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 

The new album from Kathryn Williams is something of a
disappointment. After the gloriously melancholic Old Low Light,
Relations – an album of covers – falls a little flat.
Williams describes the project as helping her fall in love with
music again and whilst such an aim is admirable, little of this
passion is communicated. Williams’ voice is as beautiful as ever – fragile
and ethereal. The album boasts an eclectic choice of songs, from
Nirvana’s ‘All Apologies’ to Leonard Cohen’s
‘Hallelujah’ which is mightily impressive. Unfortunately, the album lacks any coherent structure or form.
Listening to it is a little disquieting – the majority of
songs come close to being interesting, but stop just short of the
mark. This said, some of the songs, notably the opening ‘In A
Broken Dream’ and ‘Candy says’ benefit from
imaginative use of strings. ‘Candy says’ ingeniously
incorporates a toy piano which provides a telling counterpoint to
the self revelatory nature of the lyrics. Relations is inoffensive enough and provides lots of restful
listening for Sunday mornings or the occasional dinner party, but
lacks any real innovation. If Williams, is to maintain
credibility as a singer/songwriter, she needs to maintain
previous levels of creativity. Relations would work better as a collection of B-sides, with a
sticker firmly attached saying ‘for fans only’.
Hopefully with her next set Williams will try a little harder.ARCHIVE: 3rd week TT 2004 

Since, in his typically understated style, bespectacled
guitarist Graham Coxon walked out on Blur, there has been a
year-long holding of breath to see what he would do next. His four previous solo albums, all recorded whilst with the
band, have been deliberately obscure and lo-fi, almost as an
allergic reaction to Blur’s commercialism. Free from the
chart-topping shackles, Happiness in Magazines is the sound of a
man finally having some fun, (and yes, it is a much more fun
listen than Think Tank) and it’s an absolute gem. Album opener ‘Spectacular’ immediately blows away
any notion of further lo-fi noodling with a blasting guitar riff
that Queens of the Stone Age would be proud of, but Happiness in
Magazines is about more than turning the amps up louder.
‘Are You Ready’ is a bittersweet love song that messes
around with the chiming guitars of Ennio Morricone’s Western
soundtracks to delicious effect and ‘Bittersweet Bundle of
Misery’ could be the twisted cousin of ‘Coffee and
TV’. The standout is, rather predictably, the ace
‘Freakin’ Out’, which charted earlier this year
despite a seven-inch only release. The one stumbling block is perhaps Graham’s voice. It
remains as reedy and weedy as ever, giving the impression of the
love-lorn loser that this critic suspects he rather likes to play
up to. Whether it continues to affect or begins to grate is a
matter of personal taste, but this is only a minor quibble over a
largely impressive album. Over to you, Damon.ARCHIVE: 3rd week TT 2004 

I associate the dreaming spires of Oxford with Gregorian
chants and boys’ choirs. Until I heard Out of the Blue, I
was sceptical that good collegiate a cappella was to be found in
our ancient town. In America, almost every East Coast university
claims to have an a cappellatradition that stretches back fifty
or a hundred years. I’m a visiting student from Princeton,
where we are very smug about this fact and defend the antiquity
of our a cappella groups, though their age is just a flickering
moment if measured in Oxfordtime. Out of the Blue is a mere four years old. Less than a flicker.
And I should point out that for once, something in America is
older than something in England. Hearing these thirteen lads sing
though, you would have no idea that they’re new kids on the
block. Their talent and their enthusiasm (not to mention certain
pop diva tendencies) make them a formidable artistic force. Not that high art is what a cappella is about. Though
unaccompanied voice is the oldest style in Western music,
collegiate a cappella is always fresh and more about having fun
than serving the muse: Out of the Blue sway and careen when they
sing a piece. They mime the instruments whose parts they’re
singing, and there’s an occasional country western line
dance thrown in. If Out of the Blue have a sublime sense of showmanship and of
having a good time, their musical ability is no less impressive.
Members of the group do their own arrangements, and these tend to
be very ambitious with complicated harmonies and intricate
instrumental lines. A pop song becomes richer when Out of the
Blue sing it. Their repertoire ranges from pop to traditional,
though they always seem to have an eye towards boy-bandhood.
One’s heart melts at some of the soloists crooning about
broken love, but the performance never becomes the maudlin
overacting of a real boy-band. It’s not all fun and games though, they set themselves a
taxing tour schedule, have released three CDs and seem to be
making an appearance at nearly every college ball this term. By
all accounts, it’s been worth it: last year’s Spring
show sold out the Oxford Playhouse and the show this term will
most likely sell out the much larger New Theatre. In their four years of existence, Out of the Blue have become
one of Oxford’s most popular musical traditions. So who
needs an old a cappella tradition if you can just forge your own?ARCHIVE: 3rd week TT 2004 

There is something about the coming-of-age story that never grows old. While some writers have transformed the tale of adolescence into either sentimental kitsch or unrealistic caricature, others have managed to capture that stage of life with admirable clarity. Though not perfect by any means, M J Hyland is one of the latter.
Raised in poverty on the outskirts of Sydney, 16-year-old Louisa Connor – Lou for short – is ready to start her life over. Bright and hardworking, she has won a scholarship to study abroad for one year in the United States. However, having grown up in nearly absolute freedom, she is hardly prepared for a strict suburban host family with a reticent, melancholy father, a neurotic mother, a shallow 13-year-old sister, and a 15-year-old brother who is just a little too happy to have a female exchange student living in his home.
We see and empathise with Lou’s loneliness, her mix of affection and disdain for her new family, and the insecurity that ultimately plunges her into a downward spiral; at the same time, we get the sense that there is something missing from the story.
While Hyland describes Lou’s host family with vividness and precision, we are left with the question as to why they act as they do. It is obvious that beneath their veneer of suburban smugness, something is terribly wrong; however, we never get to find out just what that something is. Throughout the novel, Hyland develops several subplots that become so interesting as to rival the main plot, but is then forced to abandon them in order to return to Lou’s story.
It is unfortunate that one of the most interesting figures in the novel, a Gogol-reading, chess-playing Russian student, has to be dropped simply because he is a minor character. While the need for narrative decision is understandable, it is difficult not to wish for a bit more development of these sideline stories.
Another flaw in the story is the dialogue. Although Lou’s spunky speech patterns develop her interesting though alienated character, they occasionally sound a bit contrived. The same holds true for some of the other characters, particularly the host parents. While Hyland may simply be seeking to reveal the superficiality of their conversations, the dialogue still sounds somewhat unrealistic.
Nevertheless, with a treasury of elaborate lies about pet kangaroos back home and plenty of sarcastic comments combined with genuine feeling toward others, this book is very poignant and moving.ARCHIVE: 3rd week TT 2004