile beauty and stubborn melancholy to Eliza, which proves utterly captivating. The chorus are well-choreographed enough not to descend into a chaotic fracas of cockney stereotypes, but their appearances can at times seem a little cluttered, the lack of enthusiasm in some of the cast jarring a little in comparison to the professionalism of the main players. A slight modification to the final scene adds the only major concession to modern values to the play with nod to post-feminist ideals, but works pleasingly well. All in all, a refreshingly organic performance with a self-assured style.
ARC HIVE: 2nd Week TT 2003