Walking down a central street at my university in America, I approach a confused looking tourist and her daughter. Asking if they need directions, “well,” the mother says brightly, “do you know where the sorority houses are?” A crucial stop for the young prospective, apparently. “Oh, they’re all in this area,” I reply; “mine’s over there.” “Which one are you in?” the mother asks, smiling. I tell her, and suddenly, she appears to go into convulsions, and nearly starts to hyperventilate. “OH MY GOD. I WAS IN THAT ONE TOO!” She then starts to speak very quickly, her words running together with excitement. “Duke-University-Beta- Gamma-Chapter-class-of-75-it-is” she pauses briefly for air “SO-nice-tomeet you!” I feel like I should start doing a sorority cheer or a secret handshake, or at least attempt to mimic her overwhelming enthusiasm, but instead I just look sympathetically at her equally excited daughter. Some parents push their children to excel academically, but perhaps an even more devastating type of parental pressure is that of social expectations. Months before sorority recruitment – ‘rush’ – starts, eager mothers, aunts and grandmothers will send letters to their alma mater sorority recommending their child/niece/grandchild as a fabulous potential new member. Generally this consists of an enthusiastic description of the girl, complete with her CV and photograph. Often the girls themselves are just as keen to impress, for indeed it is their future university social life on the line. And the pressure is not just to get into a sorority – it is to get into a good one. ‘Good ones’ are qualified by the calibre of the current and former members, a reputation largely dependent on the perceived overall appearance, financial status and charisma of the girls. (Many have nicknames: Visa Visa Mastercard in lieu of Kappa Kappa Gamma is a personal favourite.) Good sororities will socialize with good fraternities, whose reputation is similarly determined, and presumably this social elite will mate and have wealthy, attractive, captivating children. Hence the pressure. So necessarily, rush is gruelling, both for those going through the rigorous process and for sorority ‘sisters’ meeting the prospective new members. #In the first round, the ‘rushees’ are divided into groups, and must go to every sorority house – larger universities will boast up to twenty – chatting to several members for a few minutes each. As one rushee group leaves and one arrives, the current sisters will cursorily vote on the girls based on their scintillating five minute conversation. Those with high scores will be invited to the next round the following day, which involves more conversation, generally superficialities such as where one is from and what subject one does, until every girl involved feels as though she has just been on one hundred getting-to-know-you first dates. Without as much as a glass of wine to loosen the conversation. (Ultimately, however, being a member of a sorority will make alcohol, that forbidden fruit of American undergraduate life, much more accessible.) The rounds continue, each eliminating more girls, and each lasting a full day – generally five days in total over the course of two weeks. By the final round, in which each prospective attends three sorority ‘parties’, schoolwork has declined and exhaustion has taken over, but the rushees continue to smile cheerfully, a testament more to their stamina than their personality. At the end of this round they will rank the three in preferential order, a decision that will probably determine their future friends and social scene at university. Meanwhile the current sisters must make one final cut to the list of girls they hope will well represent their sorority and perpetuate or augment its reputation. The subsequent all-nighter is not the result of academic pressures (those have been put by the wayside) but of social necessity, as different sorority members describe each of the one hundred remaining potential new members for several minutes, saying two positive and two negative comments about each. Due to the need to differentiate the great personality of a particular rushee from those of the dozens of other great girls, a list of positive descriptive adjectives is circulated for member use, including the distinguishers: ‘spunky,’ ‘bad-ass chicken,’ and ‘beautiful (inside)’. (As in, “Amanda would be a great new member, she’s really beautiful… on the inside”). The ‘con’ statements are not malicious, and are generally limited to a polite “better suited for another sorority” – a phrase that may indeed change the life of an unsuspecting first year girl. However superficial the process may seem, it is difficult to condemn sororities unilaterally. At larger American universities, where no Oxonian college system exists, a large or closely knit group of friends is often hard to come by. Andrea Goldberg, a masters student at Green College who attended Yale University as an undergraduate, noted that while she was not in a sorority, “for a lot of people they provide a positive social outlet for people who don’t play a sport or aren’t in the newspaper or don’t otherwise have a group to hang out with on campus.” networking aspect of sorority life is often helpful in a collegiate system that doesn’t often encourage inter-year fraternizing. “It’s a nice chance to meet older girls who can become mentors and help you with academics and non-academic aspects of college,” explained Hayden Odell, an undergraduate at Princeton University. And, as evidenced by my chance encounter on the street, sorority associations can help later in life as well; a well-organized national network of alumni ‘sisters’ doesn’t hurt when looking for a job, a place to stay abroad, or a publisher for that book on relationships. Incidentally, the friendships, while perhaps superficially formed, are often enduring. “I’ve met girls I never would have met otherwise – girls who will undoubtedly be friends for life,” said Kelly Melton, a member of the sorority system at the University of Virginia. And at Oxford, while a social system based on networking, charisma and appearance might not be institutionalised to quite the same degree, a cautious proposition is that one .
ARCHIVE: 3rd Week TT 2003

With an Oscar for Training Day behind him, Denzil Washington clearly decided a new challenge was in order. Antwone Fisher, which sees the veteran star take the director’s chair as well as one of the lead roles, is clear evidence that the decision paid off.
It sounds unpromising on paper. Young black man in US Navy gets disciplined for repeated violent outbursts, before being sent to a psychiatrist – cue battle of wills and nostalgic reminiscing. One might even be tempted to say it has been done before, with both Good Will Hunting and Finding Forrester visiting similar territory. Being reduced to a synopsis might not do it any favours, but Antwone Fisher offers excellent performances and a sharp plot.Derek Luke’s portrayal of Antwone is particularly impressive, given that it marks his first appearance on the silver screen. Washington, who as well as directing the piece, appears as Antwone’s psychiatrist, continues to hone his reputation as one of Hollywood’s leading actors. Although there are moments when one worries that the focus is in danger of shifting too much onto Washington’s character – and in the case of the duff tacked-on end scene, it does precisely that – for the most part the actor-director is content to leave the limelight to Luke.
Unlike most films which cover such a broad range of issues, Antwone Fisher remains solidly character- based. That in itself is an achievement; any film which can cover racism, child abuse, sexual dysfunction, and a host of other hot topics without turning into an issuesdriven drama is to be commended. That the treatment of these diverse areas never succumbs to trivialisation or mawkishness is even more surprising, and accordingly welcome. That’s not to say that there is nothing here to get choked up over. On the contrary, those who enjoy crying at the cinema will probably have a field day. But the difference between the touching scenes of Antwone Fisher and standard Hollywood fare is highlighted by the fact that none of them feature the usual bucketloads of sentimental music employed to remind the audience that tears are expected of them. Here, where one is moved, one is moved because the images, the performances, the dialogue, are genuinely moving.
There are occasional strains on credibility given that this is a true story, not least of which is the War on Terror-fighting US Navy’s apparent saintly patience when confronted by the prospect of an unhinged psychopath in the ranks. But these are minor quibbles to present against such a film, and certainly don’t amount to a sufficient excuse for failing to see it.
ARCHIVE: 3rd Week TT 2003

The tagline for Darkness Falls insists “Every Legend Has Its Dark Side”. Similarly, every reviewer has a dark side, and this film has revealed mine. First of all, the story claims to be set in the town of Darkness Falls – but I can’t find anywhere so ludicrously named on my map of America. Naming a town ‘Darkness Falls’ seems to be asking for trouble. The tale itself is distinctly unoriginal – almost originally so. It’s about the ghost of a strange old woman (see: half of all mindless B-movie horrors) who two centuries ago in a creepy town (see: Sleepy Hollow), was hanged for “a crime she didn’t commit” (see: The A-Team). When alive she would exchange the children’s teeth for gold coins, but now she’s dead she takes her revenge by killing them on the night their last baby tooth falls out. This has earned her the moniker “The Tooth Fairy” (see: Red Dragon) and her only way to avoid obliteration is to “stay in the light!” (see: Pitch Black). So, in a way this film is like Frankenstein’s monster. Not because it’s frightening, but because it has stolen bits from the available body of Hollywood film clichés and stuck them together to create something truly wretched. This is director Jonathan Liebesman’s first feature film and who knows, perhaps he’s just being modest. He’s clearly tried desperately to hide the fact that the script has more holes in it than Blackburn, Lancashire. He’s done so by casting Emma Caulfield and getting her to flash her cleavage every so often. Admittedly, casting actresses who can’t act but look great is a tactic used by many amateur film-makers. Most of them, however, work porn. As for the child (who sees dead people, by the way), he sounded remarkably like Droopy Dog and has a two-dimensional character to match. In short, Hollywood have really lowered the bar with this one. At eighty-five minutes, it’s mercifully short, but I still left the cinema knowing I’m that much closer to death and that much further from sanity. Watch paint dry instead.
ARCHIVE: 3rd Week TT 2003

Although Hope Springs doesn’t deserve the slating it has been given in the national media, chick flick afficionados will leave disappointed. Its biggest downfall is Heather Graham, who gives a thoroughly uninspiring performance. Her character Mandy appears first as a small-town girl but then quite unexpectedly downs half a bottle of brandy before midday and dances naked around a motel room. Colin Firth, who in the film has come to the small town of Hope, Vermont to escape his former fiancée Vera (Minnie Driver), plays the uptight Brit with ease, though he too has toe-curling moments. Driver plays a real bitch who swishes back to recover Colin, and she conforms to the English snob stereotype, bringing a hilarious breath of socially prejudiced vanity to the picture-postcard town full of nosey but nice Americans. While the plot lacks subtlety, unashamedly creating avenues for comedy, it gives the film a pace it would otherwise lack and doesn’t fail to raise a giggle. However, the opportunities for humour are by no means exploited to their full potential and it would appear that the Welsh clearly provide more comical potential than the Americans, in all their cheesy goofiness, ever will. Hope Springs joins this year’s rapidly increasing list of disappointing chick flicks, but that said it is a harmless way to spend 92 minutes. To the delight of box offices both sides of the Atlantic, it points fun at the Yanks and the Brits, capitalising on the stereotypes we all enjoy.
ARCHIVE: 3rd Week TT 2003

Everyone has an object of hatred. I remember working at a Virgin Megastore when J.E.E.P and ‘Have a Nice Day’ were being released. Maybe it was hearing them dozens of time a day that put Stereophonics as top of my all-time top five mosthated musicians. Though it could also be because they make banal, overproduced excrement. ‘Madame Helga’ is unfortunately nothing new. Luckily, the lead singer is trying so desperately to replace his Welsh accent with a sort of nondescript American bawl, that you cannot hear a word he says. I have to say that Kelly Jones is the dullest guitarist I’ve heard for a long time. On ‘Madame Helga’ he sounds like someone playing highlights of their Grade Four repertoire. As to their forthcoming album, I’d rather eat clay.
ARCHIVE: 3rd Week TT 2003

Less Than Jake must be dead old by now, but they remain capable of making solid ska-rock. ‘She’s Gonna Break Soon’ is a strong hook-filled shouty anthem. Unfortunately it attempts sensitivity. “It’s the boys in bars on Friday night that replace the emptiness inside.” Go tell it on the mountain… ‘Get Busy’ by Sean Paul is nothing special. “Let’s get it on, til the early morn, it’s all good, just turn me on” is as interesting as it gets. Shaggy probably sounded this forgettable during his lost years. Alexis Strumon the other hand sounds like a dull Kylie. ‘Addicted’ is insipid electro-pop about being a junkie. Please! Strum is a new non-talent that some stupid record label is wasting their money on. And she used to write music reviews in a student paper. Mega sad. All singles out Monday.
ARCHIVE: 3rd Week TT 2003

Ever since Marilyn Manson donned Aladdin Sane-style hair and make-up for the cover of Mechanical Animals, the world has suspected that wanted to be David Bowie. The Golden Age of Grotesque shows America’s most reviled fetishistic faux-goth adopting Bowie’s most impressive characteristic, the ability reinvent his persona for every album. Manson has cast off the cartoon horror of his debut, the grubby black metal chic of Antichrist Superstar and the religious parody of Holy Wood. This time, the man, the band, the legend, emerges as bizarre amalgamation of tarty burlesque hedonist and sleazy industrial rock star. Taking more than just leaf out of Nine Inch Nails’ book in terms of sharp beats and angsty lyrics, Manson has produced fusion of pervy grindcore and melodramatic groaning, ‘The Bright Young Things’ being a prime example, adding a dash of explosive rock ‘This Is The New Shit’. Oddly, Manson’s friendship with Eminem seems to have rubbed off on his music; the lyrics often turn towards hip hop posturing, with mentions of big cars, bitches and casual sex. And this isn’t the only ludicrous thing about the lyrics. We’ve always known Manson was no poet, but Grotesque has some really awful lines: “I memorise the words to the porno movies, this is a new religion to me” and “I won’t pull out, I just came”. Manson’s deadpan seriousness in wailing these corkers out, banshee style, detracts from the album’s good points, namely its well-mixed beats and darkly atmospheric sounds. Stranger still, there is a curious singalong feel to a couple of tracks, notably ‘Slutgarden’ and ‘mOBSCENE’, the latter being a shameless rip-off of Faith No More’s ‘Be Aggressive’, which Manson is clearly hoping his Kindergoth fans are too young to remember. But Manson isn’t just for the kids in Slipknot hoodies; if you can get past the pseudo-artistic pretentiousness of the frontman whose egocentricity is embarrassingly evident from the album’s artwork, you will be rewarded with some guaranteed rock nite favourites and some quality music-to-shag-to for goths.
ARCHIVE: 3rd Week TT 2003

Openers Six Ray Sun had to contend with a handful of people wishing they were in the real sun, yet hammered out their usual mix of electro punk rock unabashed. Sorry boys, I’d go back to Japan, because frankly you’re not remarkable here anymore. Newcomers The Delays took to the stage with a startling confidence. It was probably due to their ‘Rough Trade’ upbringing, and the melodic rock was undoubtedly harmless, but their alarming tendency to sound like Del Amitri may well prove to be their downfall. The Zodiac were dubbing Clearlake as “Brighton’s Eccentrics” yet the curse of failing sound system struck again, and the set began slowly. But struggling through screeching was moody, sexy rock, which deserved to be heard clearly. They were at their best at heaviest, and most seedy singer Jason cooed how he wanted to hurt and harm, and somehow made this strangely appealing. The highlight was most recent single ‘Almost the Same’, ironically sounding very similar every other song played. “I vow at this moment that will never be any good”, was announcement of the which got the biggest cheer well at least they are not making false promises.
ARCHIVE: 3rd Week TT 2003

CLUBBING COLD AND FUNKY PRESENTS House-core electro beat breaks and hip-hop groove mash off with Karl Murphy and Keith Anderson. GIGGING THERAPY? The ultimate in angsty metal-core, grinding grunge-death and gothmosh . Go along and mourn having missed Mogwai.
ARCHIVE: 3rd Week TT 2003