Orestes
dir Pippa Needs
11 to 15 October
Oxford PlayhouseThis term’s staging of Orestes marks the 125th anniversary of the first Greek play to be put on in Oxford, Agamemnon. In hindsight it proved a landmark in Oxford drama, spawning OUDS in 1884, and so establishing the Greek play as a tri-annual tradition. Its Ronseal concept is simple and uncompromising: to stage a play entirely in ancient Greek. This is an enormous feat, particularly when leading cast members have no prior knowledge of Greek – certain among them spending eight hours a day in rehearsal for the weeks leading up to performance. A dedicated company of actors and extensive crew are prerequisites for making a project such as this a success.
Given its moment, the choice of Orestes seems at first rather surprising. It is not the tragedy Euripides is perhaps best remembered for among scholars. Its plot, endlessly twisting and turning, is seen as too diffuse: Orestes (Matthew Trueman) has murdered his mother and her lover as retribution for their murder of his father, and now faces both exile and condemnation to death; Electra (Rose Heiney), Orestes’ sister, also confronts execution for encouraging her brother in the act. Each scene introduces a new breach in family state politics to explore the margins of human volition and behaviour. Ultimately, Orestes becomes embroiled in the quasi-murder of his aunt, Helen of Troy (Kannayo Okolie), a hostage-taking, and the potential razing of the ancestral home.
Euripides sets rolling a ball that he pushes further and further beyond characters’ control, triggering finally the peremptory appearance of Phoebus Apollo, a part well suited to the statuesque Benjamin Cartlidge, an award-winning declaimer of Greek. As the sun god his enigmatic figure at once illuminates totally yet blinds utterly when descending at sunset. His condescension provides the play’s resolution without the answers to those questions it has raised. Greek myth, so important in contemporary dramatic understanding and interaction, is paid relatively little exacting homage in Orestes. Perhaps this is why the play was admired by antiquity as one of the greatest; it asks of its audience a dynamic mythological knowledge.
By the same token, however, the masterful complexities Euripides proposes up the stakes for the Greek play. Inherently the tradition runs a risk with its audience. The pattern of Orestes is not instantly recognisable in the way that Oedipus Rex’s motif has been reactivated in the twentieth-century mindset through the work of psychoanalysis. So at a basic level, simply getting the message across places a heavy and unusual burden on the actors, though at least some of the strain is relieved by surtitles that provide a running dialogue précis.
Thankfully, there is no shortage of stage presence, though the cast’s dumb show work pays the greatest tribute to their application. Matthew Trueman smoulders and sporadically spits fire in a characteristically energised performance. His brother-mother/father relationship with Electra is secured by Rose Heiney’s brooding and dishevelled collaboration, transformed by make-up into something of an androgynous Electra. Himanshu Ojha captures well the rather oleaginous quality of Menelaus’ sea-sailing rhetoric as he sells Orestes down the river.
Musically the play offers rhythmically mesmeric Chorus parts (think Aztec, for the uninformed) and centrepiece arias, thanks to Hugh Brunt’s bespoke musical contributions. Consequently, Sheridan Edwards dazzles during his twenty minute aria as a Phrygian slave; Brunt’s composition matches the emotional and syntactical meltdown of this episode, providing glimpses of beauty during a distraught atonal climax.
Indeed, the Chorus, so famously difficult to deliver palatably to a modern audience not accustomed to such excesses, is deployed to provide instalments of choreographed narrative and reflection structured to exploit the multi-level grave circle set. It breathes across the stage like a chilled smoke. Fundamentally, both Chorus and set are kept stylish yet simple, and remain highly effective for it. Nothing about this play or its production is made easy for its audience. But equally one takes from it as much as one will. This is an extremely significant production not only for choice Classicists. ω ποποι? Not at all.ARCHIVE: 0th week MT 2005

Puppetry of the Penis
dir Simon Morley
27 September
New TheatreEngland’s Ashes victory is under discussion. British Woman: “Loser!”. Australian Man: “Thank you, madam, but you’re the one who paid to see my cock.”
Simon Morley and David Friend have got it made. Their show, Puppetry of the Penis, can’t cost much to take on the road: they get three puffs of dry ice; they need someone to work a video camera; they’ve got two capes, no costume changes to worry about. (There’s no programme, so I didn’t catch the name of the warm-up act.) They ape a double-act in the tradition of the music-hall, Simon performing as if he’s doing a sarcastic stand-up routine, and David playing the younger hapless puppyish stooge who’s more likely to run about, to disappear off-stage and re-enter with a comedy prop.
Simon has short-cropped dark hair; David is a vaguely messy dirty blond with comedy sideburns out of the latest Pride and Prejudice. Simon calls David “monkey boy” and bosses him about. They banter, they show affection, they watch each other’s backs. It’s not a particularly great example of the double-act, but it works the audience to heights of hysteria most comics can only pray for. Why? They happen to be naked save for plimsolls and socks. Neither is buffed. And both their penises look as though they have been rolled out with a rolling pin and then fretted with elastic. They contort them into wince-inducing shapes while keeping up a running patter in offensive stereotyped misogyny.
And that’s why, on a one-off gig on a Tuesday night, the New Theatre is playing pretty much to capacity and predominantly to an older-than-student-age female audience. There are hen nights in, and 21st and 40th birthday parties, as well as a retirement do. “Are there any gay men here?” One couple bravely admits to it and is the butt of jokes thereafter. Repeat after me: comedy is cruel. Here it is really cruel.
Fresh from a successful run at the Edinburgh Fringe, these two guys rub their penises like boy scouts with so much kindling, and then stretch them into likenesses of the Eiffel Tower (with dark clouds obscuring the tip of the tower, so we’re told, though I wasn’t convinced) or Uluru (“Ayer’s Rock,” Simon explains. “Any Australians in the audience? Bet you feel homesick.”)
A hamburger shape takes a starring role as does a chicken nugget (“I’m a big fan of the Colonel’s work,” says Simon; “Smell the magical spices!” says David, sniffing amazedly at his fingers) or Gonzo from the Muppets or the Loch Ness Monster (complete with realistic bobbing head movements). With the addition of a champagne cork-guard, the penis becomes a greyhound eager for the off and then morphs into a frightening Hannibal Lecter.
Somewhere, of course, the line is crossed. But it’s hard to say where. Maybe it was being rash enough to agree to review the show at all. Maybe it’s the woman who, fifteen seconds in, shouts, “Show us your nob!” at the warm-up act. She gets a reproving ticking off.
Maybe it’s the gleeful playing to type as macho ’Stralians who can abuse women and still be loved for it. It could probably be drawn at the warm-up’s characterisation of all Germans as either obsessed with sex acts involving urination or Nazis. It’s definitely the warm-up’s gag about how you’ll never find a man complaining about having his drink spiked, and then miming drunken appreciation of oral sex. There’s offence aplenty for the taking.
If this is the male answer to The Vagina Monologues – as the warm-up seems to suggest – it’s a worrying look-out, but a bit of fun, nonetheless.ARCHIVE: 0th week MT 2005

Thank the Lord for Scottish opening hours. As the body clock slowly begins to get back to normal and daylight hours once more become familiar, I find myself increasingly nostalgic for my nocturnal existence in Edinburgh; the early morning taxi rides back home, the late-night comedy shows, the late-afternoon breakfast bars, and of course the almost 24 hour-a-day programme of theatre.
As a Festival newbie, I arrived with high hopes of glamorous theatrical experiences. The reality of Edinburgh is a lot grittier – a cut-throat battlefield where the weapons are staple guns and sellotape, the ammunition many thousands of posters and flyers, the target the foolish punters who innocently stroll down the Royal Mile every day.
The quest for an audience isn’t helped by the fact that there is an awful lot of rubbish put on at the Fringe, not least the endless all-singing, all-dancing adaptations of Shakespeare, which means that audiences flock to big-name shows. The Odd Couple, featuring Bill Bailey and Alan Davies, was perhaps 2005’s equivalent of the hugely successful One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, also directed by Guy Masterson. Tight, funny and professional, it deserved its sell-out audiences, Davies’ dodgy American accent notwithstanding. The stand-up comedy big-hitters were similarly up to scratch. The vitriolic deadpan of Stewart Lee’s tirade against the Christian attitudes that condemned his Jerry Springer – The Opera, Tommy Tiernan’s energetic brand of Irish cheekiness and Jason Byrne’s quite brilliant exploitation of the foibles of his audience were all highlights.
While few of these big names disappointed, there is much to be said for trying out the less obvious productions. A Night of a Thousand Jay Astons, a four part drag-act of lip-synching to Bucks Fizz songs, may sound an unlikely hit, but it became a firm favourite with certain Oxford students. The Fringe programme was characterised by a high number of professional burlesque shows, like La Clique, which treated its late-night audience to outrageous turns which included a string of pearls pulled out of a vagina. Similarly, Spank!, a comedy showcase at the Underbelly venue, featured a nightly naked promo, an opportunity for some extreme marketing techniques.
Thankfully, none of the Oxford shows needed nude stunts to win over good audiences and a plentiful smattering of four and five star reviews. Though Burlesk perhaps found itself a little out of its depth in such risque company, Starting Here Starting Now, How I Learned to Drive, Boston Marriage and Catch 22 all had successful runs. I Was a Rat! coped admirably with an eleven AM start, offering a vibrant, colourful show enjoyed by children and adults alike, while The Tragedy of Richard Duke of York, despite small audiences, was a clever, imaginative piece of theatre. The Oxford Revue produced strong new comedy sketches, and the Oxford Imps added youthful verve to the thriving improvised comedy scene.
Now the hangovers have finally worn off, we can expect a year of high-calibre Oxford performances from these companies, before Fringe madness begins afresh.

I Said Never Again (But Here We Are)
Rachel Stevens
out now
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You’d be forgiven for thinking this sex-with-your-ex ditty is the comeback single from (an albeit far saucier) Abba, with its retro swing beat and familiar vocals. But no, it’s the new lead single from everyone’s favourite pop sex-siren Rachel Stevens. The record company blurb for the track announces it as an edgy return “to the glamour of pop synonymous with Rachel”, complete with a video filmed in what looks like a mock-up women’s prison. In reality it’s about as edgy as a bouncy ball and the only thing Rachel is synonymous with is… actually we had better not go there. But we still love Rachel all the same, and the single’s not bad either. She should get back with Jeremy Edwards of Holby City fame. Now there was a power couple to be admired.High
James Blunt
out now
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On to more serious stuff. Ok maybe not, but pop music’s very own bona fide ex-admiral action man James Blunt deserves to be humoured as much as he wants. In all fairness however, this single is a rare thing: it’s a case-in-point for a subsequent release that actually improves on the album’s lead single. Whereas the ubiquitous smash of the summer, You’re Beautiful, made you want to literally smash the television screen when it appeared on MTV Hits for the zillionth time for want of a subtler sentiment, here Blunt’s trademark softly, softly warbling slowly builds around an acoustic guitar that yearns for another play. A soaring chorus follows, and we’re sold. Well done Blunty, you’ve done it again you wonderful, multitasking, NATO peacekeeping crooner.I’m In Love
Audio Bullys
out now
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Going all soft worked for Mike Skinner and The Streets last year on the beautiful Dry Your Eyes. The same really cannot be said for this attempt at breaching the sensitive side by beat freaks Audio Bullys. The retro kitsch that made the otherwise unimaginative 90s remix act on Shot You Down a bearable exercise is totally extinguished by the lacklustre production. In the place of a pop sensibility is the most annoying synthesiser loop recorded since A-ha discovered the joys of computer technology. A droning vocal which repeats the same three words (try and guess which ones) completes the insufferable experience. Just count yourself lucky it clocks in at under three minutes.ARCHIVE: 0th week MT 2005

Alice In Ultraland
The Amorphous Androgynous
out now
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The Amorphous Androgynous may not be a band that many people have heard of. This is because they are anything but mainstream. Merely the complexity and artistic merit of their name should give that away. Former Future Sound of London duo Garry Cobain and Brian Dougans formed the psychedelic electro-ambient outfit three years ago, and Alice in Ultraland is in fact their second album under this guise.
The sound of this band is something the likes of which hasn’t been heard too frequently since the 60s and 70s. That doesn’t however mean that it is archaic or limited in its musical accomplishment. The two band members have taken some quality elements of classic rock bands such as Pink Floyd, The Rolling Stones and Dire Straits and infused them with some reasonably appropriate ethnic and electronic touches. This creates a very worldly album, with some real atmosphere.
The opening track Emptiness of Nothingness draws obviously upon Pink Floyd’s finer works, using sound effects of crows flying over an impressive piano lead and specialised keyboard effects to combine “the beat with the beatless”, as their members claim. There is even a buxom warbling singer present to further parallels with songs that include The Great Gig in the Sky. It is an epic opener for sure, with hints of a jam session about it, strong vocals and a memorable piano riff that makes for a promising start.
This is immediately followed up by a spaced out, sitar-filled throwback to free love, The Witchfinder. Its didgeridoo, pan pipes and psychedelic George Harrison influenced strands give way to smooth but powerful African style vocals that grab the attention. When the drums finally make their appearance, it completes a very powerful progressive piece of music.
Having started with such a wealth of influences and a decent pace, the album then continues quite well through various moods, from all corners of the earth, be it saxophones leading a jazz movement, Spanish guitars, violins or chilled out electronica.
But if there is a problem with this album, it is precisely the fact that it is more a collection of movements rather than distinct tracks. Some may find this a good attempt at gelling many different styles together, but it feels a little like the energy that the album began with wears slightly thinner it moves towards its end. The album is sadly a touch too long to be an immediate winner, with fourteen tracks all pushing a weighty five or six minutes.
Tracks further down the listings such as High and Dry, replete with Jagger-style hip shaking or Billy the Onion – which will make anybody feel like they are road tripping through the desert – are definite highlights. However, by the final track, Wicker Doll, there isn’t enough left from The Amorphous Androgynous to create the tearjerker that it could and should have been.
Alice in Ultraland is musically strong and those who enjoy harking back to the good old days of psychedelic rock or feeling nostalgic over far off travels and experiences will not want it to end. For first time listeners, however, it will prove an acquired taste that may not hold their attention all the way until the final track.ARCHIVE: 0th week MT 2005

Taller in More Ways
Sugababes
out 10 October
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Perhaps what is most striking about the new Sugababes record is its schizophrenic stance. What shocks even more is that this is a cause for celebration, rather than a dearth of musical focus one might expect from any given girl group’s fourth album. But then again, the Sugababes have made a name for themselves as R&B renegades, never being so predictable as to follow the rules of pop school. They were dropped from their original label, London Records, only to return in 2002 with Heidi Range and the hottest mash-up since Jason Nevins met Run DMC in Freak Like Me. Last year, rumours of a break up filled column after column, fuelled by a couple of lower charting singles, though indicative of the downward sales trend more than anything else, and the news that Mutya was (shock horror!) to become a mum.
And here the girls have pulled off the whole return-to-form feat once more with what is their finest single to date, the blippy, electro-fused opener Push the Button. The track epitomises all that is good and great with Taller in More Ways: a refreshingly rich, diverse, at times expansive pop sound that actually dares to revel in melody.
Much of this bravado comes courtesy of the varied stock of production talent in evidence on the album. While British pop stalwarts Cathy Dennis and Guy Chambers do the usual rounds with expected grace (the dirty swing bass of It Ain’t Easy is a treat) the real joy comes courtesy of the arch presence of Stateside uber-producer Dallas Austin, who, notably, has worked with another famed girl trio of recent years, TLC. Whereas Austin’s brief for that group was to, perhaps, soften the spiky edges which remained from their early 90s beats and rhymes, on Taller in More Ways Sugababes’ already contemporary savvy makes for an attractive contrast to the American immaculate polish.
Gotta Be You is a masterclass in this transatlantic register. Its relentless pounding crunk bass thumps over Mutya’s deadpan delivery of pearls of wisdom such as, “My ass is the only thing you’ll see”. Future single Ugly, itself a literal reimagining of TLC’s Unpretty, sounds like a dispatch from young womanhood but without the hackneyed melodrama of regular pop sentiments in this vein. Elsewhere, tracks such as Bruised are recorded slightly off skew, with faintly sped up vocals or skipped beats for example, which have a disconcerting effect at first, only to then sit effortlessly with the spacey, retro design of subsequent songs Obsession and Ace Reject. It is such expert breaching of the void between radio friendly pop and leftfield styling that lends Taller in More Ways its distinction.
Yes, there does exist on the record, as one may expect, moments of mainstream R&B mediocrity dug from the depths of a thousand other urban pop albums, but these are few and far between, outweighed by moments such as Xeromania’s (responsible for past successes Round Round and Hole in the Head) throbbing composition, Red Dress, or the orchestral overflow of closing track 2 Hearts. Most crucially of all, however, is that with Taller in More Ways the Sugababes have equalled the tallies of predecessors Destiny’s Child, TLC and The Supremes in terms of sheer productivity. And that’s saying something for this cat-of-nine-lives trio. To the Sugababes size obviously does matter, and with this record they are about to prove it to the rest of us.ARCHIVE: 0th week MT 2005

Ever wondered what goes on in those bits of the festival that are rarely shown on TV? Months ago you were up at three in the morning to buy your one festival ticket. You bought all you needed for a weekend camping (one tent, two wellies, and a lot of baby wipes); you set up tent well away from the portaloo and made your way down to the main stage. So there you are with a crowd of expectant faces when Lucie Silvas appears. Disaster! You throw your hands up in frustration, scream with consternation and turn away in disgust. But wait. What do you see but a whole world of other stalls and stands? You’ve found the festival beyond the music.
Of course not everyone must go through this strange but comforting ritual to discover the background delights of festivals. Most see them as they walk in, or read about it in the programme, or wake up with a hangover and only one sock in the middle of a circus. But sooner or later everyone comes to explore the other side.
And it’s not just a set of empty diversions for those who got corporate tickets, or lost. The other attractions are what give a festival its colour and complexion. After all, they all have big bands, stages, fences, crowds and even bigger security guards. They all make lots of money, though they do give it to different people (Oxfam, Greenpeace and Richard Branson invariably). It’s what they have going on around all this that makes each festival individual and unique.
The hippy granddaddy of the festival is, of course, Glastonbury. Originating, no doubt, in ancient times, Glastonbury has long been a centre of the slightly weird to the downright barmy. And the festival, while centering around the music, has a truly awesome amount of space devoted to every form of performing art imaginable, and a few beyond that.
There are traditional and folk music acts, circuses, mimes, jugglers, stilt walkers, burger salesmen, hippy priests, and old women who will sell you homemade cookies at competitive prices. In the vast fields devoted to the great, the random, and the odd, you can discover unique politics, philosophies and religions. You can bask in the ludicrous, the self indulgent and the crazy. You can marvel at the talents, abilities and skills on display. You can wonder at why a man taught himself to juggle twelve balls at a time in a perspex box. Truly it is a celebration of the limits of mind, body and soul.
As the first of the many fresh-faced festivals, the V Festival is the trendy, easy going, well off, new liberal, middle-class, mud-hating, blow-up sofa bringing place to be on one weekend in mid-August. Not as extensive as Glastonbury, the other side of the V festival is dominated by the absolute basics – food and beer.
That’s not to say there aren’t a couple of smaller stages devoted to the up-and-coming or down-and-leaving bands of the day (where else are you likely to see a woman in a heart-shaped hat playing a xylophone?). Their funfair provides endless fun to the drunk and bored, and very reasonable prices if you happen to have lots of disposable income cluttering up your bank account.
The skateboarders add a youthful edge (especially if you grew up in the late 1980s) and the padding and armour they wear just adds to the sense of danger and risk, when they stand about doing nothing all day. So, maybe not enlightenment but certainly a lightening of the wallet is the order of the day at V.
And finally, the grown-up anarchist rocker enjoying his weekend before being an IT consultant again is the Leeds/Reading chaos. Here can be found plenty of stages, plenty of alcohol and plenty of weirdly, wonderfully and woefully dressed rock fans. Beer riots and tent fires are not unknown. Sporting takes the form of the bottle throw, the fifty metre crowd surf and the classic mud wrestling. All in good spirits (and bad lagers), Reading and Leeds festival-goers have a focus beyond that of the common man.
And so, as we reflect on the past festival season and our brief tour, it seems Lucie Silvas has done us a great favour. Exploring the other side of festivals can be more than a way to pass the time, it can be an exploration of the true essence of a festival – get a load of people in a field and let them act like the music-loving crazy people that they are.ARCHIVE: 0th week MT 2005

The job has changed in the six years that I’ve been doing it, in terms of the college being much busier. I think financial pressure causes the colleges to need to make full use of the facilities. Out of term-time we have to maximise things like conference guests and banquets, which is important to us to maintain a good income for the college generally. Sometimes it’s a bit calmer out of term-time, but when you’ve got strangers coming in every other night during the holidays, obviously you have to acquaint them with the same situation over and over again, which can get a bit tedious. When the students are settled in during term everything runs itself really.
Luckily our students are all very pleasant; most of the time they’re quite good fun. That’s the part of the job I enjoy most, as opposed to the difficult people we get from time to time. Occasionally we have some very snotty-nosed people who seem to like ‘humiliating the servants’, as it were. That’s the hardest to deal with, they think you’re some sort of ‘flunkie’. You’ve just got to grit your teeth and bear it, really. We’ve lost quite a few staff because of that, it’s the main factor which causes people to leave, I think. We do get some pressure from that area and it has taken its toll on a number of us; unfortunately we’ve lost some good people because of that.
There have been funny times as well. One of my favourite stories involved a student of ours, very nice chap actually, still see him now and again. The main thing with students really is drunkenness, usually at the beginning of term we have a few wild nights before they settle down and start the work. We had this one chap who came in with his girlfriend and suddenly vanished from view. I heard these gurgles and groans so I went out and found his girlfriend collapsed on the edge of the lawn there, semi-conscious and gurgling away. I took my flashlight and saw this chap standing in the middle of the front quad lawn. He was pissing against one of the trees, so i crept up behind him and mentioned his name. He must have drenched his trousers! We’ve laughed about that ever since.
I work 8-hour shifts Monday to Friday, but I also write. I used to teach English in a state school and for private tuition, and then I was Finance Officer at the Job Centre before coming here. Now writing is a sort of hobby: I publish my work on the internet. At the moment I’m writing a critical examination of Colin Wilson for next May, a book of about two hundred pages in which I’m examining his New Existentialist philosophy, which is an argument against Sartre. Wilson’s argument is that we’ve meandered into a contemporary pessimism through following Sartre to the letter. I want to reassess that argument and see if it’s correct. I’m not trying to publish in the conventional way as there’s not really a market for my sort of work, so I use the PABD (Publish and Be Damned) network on the internet. It’s an author empowerment sort of service, which a lot of people are using now, as you’ve got total control over what you do, and you can distribute it yourself. In a way, it’s self-publishing, because the sort of thing I’m writing is not really commercial at all. You could say that my ambition is to carry on working in this field.ARCHIVE: 0th week MT 2005

The Secret of Drawing
BBC2
8 October, 8.10pm
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Love Soup
BBC1
11 October, 9pm
« « « « «Drawing is everywhere, proclaims presenter Andrew Graham Dixon as the opening gambit of new documentary series The Secret of Drawing. The series sets out to reassert what Dixon feels has become the neglected art of putting pencil to paper, nowadays ignored in favour of carelessly splattered canvases and unmade beds.
The first episode, The Line of Enquiry, focuses on the importance of drawing to the development of human knowledge and scientific enquiry. We meet Dr Francis Wells, cardiac surgeon, who not only prepares himself for an operation with a few preliminary sketches, but ends the surgery by inking explanatory diagrams for his colleagues in that medium most freely available in the operating theatre: his patients’ blood.
Graphic means to the graphic end are not uncommon, it seems. Eighteenth century British artist George Stubbs procured horse carcasses, stripped them layer by bodily layer and winched them into life-like positions, so as best to capture the unique poise of the equine form. Across the Atlantic, meanwhile, the unsentimental John James Audubon shot his avian subjects by the hundred to produce his master work The Birds of America.
Such shockers and other revelations of artistic eccentricities aside, what makes this documentary worth its salt is what it has to show us. Studies of anatomy, nature and even the moon, produced by artists in eye-popping photographic detail, are proved to be still shaping the course of scientific enquiry hundreds of years after they were sketched.
Thankfully, there is no need among all this for costumed actors dressed as Leonardo da Vinci or nifty computer generated gimmicks. The Secret of Drawing is an old fashioned but not unexciting documentary, with a presenter genuinely wide-eyed over his subject matter. If you can stand the ponderous, arty intensity into which Dixon drifts by the end of the hour, then this is well worth a look.
Anatomical studies of a different kind abound in the latest episode of Love Soup. This rom-com drama series charts the neatly parallel, but as yet still not intersecting lives, of Alison and Gil as they continue along the path of romantic misadventure.
Confronted by some thought provoking footage bequeathed her by an ex, and forced to share a hotel room with luscious model Rochelle, Alison has her sexual confidence dashed but is soon the object of an unexpected admirer’s affections.
Gil too comes across the unexpected when his seemingly perfect blind date steps out in her swimwear, revealing more than he ever could have bargained for. Meanwhile, a dream come true dustman is not all he seems for Gil’s slightly over- friendly neighbour Irene.
Not judging a book by its cover becomes the theme of this episode. It’s a path with much comic potential, but there’s a little too much earnestness to certain elements for the good gags to draw the laughs they should.
That said, this series has a lot going for it. Written by David Renwick, whose past projects include One Foot in the Grave and Jonathan Creek, it has a cast of rising comic stars (notably Sheridan Smith and Montserrat Lombard) and a novel premise. Yet, while it is watchable enough and the writing is engagingly sharp, Love Soup remains less of a clear, tasty broth, and more of a murky gruel.ARCHIVE: 0th week MT 2005