It was Oscar Wilde who remarked that imitation is the
sincerest form of flattery and this maxim couldn’t be truer
than when discussing the plagiarising, bedhopping world of rock
music. One band’s innovation is another’s inspiration,
and so pop has been eating itself for the last 60 years. To take
the most obvious example of modern times, Nirvana’s day in
the sun could have ended with Kurt Cobain’s suicide but
instead they were unwittingly responsible for creating an entire
generation of imitators; some excellent, some execrable (anyone
remember Puddle of Mudd?). On the cusp of summer 2004, it is not
Nirvana that today’s rock heroes have been listening to, but
a band so uniquely British they share a name with over half a
million of the country. The influence of this band can be heard on two of this
year’s most impressive debut albums, Franz Ferdinand’s
eponymous LP and Canadian rockers The Stills’ Logic Will
Break Your Heart: big riffs and bigger choruses aplenty and, more
curiously, genuinely literate lyrics. Take Franz Ferdinand’s
latest single, ‘Matinee’: “so I’m on BBC 2
now/telling Terry Wogan how I made it/how I made it is unclear
but his deference is and his laughter is.” When was the last
time that the word ‘deference’ troubled the Top Ten?
All of which leaves the rather unshakeable feeling that these
bands and others, including The Delays, have been listening to
the kings of the educated, self-aware lyric, The Smiths. For the uninitiated, The Smiths were a Manchester band that
made a number of classic albums during the 1980s and early
‘90s. They were personified by their iconic frontman Steven
Morrissey whose vague sexuality, soaring voice and overt politics
courted continual press attention. That and his sporting of the
largest quiff seen in rock since Elvis left the building. They
are primarily remembered for being a bunch of miserable bastards,
who just happened to write some of the finest love songs ever
recorded. Their 1986 opus The Queen is Deadis regarded, by
critics at least, as one of the best albums ever. The air of
intrigue surrounding the band’s demise adds to their
enduring appeal, as does the tantalising proposition of a
reunion. The ‘90s however, were a wasteland for the band. Despite
hints of their lyrical witticisms in the work of Pulp and Belle
& Sebastian, there has always remained a feeling that The
Smiths belong in the Dark Ages of the Eighties, with Thatcher,
poll tax, miners’s strikes and Duran Duran. The swaggering,
boisterous Britpop era, the emergence of the Loaded lad and
Blair’s Cool Britannia made the British dandy the most
unfashionable of images. Amid the beer bellies and Patsy Kensit,
there was no place for the rake-thin, fey white-boy singing songs
of love lost and love never attained. The pendulum however, has swung, and a love affair with The
Smiths is being rekindled. As Mark Simpson writes in The
Guardian, “For much of the last decade we’ve been in
denial, pretending we were over them, but it looks as if
we’re beginning to face facts.” Quite simply, geek chic
is back with a vengeance. The hottest property on TV, as this
critic is reliably informed, is the bespectacled loser Seth from
The OC, this season’s essential haircut is the mullet and
the only way to get around is on a Lambretta scooter.
Furthermore, Morrissey’s first studio album in seven years
is out later this month and he is curator of this year’s
prestigious Meltdown festival in London’s South Bank. Both Franz Ferdinand and The Stills have waxed lyrically on
the influence of The Smiths on their own music and the evidence
is clear for all to hear. Alex Kapranos, the blonde, foppish lead
singer of the Glaswegian rockers confessed that he simply wanted
to make music “for girls to dance to” and it is damned
near impossible not to dance like an idiot to Morrissey crooning
over ‘Hand in Glove’. Listen to ‘There’s a
Light That Never Goes Out’ and ‘Take Me Out’ and
be struck by the same resigned sentiments on what happens when
you don’t get the girl. The Smiths. Heaven knows; they’re influential now.ARCHIVE: 1st week TT 2004 

The recent tenth anniversary of the death of Kurt Cobain may
well have prompted an outpouring of grief from Seattle to London
but such scenes have been reflected again and again throughout
the twentieth century. Much has been made of the myth of
celebrity death and, in particular, of the now notorious deadly
age of 27. Kurt, Jimi Hendrix and Jim Morrison all died at the
age of 27 and have all been immortalised by successive
generations of young people desperate for idols and the much
sought break from the establishment. This fascination that has become such a typical aspect of the
teenage psyche has been described by some as a latent cult of
death and, as ever, a threat to the moral fabric of society. The
hypocrisy of such statements is apparent for all. The individuals
who trudge annually past Graceland’s white picket fence in
tears at the premature loss of their King will in the same breath
proclaim the decency of their worship while dismissing Nirvana
fans as young and foolish. Graceland now boasts the Heartbreak
Hotel – “a fashionable boutique hotel that takes its
cues from the legendary hospitality and personal style” of
Elvis – while Elvis.com proudly includes the GracelandCamT
where you can keep an eye on all those eager pilgrims. Over-commercialised as all of this clearly seems there is
little difference, in terms of emotions, between the mourners at
either end of the generation gap. Those that daily monitor
GracelandCamT and those that scrawled their names and thoughts
across the London shrine to Kurt share a common desire and even a
common heritage. The flowers and tokens of love that elegantly clutter Jim
Morrison’s headstone in the Parisian Pere-Lachaise cemetery
mirror the striking grave of Oscar Wilde a short walk away now
covered in kisses and flowers. Even the Victorian monument to
Percy Bysshe Shelley at Univ holds the same attraction as the
simple plaque to a certain James Marshall Hendrix in the quiet
Greenwood Memorial Park, Renton. In reality this obsession with early death is an intrinsic
aspect of youth culture that is timeless. The great choice that
Achilles is forced to make, between a long yet quiet life or the
short and glorious life of a hero, lies at the heart of a
fascination still as relevant millennia later. Far fetched as it
seems to compare Kurt Cobain with Achilles, a common idealisation
of youth and fame are present in both, a craving to avoid the
coming of age and the pain of normality. It is this passion for
eternal youth that makes celebrity death such a fundamental
aspect of popular culture: from Marilyn Monroe, James Dean and
Elvis, to Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison and Ernesto Guevara, to Kurt
Cobain and Jeff Buckley. Less the manner of death than the age is
what impacts their admirers, the desperation that accompanies the
feeling of waste and tragedy at such promise being prematurely
snatched away. Youth death will always be a fasttrack to immortality and
indeed has always been a fundamental fascination of society
throughout history. Those that mourned Kurt Cobain were
celebrating his music and his influence but at the same time were
honouring one of their own generation with whom they alone
empathised and in doing so were in essence celebrating the youth
that so many popular idols will never loose. I love pop music, and sometimes I try to discuss it with
people. Nine times out of ten this is a big mistake, because
I’m not allowed to say anything somebody else likes is crap.
Unless it’s Westlife. This seems to me rather unfair. Do we
think there’s no such thing as bad art: poorly written
novels, cliched and unoriginal paintings, unconvincingly acted
films? Let’s leave aside those of us who believe that the
judgment of art is irremediably subjective. At least they’re
consistent. The people I’m addressing are those who want to
retain a uniquely sacred position for pop music; who, when faced
with the possibility that their favourite band are rubbish, will
first attempt a musical justification but then, realizing that
they know nothing whatsoever about music, retreat into
“Well, that’s just your opinion” wishy-washiness. Strangely enough, these are often the same people who berate
the “mindless marketing victims” who keep Westlife in
the Top Ten. Check out “The Vibe” comments page on
Ceefax sometime. Hilarious. “Why don’t you listen to
some real music, like Blink 182?” they rage, scowling at the
imagined infidels from beneath their hoods. The same attitude is demonstrated by those who complain about
the degradation of the charts when a novelty record like Bob the
Builder or Mr Blobby gets to number one. These records, I am
told, are not very good at all. Hey, but that was what I said
about The White Stripes! Don’t you remember? I said that
bashing away at the first four chords that come into your head
and nodding when people say that you’re reinventing the
blues for a new generation does not a great band make. You
can’t have it both ways. Either it’s all subjective, or
it’s possible to say that some pop music is good and The
Vines are crap. The “it’s all subjective” line is implicit in
pop music culture. Writers for the NME rarely have any musical
knowledge, and even more rarely write about music, as opposed to
image and fashion. Imagine a reviewer of the Berlin Philharmonic
writing only about Simon Rattle’s unruly hair. Classical
music is viewed as art, while pop music as just entertainment.
There are some artists we’re allowed to criticise: boy bands
are evil and should be outlawed. In everything else, tolerance of
others’ tastes seems to be synonymous with accepting
everything as being of equal value, which means, of course, that
the whole concept of value is bankrupt. Too many people operate by the skewed logic by which some kind
of fascist policing of taste can be inferred from an aesthetic
judgment: I think The Hives are a bunch of musically illiterate
chancers; therefore I think that everyone should be banned from
listening to The Hives. This is just nonsense. Maybe some of us want to listen to music that we ourselves
think is bad. Am I the only person who wants to be able to say,
“Yes, it’s a dreadful song, but I quite like it
actually”?ARCHIVE: 1st week TT 2004 

Blind Flight is the true story of two hostages, Brian
Keenan and John McCarthy. What drew you to make a film of their
experiences? I met Brian just six months after he came
out of captivity, and I was struck by how unsettled he seemed. I
was interested in what had happened to him and John, and I wanted
to tell their story. How did the production of the film go? We
shot on location in Beirut, on a very tight budget and schedule
– it helped that I have experience in documentarymaking. We
didn’t rehearse or anything. How did your documentary
background help you? It gave me the ability to respond to the
unexpected, plus an appreciation of attention to detail and of
emotional authenticity. Was there pressure from Keenan and McCarthy to produce
a specific kind of film? No, because all that needed to
be in the script was already in there. We agreed that neither of
them would be present during filming, so as not to put pressure
on the actors (Linus Roache and Ian Hart). Do you think the actors have handled the story well?
To be honest, I initially thought that Linus would be too old for
the part of McCarthy. But in the end, I think that he and Ian
gave really authentic performances. What have your influences been? The work of
Ingmar Bergman in particular. Are you trying to get any kind of message across with
this film? Definitely not – I deliberately ignored
the political context in order to focus on the way in which
captivity stripped Keenan and McCarthy of their masculinity. I
think that we all use masks as a defence mechanism, particularly
political ones, and I wanted to explore that. How would you describe your directing style? I
don’t believe in trying to extract a specific performance
from an actor – I see the role of director as a guiding one,
rather than a dictating one. And are you pleased with the end result, or would you
change anything? If we had had a bigger budget, I might
have emphasised some of the fantasy and dream sequences, and
extended the kidnap scene. It’s a good film, bur Brian and I
agree that it could have been better. Has this film influenced your upcoming projects?
Actually, I have no idea what my next project will be! Maybe
something made in America.ARCHIVE: 1st week TT 2004 

To be Antigone is to be doomed, laments the Chorus of her
play. While certainly not doomed as a piece of theatre, there are
some flaws in this modern French adaptation of the ancient Greek
play, which leave one unsure as to its true merit as a tragic
piece. The staging and setting is cleverly done – deliberate
positioning of the actors in the audience’s space makes for
an atmospheric and energetic work, placing the emotions explored
in the play in direct and unapologetic confrontation with the
expectations of those watching it. The actors enter and exit
through an archway at the rear of the stage, reminding the
audience of the deliberately contrived nature of the play. This
sits well with the emphasis on tragedy rather than on melodrama
– according to the Chorus, tragedy is what it is because
everything in it is inevitable, and can never be ‘real’
because the outcome is always known beforehand. So far, so good, and everything in the time-tested and
renowned style of classical Greek theatre. But a difficulty
arises when one considers the adaptation of the play.
Anouillh’s version fails because it tries to be everything
at once, and ends up being nothing. Neither a straightforward
modernisation of the original, with updated plot and setting, nor
a strictly “Greek” play, this script combines the
battles and gods of the classical world with the coffee and
cigarettes of the modern one and it just doesn’t work. Fortunately, the director (Alex Pappas) has managed to convey
much of the original feeling of the play, with a pared-down style
of directing that works well in the context of this style of
theatre. The acting, too, is well-suited to the demands of Greek
theatre – particularly Matt Shapiro’s portrayal of King
Creon who is forced by the laws of Thebes to put Antigone to
death for violating a religious decree. Shapiro manages to combine a subtle portrayal of sorrow, anger
and powerlessness with the straightforward and unpretentious
style of acting necessary to the script. He and Antigone (Helen
Prichard) have a good chemistry onstage and both are at their
best in the scenes in which they appear alongside one another. As
Antigone, Prichard excellently captures the frustration inherent
in the play – although at some points her portrayal becomes
a little too childlike to be truly tragic. Overall the acting is
good, with the dolefully melodic voice of Triona Giblin (the
Chorus) providing an atmospheric background to the whole. Despite
its flaws Antigone is worth seeing for the palpable energy
pulsing through the performance, and the satisfaction of seeing
something that is truly original.ARCHIVE: 1st week TT 2004

The Three Little Wolves and the Big Bad Pig is a
children’s story (an obvious subversion of the traditional
“I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your
house down” tale) written by famous Greek author Constantine
Sandis and staged by Sandis Productions, to tie in with the
coming Greek Festival. Apart from the author of the tale being from Greece, there
are, however, no other connections to Greek culture, modern or
ancient, and it may seem like a strange choice of production for
this event. It is certainly true that this play will provide something for
children in regards to the festival, but apart from that, its
appeal seems somewhat limited. This is not to say that the production is not fun in places.
The story has been adapted into a musical using, quite bizarrely,
the music of The Village People and this creates some moments of
confused enjoyment. However, the replacement lyrics run out of any original puns
and rely mostly on panto-style jokes very early into the songs
which were not helped by the fact that few of the actors can
sing. Outside of the songs, there are also some funny moments. The
character of the Mother Wolf (Nina Reizi) is really quite
entertaining, but apart from this, the lack of originality in wit
and concept lets down what could have been an amusing
performance. It is, however, perhaps too easy to slate such a production
for the qualities that its target audience, children, will be
amused by. When the three little wolves start twirling their
tales around to YMCA, I am sure that the under tens will be
rolling on the floor with delight rather than cringing behind
their pashminas, and its fun and energetic cast definitely carry
the performance along with aplomb. This does not, however, excuse
it for being a panto cunningly disguised as something else. When all is said and done it is very difficult to know exactly
what is the purpose and proposed audience for this really rather
odd performance. Go if you fancy a mindless, childish but
essentially fun production, but even then be prepared for this
play to be very, very weird and not what you expected at all.ARCHIVE: 1st week TT 2004 

Menander’s The Shieldis comedy in its finest form. The
suberb translation by Giles Evans is complemented by fine acting,
especially by Rose Pater’s Miss Fortune/Doctor and Philip
Contos’ Davos. From the opening humming of Swing Low Sweet
Chariot as the slaves are brought in to be observed by David
Cochrane’s Smikrines, to the final moments, this is a play
full of atmosphere, hilarity, wit and ingenuity. The spirit of Menander’s writings has been perfectly
captured, with a perfect mix of innuendo, subtlety and
tragi-comedy. It is a testament to the flexibility and talent of
the cast that they can switch so easily from character to
character. This enables the play to move swiftly in a
well-polished manner, and also highlights the farcical side of
the play. The scene in which Caraestratus must convince Smikrines
of his illness is hilarious, as are many of the lines in the
play. Mime and gestures are also used effectively to enhance the
script and all the actors are extremely gifted at this. Alexandra
Fielding is truly hilarious in her role as the wife. Although it takes some time to work out how the characters
interlink, once one gets involved in the play and becomes
familiar with the characters, one realises that this is a great
play – enjoyable, funny and with some highly talented acting
thrown in. The originality and uniqueness of the play mean that
that the actors seem to enjoy being in it which all adds up to a
thoroughly amusing performance.ARCHIVE: 1st week TT 2004 

This production of Kafka’s Dick, directed by Sophie
Buchan and Sara Carroll, is an excellent interpretation of
Bennett’s absurdist comedy. It focusses on the relationship
between Kafka (Simon Motz) and Brod (Thomas Eyre-Maunsell), both
of whom give energetic and vivid performances. The production
examines the relationship between these two characters, and
brings out too the lighter, more farcical side of the play to
create some truly funny moments. The scene in which Brod tries to
hide from Kafka the fact that he did not burn his books brings
out the best of Eyre-Maunsell’s acting talents. Kieran Wanduragala’s Sydney is a banal man, and his
contemptuous dismissal of Juliet Lough’s Linda is effective
and in sharp contrast with Kafka’s encouragement of her more
thoughtful side. The play works in pairs, and the dialogue
between Kafka and Linda is especially effective. The directors have chosen to emphasise the literary allusions
in the play, in order to highlight its subtext, and to make its
satire as accessible as posible. This allows both those familiar
with Kafka, and newcomers to his works, to appreciate the play.
The production is ideally suited to the BT, as the intimacy
highlights the absurdity of Bennett’s world, as well as
emphasising the interplay between the characters. The themes which run through the comedy are excellently drawn
out in a production which is both thoughtprovoking and
entertaining.ARCHIVE: 1st week TT 2004 

Johnny Depp really should get himself a new agent. The man has
worldwide adulation from female fans, and a talent as reliable as
any Hollywood heavyweight. He’s probably one of the most
bankable actors at work today. But judging from his track record,
he chooses his scripts either blindfold or just blind drunk. For
every classic he’s made ( Platoon, Donnie Brasco etc),
there’s a clanger to match ( A Nightmare on Elm Street 6,
enough said). These days, though, he seems to be resigned to carrying films
singlehandedly. Pirates of the Caribbean would have been
instantly forgettable without his swaggering brilliance as
Captain Jack Sparrow. Hell, even the Academy had to swallow their
usual stuffiness and hand him a Best Actor nomination for what
was, basically, a pantomime performance. This week’s Secret
Windowfinds him once again fighting a valiant battle against a
mediocre script. A Stephen King adaptation, it gives him a chance
to playfully undermine his sex-symbol status as a grubby,
dishevelled novelist (Mort Rainey), holed-up alone in a log cabin
following a split from his wife. Shuffling around in a mangy
dressing gown, surviving on Doritos and cigarettes, Mort battles
writer’s block in a lovesick stupour. Life isn’t
exactly made any easier by the appearance of a wacko redneck
(John Turturro), angrily claiming that Mort plagiarised a story
of his. Rather than letting their lawyers settle it, he wants do
things the good old-fashioned psycho way involving vendettas and
imaginative intimidation. Of course, this being a psycho movie,
Johnny stubbornly remains in his creepy cabin in the woods, even
while all those other dispensable peripheral characters receive
screwdrivers in their heads with quick succession. As terrifying
as all this may sound, the film actually works much better as a
light comedy than a thriller, thanks to Depp’s bumbling
amiability as Mort and some beautifully deadpan one-liners. But
as welcome as this light relief may be, it only succeeds in
making the film strangely schizophrenic in tone; an uneasy
marriage of humour and horror. Mind you, all this would still be forgivable if the finale
didn’t feature a twist so ludicrous it makes The Sixth
Senseseem one-dimensional. It’s one of those ones that
doesn’t stagger you with its ingeniousness but just leaves
you feeling cheated when the assumptions you’ve built up and
interest you’ve invested in characters are left completely
redundant. The unintentional irony of Mort’s remark, that
“the only thing that matters is the ending. It’s the
most important part of the story”, only adds salt to the
audience’s wounds. You’re left wishing that Johnny had
heeded his own warning. And fired his agent while he was at it.ARCHIVE: 1st week TT 2004 

Not having seen Thelma and Louise, I can’t honestly
comment about the similarities between it and this apparently
Argentinean version. Two lesbians dressed as ten year-old boys,
one of whom complicatedly argues she is not a lesbian despite
wanting to shag her ‘love at first sight’ from the
moment she saw her, proceed in kidnapping the female ‘soul
mate’. Marcia, played by Tatiana Saphi. Marcia is
potentially the most ‘normal’ person in the world,
lives at home, alone, eats pancakes all day and eats, thinks,
dreams in food. There is obviously a point in calling the two lesbians, Lenin
(Veronica Hassan) and Mao (Carla Crespo). However, I just
don’t see that point, unless it is in the communal attempt
of sharing Marcia’s body. A road trip ensues leading them
all to Lenin’s Aunt’s (Beatriz Thibaudin) home. Lenin
has not spoken to her mother since an argument several years
back. She also knows that her Aunt and Grandma did not speak for
years before her Grandma died. There is a point to the parallel
tempestuous relationship between the two different generations of
the same family, but again I don’t know what it is. Marcia and Mao get their lesbian embrace, spied upon by Felipe
(Marcos Ferrante), a lodger at Blanca’s home. Then an
unspoken coldness rises between Mao and Marcia, leading Marcia to
seek solace in Delia (María Merlino), another lodger; revealing
that she had been mislead by a man she hoped to marry. Again,
touching, but I don’t get it. I don’t think I would be giving the crux of the film away
if I chose to tell you the end, as the feature to this feature
presentation is in the silence and the images. Shot in black and
white, Diego Lerman mixes an unsentimental script, of which the
majority is silence, with the captivating looks and expressions
of his talented cast. The angst-ridden Lenin, perhaps, has the lead role, in that
her character changes through nothing more than softened glances
and losing her flick knife. This film looks like a series of film
posters; every shot is artistic and inspiring, and, combined with
the silence, the film penetrates deeply even though it is unclear
how. I was deeply stirred by this film. Not through the average
bittersweet content, but by the artistic nature of it. Despite
not seeing the point of most of it, it is worth seeing purely for
its aesthetic value. No moment was wasted, and I was captivated to the last. A
truly perplexing film, it must be seen, pondered over, and seen
again.ARCHIVE: 1st week TT 2004 

Angelina Jolie provides an enjoyable performance as the
ice-cool FBI agent sent to Montreal to track down a psychopathic
killer who cuts off people’s hands and bashes their face in
with a rock. Angelina is unquestionably the best thing in this film
skilfully negotiating her character, Illeana Scott, through a
rather trite plot line, as she thaws out to show her more
passionate and vulnerable side. Unfortunately the performance of co-star Ethan Hawke is rather
underwhelming, unsurprisingly, providing little for Angelina to
engage with, and is thoroughly upstaged by a cameo from Keifer
Sutherland, of 24 and Lost Boys fame. Beyond the leads there is a limited cast drawn from the stock
catalogue of thriller caricatures. But they are quickly sketched
and don’t detract from the film. More detrimental are the occasions when the plot line becomes
unnecessarily diffuse in heavyhanded attempts to make the main
twist a little less obvious. Sadly the only effect is to make the film drag in parts and
feel a good half an hour longer than its 1 hour 42 minutes.
Despite this there are some excellent moments that make you jump
out of your skin, and plenty of slick dialogue. To top it all off, the conclusion provides a wonderful ending,
departing from the fairly standard thriller material that most of
the film consists of, and which makes one come to the firm
conclusion that Ms Jolie kicks ass. Fortunately not a trace of
her Lara Croft remains. So how come she still has to be in one of those irritating sex
scenes where the woman gets naked and the man remains resolutely
zipped up?ARCHIVE: 1st week TT 2004