Reincarnation romance films are sometimes silly, mostly melodramatic, but always overlooked as a subgenre. Usually an excuse for the costume department to dig into their luxurious period back catalogues, these cinematic gems are hidden in plain sight across time and space, from the Pre-Code era to modern contention at the Venice Film Festival. There’s an inexplicable magic to these movies that keeps me coming back again and again (…and again…) which leaves me to wonder: did I love them in my past life too?
I should define exactly what I mean by ‘reincarnation romances’. Fantasy was a popular genre throughout the 1930s and ‘40s, testing the capabilities of the growing cinematic form with the latest visual effects technology and providing much-needed extraordinary escapism to countries first combating economic depression then a Second World War. I’d argue this subgenre – centring tropes of eternally youthful-looking stars loving each other irrespective of time, hardship and even death – was born out of a need for spiritual comfort at a time of youth death unprecedented in scale. Indeed, the niche saw a small resurgence in the late ‘80s and early ‘90s, likely as a result of the AIDs epidemic which similarly wiped out a generation of otherwise healthy people with their whole lives ahead of them.
As for the movies themselves, most deal with a man who is either cursed with immortality or memories of his past life pursuing an unaware reincarnation of his ‘one true love’. This can be devastatingly tragic and romantic, like in personal favourite Pandora and the Flying Dutchman (1951), or haunting and horrifying, like in Universal’s 1932 classic The Mummy. Sometimes, perhaps the more socially conscious entries in the genre include the woman remembering her past lives in order to break free from generational cycles of mistreatment and abuse. Whether she succeeds or succumbs to the inevitable pull of true love depends: I Married a Witch – a spellbindingly silly screwball comedy – ends with the expected Hays Code-ordained marriage after an enchantingly entertaining enemies-to-lovers back-and-forth, while Timestalker – a witty subversion of the genre – has Alice Lowe’s lead realise she’s falling for Mr. Wrong in every time period. This niche could easily be confused with what I call ‘second-chance reincarnation’ stories such as Ghost, Here Comes Mr Jordan or A Matter of Life and Death, but crucially those don’t involve such a long time span, and aren’t so anchored to the fantastical.
What I love most about this subgenre is its sheer versatility: reincarnation romances easily slot into wider narratives of comedy, horror, drama and mystery. Even Alfred Hitchcock toyed with the tropes in what his considered his masterpiece, Vertigo (if you’re a fan of Hitchcock and want to see the trope played ‘straight’, I humbly beg you check out Kenneth Branagh’s Dead Again for a melodramatic yet loving pastiche with an incredible cast). Their appeal also derives from their unwavering focus on the feminine experience: the leads are always female – conniving, curious, compassionate… multi-faceted! – and when their darker elements are played up the horror comes from forcing women into roles they were ‘born into’, but reject. Take 1948’s Corridor of Mirrors for example, co-written by lead actress Edana Romney, where Eric Portman’s obsessed artist attempts to coerce Romney into his reincarnation fantasy, isolating her from husband and wider society. Though she enjoys the freedoms of sexual expression, she can’t stand literally being in another woman’s shoes, whether hers from a past life or not. 1942’s Malombra takes on similar themes, leaning on analysis of hysteria; 2023’s The Beast confronts incel culture and women ‘owing’ men companionship in a fascinating way; while 1992’s Candyman may be the most chilling and compelling case yet. All I highly recommend.
Besides the romantic content of the films’ stories, we can also consider the lost art of repeatedly casting couples overflowing with sexual chemistry a kind of ‘reincarnation romance’. Back in the days of the studio system, if producers caught sparks flying between a pair of the silver screen’s finest stars, they did not let it slide. There’s no greater guaranteed joy than settling down to watch Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers; William Powell and Myrna Loy; Katharine Hepburn and Cary Grant fall in and out of love in as many as ten different lifetimes and stories. It really makes you wonder why we don’t know when we have a good thing nowadays. Sure, there are three starring vehicles for Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks, but where is my follow-up on Timothy Dalton and Fran Drescher after Beautician and the Beast? I had best hope David Jonsson and Vivian Oparah will be paired again after 2023’s modern classic Rye Lane, otherwise I will have to have a stern word.
At a time where streaming services and studios are churning out lifeless ‘reincarnations’ (or rather ghoulish ‘reanimations’) of old favourites like there’s no tomorrow, I urge you to look for the classics of yesterday and give them a go! I expect readers of the modern ‘Romantasy’ trend in literature would find plenty to enjoy in these dark romances with atmospheric black-and-white cinematography; beautifully eloquent performances in period costume; and stories with eternities’ worth of yearning that will stick with you throughout this lifetime… and perhaps the next.
Joe Keller, played by Tristan Hood, represents the American dream. He is a wealthy businessman with a traditional family with a surviving son that is about to marry. Like the ideal American man in the 1940s, his morality is shaped by the traditional family obligations and capitalism.
Yet Arthur Miller’sAll My Sons, performed by Exeter College Drama Society does not have a happy ending. It was a tragedy that examines the complex dynamics of a family living in post-war America in the 1940s. Joe Keller who owned a factory that manufactured plane engines for the US military. After being charged with shipping defective plane engines that caused the death of twenty one pilots, Joe was exonerated by shifting the blame onto his business partner who was convicted.
It is an opinionated play that reveals the destructive result caused by an individual morally bankrupted by capitalism and burdened by American traditional family values. Directed by Emily White, the play’s sceptical undertones towards American capitalism and family values are highlighted.
Set in the gardens of Exeter College, the play opens with the audience seemingly eavesdropping on the conversation of Joe Keller’s family. Act I establishes the tensions with the family: between Joe and his wife Kate (Savannah Brooks) on the death of their son Larry, between Joe and his son Chris about whether the latter will stay at home, and between Kate and Chris on his decision to marry Ann Deever (Honor Thompson), the daughter of Joe’s convicted partner.
An inattentive audience may never catch these three relationships and everything else that were buried within the conversations. That does not come as a surprise. The play is designed as such that the audience is seemingly intruding into the midst of a family conversation and the slow unravelling of the entirety of the situation only happens at the end of Act I.
Act II sees the turning point in the play when George Deever (Paul Tomlinson), son of Joe’s convicted partner, arrives at Joe’s house to retrieve Ann. Tomlinson precisely portrayed the emotional instability and distress with a tinge of insanity that seems to be ready to spill over at any moment. The conversation between George and the rest of the characters demonstrates each actor’s strong control and understanding of their role.
It is also in Act II that the audience sees a brilliant portrayal of Kate Keller (Savannah Brooks). Kate Keller is a despicable character; she bears the qualities of a matriarch of a typical American family that is supposed to be loving and act as the powerful counterbalance to the father. Yet she also represents everything that is wrong when those qualities are amplified; being overly caring leads to her refusal to accept the death of Larry, and being overly generous leading to her implicating Joe’s guilt in backstabbing his partner. The fact that Kate is hateable demonstrates Brook’s talent.
Finally, Act III is highlighted by the performance of Joe Keller. Joe’s character is complex; he is a man of explosive temper who struggles between doing what is right versus doing what is best for his family. The grasp on this character’s emotional depth is portrayed perfectly as Hood conveys Joe’s dedication to his business and most importantly the silent sacrifices he made to his family. It is the anguish, pain, and helplessness that the character displayed in the final moments of Act III that defines Joe’s character and is an excellent reflection of the calibre of the actor.
The play and actors make an artful choice with silence. Like in Sidney Lumet’s 12 Angry Men, the play uses silence to build up tension. It is the pauses between the arguments and the changing volume of conversation that kept the arguments realistic and unpredictable. It places the audience in a constant state of anxiety to speculate the direction in which a dispute is going to go.
The one aspect I remained unconvinced by was the depth of love that existed between Chris and Ann. There was not enough revealed, either emotionally or through the substantive writing of the play, to build up the audience’s approval of the relationship between these two. Therefore, when it came to Chris’s decision to leave, the decision did not have the gravitas that it should have had.
Nevertheless, it is because of the excellent performance of each individual actor that the themes of All My Sons were drawn out clearly. Its commentary on capitalism and the family values in post war America remains relevant to this day. This was not a simple play. Yet, it was well executed. To this end, I extend all my compliments to the cast and crew.
All the guests arrived and promptly took their seats, as one of the directors (Seb Carrington) announced the play would begin in 5 minutes. I arrived just in time, took my seat, pen in hand, and waited eagerly for the production I’d so anticipated. And then – it began.
Prospero (Artemis Betts) entered, her movement a curious blend of authority and elegance, swaying down the aisle with an ethereal lightness that both veiled and affirmed her power. She reached the centre of the garden stage, stared us down, and planted her wand firmly on the ground – as if commanding us to listen.
The production started in media res. Alonso (Kabir Suri), Gonzalo (Mikela Persson), Antonio (Maxangelo Fenwick), Sebastian (Zoe Rawlings), Trinculo (Tom Onslow) and Ferdinand (Toby Bowes Lyon) appeared at the back of the garden, raised on a stone stage. They screamed into the microphone – words indistinct but raw with panic – as thunder crashed and the ship sank. Prospero stood centre-stage, still and silent, staring out at us; invisible to them, unmistakable to us. From the very first scene, it was clear: She was in control.
Despite the dramatic beginning, this level of exhilaration did not continue throughout the play. (For context on my review, I’ve only read The Tempest once and haven’t analysed or seen many productions of it, so my sense of how the narrative should be presented isn’t fully formed. However, based on my knowledge of Shakespeare, The Tempestcertainly isn’t one of his most action-packed plays, making it particularly challenging to keep the audience engaged.) Thus, to maintain interest, this production, at times, leaned into some of the play’s comedic elements.
Mikela’s portrayal of Gonzalo was particularly effective, capturing his innocent awkwardness through expressive hand gestures and wandering movements. As she rambled across the stage, stopping, and touching the grass she exclaimed, “How lush and lusty the grass looks!” Her comic physicality prompted a burst of laughter from the audience.
The drunken duo, Trinculo (Tom Onslow) and Stephano (Zoe Rucker), were clearly audiences’ favourites. Their unmatched chemistry, expressed through perfectly timed comic glances, was so strong that even their arrival on stage sparked laughter.
Audibility was a challenge throughout the play – understandable in an outdoor setting where wind and birds chirping often took centre stage. Thus, I often found myself engaging more with the actors’ facial expressions, which were consistently expressive and compelling. Artemis as Prospero was particularly striking; her piercing glares created a powerful presence, while her tone with Miranda and Ferdinand, shifting from gentleness to anger, clearly conveyed her complex, manipulative nature. Her physical gestures, like her guiding of Caliban’s movements, added depth to her control.
Background noise posed no problem for Miranda (Anabelle Higgins) and Ariel (EP Siegel), whose voices projected clearly across the garden. Miranda’s shifting tones and expressive facial acting conveyed the changing emotions of her relationship with Ferdinand (Toby Bowes Lyon). Toby as Ferdinand portrayed a consistent sense of discomfort that reflected the rushed nature of their relationship, though through this portrayal the initial spark between the characters was not as apparent. Miranda’s voice and facial expressions moved from wonder and fascination at the first meeting to fear and confusion as Prospero essentially forced their engagement. Ariel’s majestic singing added a layer of magic and mystery to the play’s atmosphere.
The play came to its end with a slightly more dramatic tone than the original. Propsero’s power further faded when she released Ariel from her control. The emotive nature of this scene was particularly effective as Ariel stared at Prospero, removed their jacket, and threw it down, before walking down the aisle and laughing maniacally. Director, Seb Carrington, told Cherwell that by the end Ariel had realised that Prospero “is not a good person.” In my view, Ariel’s laughter reflected a sense of relief and joy at their freedom despite its sinister nature.
Miranda appeared, after a costume change, wearing a corset that clearly physically restrained her. Directors, Seb Carrington and Aidan Lazarou, told Cherwell this symbolises “the control Prospero exerts over them,” rushing them into an engagement as one of the last things she can command before losing her power. Prospero’s final speech marks her total loss of authority as she relinquished her rule over the island and prepared to return to Milan – a place she was once oppressed, returning power to men. Although Prospero’s final soliloquy wasn’t delivered with full intensity, the powerful symbolism somewhat compensated. Her dropping of the wand, so firmly held at the start, marked her surrender – she is both physically and symbolically letting go of the magic power that defined her. The moment was heightened further by a dramatic spotlight which faded as the production ended.
While not groundbreaking in its choice of a female Prospero, this production effectively portrays a woman who, as Seb Carrington told Cherwell, “uses her trauma to control and manipulate others.” This production rejuvenates The Tempest through a skilful blend of comedy and tragedy, using the female Prospero’s loss of power to highlight political themes around authority, gender and control, which demonstrates Shakespeare’s enduring relevance.
While the genre of historical musical theatre centred around US politicians may be dominated by Hamilton, Bush! The Musical has earned a place in this niche. This original comedy musical by Lincoln College’s Vincent Chen sets itself apart with its funny, ridiculous, and musically strong satire of George W. Bush’s eight years in office. The inherent campiness of musical theatre integrated perfectly with the inherent silliness of a president with a Wikipedia article dedicated to his “unconventional” English.
Sitting ready at the back of stage before the play began, the pared-back three-person band (consisting of George Ke on keyboard, Sophie Li on bass guitar, and Rei French on drums) was an early sign of the production’s functional minimalism. The score was pretty simple but effective – mostly genre-typical showtunes with the classic swing-time hi-hat hits, walking bass, and extended chords. ‘We Will Iraq You’ was a notable exception – a parody of the world-famous Queen song based on the controversial declaration of the invasion. The iconic kick drum and snare beat had the seats shaking with the stomps of the audience. A number of songs were accompanied solely by the keyboard. This and the necessarily small size of the bass amp left the vocals sounding lonely and the mix feeling empty at times.
Overall, the band served as excellent backing for the singers, but some parts of it occasionally felt lacking in confidence. Hesitation and hastily corrected slip-ups initially marred the effortless jazzy feel, but, by the time the finale arrived and the US flag was streaming across the stage, they’d definitely got into their stride, flawlessly playing out the full-cast musical number. The singers conveyed the catchy melodies very well as they marched peppily and enthusiastically around stage in choreography by Rebecca Harper. Wren Talbot-Ponsonby in particular performed an impressively high kick in the role of a George H.W. Bush well into his 70s. Despite not having microphones, their voices always managed to fill the acoustic space of Wadham College’s Moser Theatre. The whole cast acted engagingly with comic timing that never felt rushed nor delayed. Vivi Li’s central role as George W. Bush set a good comedic tone with his childlike petulance. The role of Dick Cheney allowed Freddie Houlahan to exhibit his theatrical talent – an impressive range from scarily angry politician to sobbing and heartbroken teen.
Very aware of its own genre, the clichés of musical theatre were put to good use in caricaturising the Bush administration. The ridiculous juxtaposition of real US politics with jazz hands and high notes allowed the audience to suspend their disbelief enough to laugh at the satirical depiction. This awareness of media extended to references to memes like the Steamed Hams sequence in The Simpsons and American Psycho’s business card scene. Referential humour can often fall flat, but these didn’t feel out of place even to people who missed the reference. They were integrated well as part of the narrative and made me laugh and then feel slightly ashamed about my hours of screen time when I had to explain the references to my companion.
Beyond that, the tongue-in-cheek writing, puns, and moments of silliness made the piece a hilarious and memorable watch. While George H.W. Bush (Wren Talbot-Ponsonby) and Barbara Bush (Riya Bhattacharjee) looked the audience in the eye to give parental wisdom like “Everyone successful relies on other people” and “Avoid breaking up with your spouse” (poking fun at the necessity of morals in stories), it’s pearls of Vincent Chen’s writing like “rock-proof glass-proof rock” that really made me think. Of course, as historical theatre, it didn’t need to come up with a lot of original story. Nevertheless, I thought the transformation of real-world politics into a more typical Disney-style narrative was executed elegantly – covering tropes from love triangles to a charismatic evil villain, with his associated cowering minions (Josh Bruton as Al Gore, and Freya Owen and Arthur Bellamy as Nancy Pelosi and Harry Reid). Towards the end, though, it went really off the historical rails with a massive twist and two decidedly inaccurate named character deaths.
The comedic unseriousness of the production worked hand in hand with its small size. If it wanted to be taken seriously, the minimal costume changes, set design, casting, and the genuine mistakes would be detrimental. Instead, it was even more endearing and funny when characters wore puffer jackets and sunglasses over their dresses and suits, or mimed eating imaginary food at an empty table. The Freudian double-casting of Riya Bhattacharjee as both Bush’s mother and wife earned a laugh when they switched roles on stage, taking off their hat and taking on an entirely different persona – some impressive acting in its own right. It really added to the performance when the drummer Rei French had to shepherd a ball of yarn off stage as it got caught on a stand and unravelled.
The lighting by Felix Gibbons and Matthew Arakcheev, and sound design by Iona Blair were utilised very effectively. The stage was flooded with blue or red to represent the disagreeing parties, and blinded with white as the narrator (Molly Dineley) took on a more divine role. Background protests and eerie siren songs helped sell the settings of the Bush house and the Gore lair respectively. The production’s worst enemy was the hardwood floor, which, when combined with the mid-scene dragging in of various pieces of furniture, occasionally distracted from the dialogue.
This was my first watch of a comedy musical, and I hope it hasn’t set the bar too high. The production took itself just seriously enough to deliver solid comedic performances and an engaging narrative while also maintaining its core absurdity. It made its small budget work to its advantage and revelled in its own silliness.
Three Oxford University students completed four ultramarathons for charity last week: Thomas Milton (St Hilda’s College), and Harry Kyd and Jack Harper-Hill (the Queen’s College), ran in aid of motor neurone disease (MND) research. Their route began in Oxford and ended at Big Ben, covering 85km the first day, 66km on the second, and 50km on the third. In total, they ran around 200km.
They were inspired by prominent rugby players, such as Doddie Wier and Rob Burrows, who had raised awareness of the correlation between concussions and development of MND. Kevin Sinfield was a particularly strong influence. Thomas told Cherwell how they admired his “unbelievable work over the years to raise awareness for this important cause”, and how “unreal” it had been to receive a text message from him supporting their efforts.
The idea for the ultramarathon first came in December 2024, “over a pint in Chequers”. Each of the runners had been involved in sport before, but not to the level of an ultramarathon – Jack said he had “only ever run a distance of around 5km before this”.
While Harry admitted that the planning process did begin on ChatGPT, they quickly sought “proper training planners”. In the end, an ex-Royal Marine, now online PT, helped them put together a plan. It consisted of 3 runs per week: one longer run over 30km, one recovery run at a slower pace, and one fast run at a “shorter distance” of 10-15km.
The run itself began at 3:30am, which Thomas said “made the whole thing feel really serious”. Parents, friends, and rugby teammates joined at various points throughout the 200km, which “made the whole thing so much more enjoyable”. The runners agreed, however, that the best part was the finish. Harry told Cherwell: “It was raining and cold and windy but just the thought that we’d actually completed [the run] made it the most incredible feeling”. Similarly, Thomas emphasised the “amazing feeling” of realising they’d completed their goals.
The journey wasn’t without its challenges. By the second day, Jack had damaged his tendon and Harry had torn his hamstring. Jack “had to straight leg walk some of the way, repeating just “left right left right” until the finish line”. He spoke of having to “make sure we worked as a team and set any egos aside, which was a really good opportunity to build ourselves.”
The runners’ goal was to raise money for MND research, but increasing awareness was of equal importance. On the route, Harry spoke of how “there were a lot of people that stopped us (after recognising our MNDA[Motor Neurone Disease Association] tops) to let us know that they had been affected by MND.”
Motor neurone disease affects up to 5,000 adults in the UK at any one time, and kills six people per day. It attacks the nerves controlling movement, preventing muscles from working, but generally leaving the senses unaffected. As a result, those with the disease are “locked in a failing body”, without the ability to move, talk, or, eventually, breathe. It currently has no cure.
Recently, research has pointed to a link between head injuries and the risk of developing neurodegenerative diseases like MND, with elite rugby players at a greater risk than the general population. Rob Burrow, former England rugby player, died aged 41 from the disease in 2022. He had been involved in fundraising with Kevin Sinfield, his former team-mate. Sinfield has raised over £7 million for MND.
Thomas, Harry, and Jack set their fundraising target at £5,000. At the time of writing, their JustGiving page showed £9,495 raised, almost doubling their target. Including Gift Aid, the total is over £11,000. The runners spoke of future fundraising efforts through further challenges, like a coast to coast run. However, for now, they said “they’ll stick with recovering and fundraising/promoting this one.” They highlighted their gratitude to “all who came along the way”, who they “would not have done without”.
Before the runners had completed the ultramarathons, the MND Association’s Head of Community Fundraising Operations, Amy Kilpatrick said: “We are so grateful to Thomas, Harry and Jack for taking on this challenge and for choosing to support the Association in this way.
“Over the past five years, our Patron Kevin Sinfield CBE has done an extraordinary amount to not only raise money on behalf of MND charities but to raise awareness of MND as well and we are delighted the students have been inspired by him to take on a challenge of their own.
“The money raised will help us to improve care and support for people living with MND and their families, while also helping to fund important research into this devastating disease.
“We wish them all the very best of luck with the challenge.”
Oxford’s historic charm is being reshaped. Not by the hands of time, but by the relentless expansion of its own University. For decades, Colleges have played a cutthroat game of Monopoly, gobbling up properties, bulldozing community spaces, and transforming neighbourhoods into sterile academic annexes. Students, just passing through this ancient city, barely notice the metamorphosis. But beyond the libraries and quads, a quieter crisis unfolds: Oxford’s soul is being hollowed out. Independent shops shutter, beloved venues vanish, and rents skyrocket to absurd heights, ignored as collateral damage in the University’s imperial march for growth. This isn’t mere NIMBY whining; it’s a slow suffocation of our city’s heartbeat.
A quick glance at any local Facebook page will tell you a very consistent story. Locals are fed up with us for what seems to be the University’s expansion into their neighbourhoods. What once were community spaces are now cut-and-paste accommodation and offices, which in turn makes Oxford less liveable for someone who has no need for either.
The thing is, as a student here, I’d like to dismiss this as NIMBYism, but it’s the truth. Does anybody here remember the Warehouse nightclub? It was before my time, personally. It sat on 42 Parkend Street. On the off-chance that the Nuffield College administration reads the Cherwell, they’d recognise it as their administrative offices, and a few rooms for the sociology department. The rest of us, however, wouldn’t recognise it. Why would we? What was once for everyone, is now a building for a few dozen people.
On Cornmarket Street, businesses have come and gone, shutting within mere years of opening. Burger King disappeared in 2020, LEON in 2024 – the list goes on.. Naturally, we should not shed a tear for multi-million-pound fast food chains. However, Burger King explicitly pointed to Jesus College’s rent prices as the reason for their closure, and similar rumours surfaced on LEON’s closure. How high the rent must be, that a billion-dollar company can be priced out, boggles the mind.
Many of us have seen our own high streets and social areas at home die off in the wake of COVID, and the same thing is happening to Oxford five years later, courtesy of the University. Their rationale seems to be as follows. The more people who get the chance to study in Oxford, the better, and the more resources Colleges have at their disposal, the better. This sounds good; after all, life here is so good, you’d want to share it with as many people as possible, right? The logic falls apart rather quickly, however. Oxford is what it is, not because of office blocks, but because of the spaces both Town and Gown may enjoy. Clubs, restaurants, cafes, simply cannot exist if colleges continue their rent-hike tirades and aggressive acquisitions.
A final thought. It feels downright evil to close spaces students probably won’t have heard of to expand the University’s resources, when its impact directly harms the roughly 160,000 people already living here. Most of us students will live in Oxford for three years, then pay it an occasional visit following graduation. We don’t have to treat it like our forever-home, and so we have no regard for places we’d have no need for. This makes us complacent, whilst the University’s colleges rid the city of the few social spaces for both Town and Gown still here. We should be living together with Oxford’s residents, not separated and locked in a war for control over the city.
This article was amended on 11th June 2025. A previous version incorrectly suggested that Magdalen College owned the land on which Oxford’s Hollywood Bowl and Vue Cinema are located and that the College was involved in redevelopment plans on this site. Cherwell apologies for this inaccuracy.
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Student theatre has always thrived on experimentation, collaboration, and the courage to speak up. So Far, So Good, a new piece of original writing by Melissa Chetata-Brooks, undoubtedly embraces all three. From its very first moment, a stark countdown projected onto a television screen, the play situates itself as a work with something urgent to say.
Drawing inspiration from the cult French film La Haine, it promises an unflinching look at grief, community, and the cycles of violence, with a particular focus on the impact of knife crime in the UK. The production’s heart is also in the right place, raising awareness for the Ben Kinsella Trust, a charity that works against violent crimes through education, and showcasing a richly diverse cast and creative team.
What makes So Far, So Good compelling in concept is its desire to break traditional boundaries, not just thematically, but in its form. The play integrates music, photography, and video into the storytelling. A raised bedroom set cleverly evokes adolescence, while the live DJ, who scores scene transitions, provides moments of atmospheric immersion that sometimes outshine the dramatic action itself. At times, the soundtrack is so arresting that it momentarily pulls the audience out of the plot, leaving one almost tempted to ask for the DJ’s playlist rather than follow the next twist of the story.
The performances are spirited, and several cast members bring a striking presence to the stage. Alexa (Damola Arin) is especially strong as the voice of reason among a group of teenagers caught in cycles of violence and mistrust. Arin delivers her lines with a grounded conviction that offers the audience an anchor in a narrative full of instability. Her moments of lightness are just as impactful as her serious ones, as when she deadpans “This isn’t the 1950s” during a conversation about leaving an abusive partner, eliciting a much-needed burst of laughter from the audience amidst the play’s heavier moments.
Other standout scenes include a heart-wrenching exchange between Josh (Kwame Appafram) and the mother of Isaiah, who was killed before the beginning of the play, and Sheila (Arya Coban), which offers a rare pause for grief to be processed rather than performed. Joseph Beckett as Cain brings an unsettling authenticity to the role of Kia’s (Carla Mukasa) abusive boyfriend. So much so that when he calmly microwaved a lasagna mid-argument, I was gripped by an overwhelming urge to leap onstage and fling it straight into his smug face, ideally while it was still scalding-hot from the microwave.
But So Far, So Good also grapples with a recurring issue in student-written theatre: how to match strong themes with a coherent script. There are frequent moments of poetic ambition – Kayla’s monologue near the end is delivered with emotional force by Nyla Thomas – but the writing at times feels rushed or under-explored. Motives shift quickly, and characters occasionally serve the demands of the plot over psychological depth. For example, Kayla’s sister, Kia’s, relationship with Cain is clearly central to the story, yet the nature of her dependence on him remains vague. Given that she seems to live with her siblings and has other forms of support, her continued attachment to him is underwritten, making her eventual tragic fate feel more like a narrative necessity than a character-driven outcome.
The play’s most symbolic device – a gun that passes from hand to hand, eventually resulting in Kia’s accidental death – raises further questions. While a direct nod to La Haine’s motif of circular violence, its presence in this setting strains plausibility. The characters are teenagers in Oxfordshire, involved in low-level drug activity at most. The ease with which a gun is obtained and how casually it is passed between characters feels more like a borrowed cinematic trope than an organically integrated plot point. It gestures toward the gravity of systemic violence but lacks the infrastructural context that would make it believable.
Some narrative choices are similarly discordant. At one point, Alexa offers Kia £20 to leave town and pursue her dreams of becoming an actress. The gesture is sweet, but also jarringly unrealistic, especially in an economic climate where £20 barely covers a train ticket, let alone a new life. Other lines, like Kayla’s sudden insistence that she’s the one holding everything together and taking care of everyone, are delivered with power but lack sufficient buildup provided that no indication of this had been given before, creating emotional beats that don’t always feel entirely earned.
That said, the production’s sincerity and ambition are undeniable. The use of multimedia, the focus on inclusivity, and the determination to tell stories about marginalised experiences are all crucial contributions to Oxford’s theatrical landscape. Chetata-Brooks speaks with great clarity in her interview about the need for student theatre to evolve into a space where multiple art forms intersect and where new voices are embraced on their own terms, without being reduced to labels like “diverse” or treated as a “niche” interest. Her work is a direct manifestation of that vision.
So Far, So Good may not be polished, and some moments feel less fully realised, but it’s a production that deserves attention and respect for what it sets out to do. It asks its audience to engage with uncomfortable truths, and even when its storytelling falters, its underlying message comes through: these characters, these stories, and these conversations matter. For a debut play, it shows remarkable promise, and more importantly, it opens the door for others to step forward and try, fail, or succeed on their own terms. In student theatre, that is something to be encouraged, and should never be critiqued out of existence.
Tucked away in a room at Worcester College, I sat in on a rehearsal of Ella Hickson’s The Writer (2018), which Fennec Fox Productions is bringing to the Michael Pilch theatre this term. My immediate thought? Anyone even remotely interested in theatre has to see The Writer.
Even from the few scenes I watched, it is clear that this is not an ‘easy play’. The play begins with a seemingly straightforward encounter between a young female writer (Rose Martin) and an older male director (Christina Hutchings), yet this is quickly revealed to be part of her script-in-progres. What follows is a series of layered, at times surreal scenes, which uncover more about the writer’s life and artistic project. The cast have the difficult task of moving between multiple roles and navigating various layers of reality. It is knotty and difficult, challenging traditional theatrical form while exposing the power structures embedded within it. The production team are leaning into this tension by staging the entire play on the diagonal. In other words, the Pilch will literally be tilting off its axis.
Director Joshua Robey told me about the first time he saw the play in 2018: “I was really drawn to it because it’s got some quite scathing things to say about theatre as an industry in general.” But it’s not just about ‘Theatre’ with a capital T. First performed in 2018, Hickson’s play spoke to a range of pressing issues, from #MeToo to Trump – all issues which remain alive today. Theatre becomes an extension of the broader social arena, foregrounding questions of who gets to be heard, and who is expected to stay silent.
“This is not going to be like anything anyone’s seen in Oxford before,” Robey assured me. “There is a radical argument running through the play which is balanced by a sort of pragmatism and realism. We are letting the play speak for itself.”
With such complex material, it can be tempting to fall into analysis before even starting to rehearse. Robey explained how the production team had been cautious not to get bogged down in questions of meaning or interpretation. Instead, his approach was to take each scene on its own terms – making it as visceral and immediate as possible. Rather than getting caught up in questions about whether you were a character or a character within a character, the cast were challenged with simply committing to the reality they were currently performing; or in the audience’s case, watching.
Watching Robey led the actors through a scene, this scene-by-scene approach became especially clear. They would pause and discuss, “What is happening here? What is my character thinking?” Each scene is investigated in itself, prioritising the character’s immediate emotional stakes over how the broader, complex narrative might be interpreted.
The rehearsal atmosphere was intense, but deeply collaborative. All the actors told me how fulfilling this process has been. Gabriella Ofo, playing the character of ‘Female actor/ girlfriend’, said: “In order to act them, you have to really understand who these characters are, what they want or what they need.”
The cast also highlighted the challenges of switching between characters and emotional states without much transitional material. Susie Weidmann, who is playing both ‘Male Actor’ and ‘Boyfriend’, told me: “It’s weird playing this doubling throughout. The director’s take on characters I am also playing may be weird and strange. It’s really fun.”
You will have seen posters for The Writer everywhere: Rose submerged in the river, framed as Millais’ Ophelia. While the specific Shakespearean reference may be tangential, this marketing foregrounds the play’s discussion about how women are represented in art. There is intimacy in The Writer, but Robey was keen to point out how Hickson had written it very deliberately in order to escape the pitfalls of representing intimacy on stage. “She is very aware that just by being on a stage, a woman becomes visible in certain ways. While the intimacy may be more extreme than you might expect, the material avoids the pitfalls of women being objectified.”
On another note, Robey also told me: “The Writer is also about money. It is a timeless story about selling out, and what you’re willing to give up in order to make profit.” This emphasis on artistic compromise speaks directly to the realities of student theatre in Oxford, and why this production, in particular, feels pointed. Unlike a lot of universities, Oxford uses a production company system, where students are encouraged to set up a company and run it like a business. Inevitably, people are incentivised to do shows that will sell really well, making as much money as possible.
Robey explained: “A lot of people are really deterred from the £500 that you need to do a show with rights, so we are seeing a lot less contemporary drama than you get in a lot of other universities.” This is one of the reasons he wanted to do this play, a play which is all about “that frustration with an economic model that makes theatre less exciting than it should be.” With that in mind, staging The Writer in Oxford, where budgets are tight and expectations are even tighter, become a central part of the play’s urgency and relevance.
When asked about his hopes for the play, Robey explained that he just wanted audiences to come away with the same thrill he had in 2018, watching experimental theatre which refused to play by the rules. With the energy and talent of this cast and crew, it seems likely that The Writer will do exactly that.
“All art is quite useless,” declared Oscar Wilde in the preface to The Picture of Dorian Grey. It’s a provocative claim, inviting us to reconsider how we view the portraits which line Oxford’s dining halls, libraries, and examination rooms. Taking Wilde’s comment in all seriousness, can we learn to appreciate these paintings not simply for who is depicted, but instead, for how they are painted? In essence: can we attempt to separate the art from the subject? I believe that, with some adjustments, we can do so.
While sitting down in a formal hall in most Oxford colleges, students often find themselves under the watchful gaze of painted benefactors and alumni from long ago, robed in tradition and surrounded by crests. In Examination Schools, where portraits loom large above rows of anxious undergraduates, one might look up in search of inspiration (or distraction) and meet a face from centuries past.
These portraits have, perhaps unsurprisingly, become the subject of intense debate. Who deserves to be hanging on Oxford’s walls? Who no longer belongs? Do these figures reflect the values we seek to uphold today? These are essential questions, but not ones I seek to answer here. Instead, I want to question something more aesthetic than political: can we momentarily set aside the subject and simply appreciate the portrait as art?
To be clear, these works do reflect the hierarchies, values, and exclusions of their time. A portrait which was deemed suitable in the 17th Century might not pass the same test today. Even so, there remains a case for preservation, not as an endorsement, but as a record of change. In fact, it’s fun to consider who from today’s cohort would be immortalised in oil. Cherwell BNOCs, top-class academics, Blues athletes, Union hacks, thespians? Perhaps such a list would best elucidate how our standards and symbols of success have shifted. In any case, I believe it’s important to preserve historical portraits; it reflects the evolution of an institution.
But perhaps we’ve become over-accustomed to viewing this art predominantly through a political or institutional lens when it’s also about aesthetics. Could we adopt a different approach? That is, could we momentarily focus on Oxford’s portraits not for who they represent, but for how – the brushwork, light, colour, and form?
This is the approach of aesthetic formalism: a way of seeing which values composition over content. Could portraits be appreciated purely as a study in tone, mood, or technique?
Some argue no. They maintain an art’s subject is intrinsically linked to its essence. In his work Art and Illusion, art historian Sir Ernst Gombrich suggested that our appreciation of art is deeply rooted in psychological and cultural context. When viewing a painting, we bring knowledge and expectations with us. Extrapolating from this theory, understanding who the sitter is and what they represent is inseparable from how we experience the work.
Yet is this truly the case? In Immanuel Kant’s Critique of Judgement, he emphasises the idea that beauty can be experienced disinterestedly, without needing to understand the subject. In this sense, perhaps a portrait could be appreciated in the same way we admire a flower. Not because we know its history or symbolism, but due to its visual appearance. When we look at a flower, we do not necessarily appreciate the beauty in it due to its complex biological makeup. It is simply… beautiful.
In the same way, could Oxford’s art not simply be… art? We can appreciate the portraiture for its artistic merit and what it tells us about the evolution of portraiture itself. L’art pour l’art – art for art’s sake.
Yet, a flower is not a former benefactor. Portraits, unlike flowers, were made to honour individuals with particular legacies. So, while formalism does offer one valuable method of seeing, it cannot be the only one.
I do agree with the viewpoint that new art can be valuable to the current collections. In particular, I value the importance of representing a diverse range of what success can look like. Above all, one notes the underrepresentation of women and ethnic minorities on college walls when compared with today’s student composition. Juxtaposing old portraits with more modern ones can be beneficial to showcase current, or more recent, leadership, benefactors, or prominent alumnae. Such contributions can deepen – not dilute – Oxford’s traditions. This combination does not offer erasure, but dialogue. Contextualisation, where necessary, can help viewers reckon with history without discarding it.
Ultimately, then, perhaps it is not a question of choosing between the who and the how. Rather, it is about learning to see both. But sometimes, just sometimes, we might let ourselves forget the biography and focus on the brushstrokes.
Oxford’s political societies cultivated generations of MPs and PMs. In an era of rising populism, a tour of their drinking events finds a drifting elite with few ideas.
It’s a well-worn cliché that Oxford is the place where future politicians are made. The student party societies here are where Prime Ministers-to-be from Margaret Thatcher to Liz Truss first cut their teeth. But as the size of party memberships continue to fall and a populist surge increases the currency of being an ‘outsider’, what is the role of Oxford’s political societies in shaping British politics? Are these societies ready to grapple with modern politics or are they just another antiquated Oxford tradition? To find out, I spent four evenings this Trinity term drinking with the University’s wannabe politicians.
Beer and Bickering – Oxford Labour Club (OLC)
On a Saturday evening in early May I walked into St Anne’s JCR to a gathering of no more than 20 people. I’m starting with the party in power as I want to see how they react to the numerous announcements from the government over the Easter vacation. From the decision to slash Universal Benefit rates to Keir Starmer’s new conviction that trans women are not women – coinciding with recent interpretation of the Equalities Act by the Supreme Court – are student Labourites joining the government as it shifts to the right?
One quick notice is made before we get going. The welfare secretary stands up and implores us to avoid discussions of controversial ‘foreign affairs’ (translation: for the love of God don’t start talking about Israel-Palestine). One can understand why they are apprehensive, given Labour’s history of antisemitism controversies. But it also establishes that there will be strict parameters on tonight’s conversation.
“There’s clearly a lot of discontent with the Starmerite project, but OLC’s only response is apparently to gather once a week to collectively agree on uncontroversial principles.
There is a distinctly dour mood this evening and the cause becomes clear once the discussion of the first motion (‘this house would deprioritize economic growth’) gets going. Speaker after speaker gets up and expresses their despair with the economic policy of Starmer and Co. From the obsession with growth (“or whatever it is we’re doing,” as one man puts it), to the scrapping of the winter fuel payment (since reversed), Starmer’s decisions have distinctly dampened the excitement OLC members no doubt had this time last year.
As for what they would do differently? It’s less clear, but the need to rein in inequality and tax wealth are met with nods of approval. During the break I point out to one member that the arguments made sound a lot like the Greens’ positions, and ask why he doesn’t support them instead? “Ah well, I’m in too deep for that now,” he tells me.
During the discussion of the second motion, I’m less taken by the content of the arguments (the consensus is pretty clear that there shouldn’t be ‘a national religion’) than by who is doing the arguing. The speakers are almost all men; at one point I count eight in a row. I point this out to a member, and he grimaces, explaining that it’s long been an issue for OLC. Although the social secretary and both co-chairs this Trinity are women, he tells me that Beer and Bickering remains “a sausage-fest”.
The rest of the evening passes uneventfully. The final motion (‘this house, as the Labour Party, would encourage strikes’) was again met with consensus: strikes are an essential tool but a last resort. As I walk home past drunken May Ball goers, I can’t help feeling that the lack of discord is somewhat by design. There’s clearly a lot of discontent with the Starmerite project, but OLC’s only response is apparently to gather once a week to collectively agree on uncontroversial principles. A lack of imagination, or more likely an eye on an internship in the party, seems to nip in the bud any interesting and (God forbid) controversial discussion of real policy alternatives.
Port and Policy – Oxford University Conservative Association (OUCA)
A week later, I made an uncertain attempt at putting together a ‘lounge suit’ as per the Oxford University Conservative Association’s dress code. This feels like an unnecessary extravagance, given the venue: a dilapidated scout hut in New Marston.
I’m greeted by an American post-grad in an expensive looking three-piece suit who proudly explains that he will be ‘speaker of the house’ for tonight’s discussion and promptly returns to doing his ‘vocal warm ups’ (“BA – BA- BA!”). I shuffle over to the side of the room, picking up a flimsy plastic port glass as I go, and watch as the OUCA regulars trickle in. The men are all strikingly similar: under 6 foot tall, dressed in chinos, blazers and trainers and with precisely combed hair. More interesting, though, is the fact that they don’t dominate the makeup of attendees: the room is far more diverse in gender and ethnicity than OLC. It’s also substantially better attended, which is impressive for a party with the worst national polling in its history, and given how far out of the town centre we are.
I get to chatting with attendees. They quickly suss out that I’m new and I have bought membership (as I will for all the societies I visit) which lands me on the receiving end of some concerted networking efforts. Whereas with Beer and Bickering the conversation was pretty laid back, here I’m constantly asked for what my Instagram handle is and whether they’ve seen me before at the Oxford Union (they haven’t). It’s like everyone has just finished How to Win Friends and Influence People and is keen to put it into practice: “So tell me, Stanley, what EXACTLY is it that makes the food at Teddy Hall so great?”
I’m relieved, then, when the ‘speaker’ bellows out that the first motion of the night will begin. I look around, waiting for the room to fall quiet, but the conversation continues as if nothing had happened. Instead, the participants in the debate begin screaming their arguments at the top of their lungs to a room which is evidently not listening. I move closer, trying to make out what they are saying, but I can’t for the noise of conversation. The three debaters resemble the street preachers on Cornmarket Street, shouting at distinctly uninterested passersby.
“What I witnessed was a small elite jostling for an inheritance that’s long been spent.
Unable to glean anything from the participants, I begin asking questions of those around me. How do they feel about the recent local elections, in which the Conservatives lost 674 councillors? “I don’t think people here realise that Reform is an existential threat,” one member tells me once it’s just the two of us. It’s hard not to agree with his assessment. In all the conversations I have, the national party – or indeed politics – is hardly mentioned. When I ask people why they are here, they often appear a bit sheepish. They claim that they just fell into it, that it’s quite addictive, that it’s for the social side of things. Even at OUCA, being a Tory isn’t particularly cool.
This is with the exception of one man, who points proudly to his tie displaying the emblem of the Heritage Foundation – the think tank central to Donald Trump’s election victories and behind the controversial Project 2025. I ask how he feels about the current ‘DOGE’ federal spending slashes, in particular on USAID. He has mixed feelings, there are some things he wishes they’d keep, “but others I’m happy to see go, like trying to get rid of HIV”. I wonder if I misheard him over all the shouting: “sorry, did you say you don’t want them to fund AIDs treatment?” He gives me a confused look: “Of course”.
Before I have time to ask further questions, the debate, occurring primarily between two blokes (one of whom is brandishing a large stick that makes him resemble a Tory Gandalf) finishes. The members gather for a rendition of ‘God Save the King’ (they all know the second verse), followed by an equally boisterous recital of ‘Jerusalem’, and leave to clamber into Ubers.
I walk back to Cowley, lost as to what to make of the evening. I would comment on the motions chosen, the arguments made, but I couldn’t hear a word of it. If the voters went to the polls tomorrow, all evidence suggests that the Tories, already much reduced, would be decimated and it seems that the OUCA members wouldn’t bat an eye. Instead, the whole thing is just another fixture in the Oxford Union social scene: a rite of passage for ambitious Christ Church freshers and a place for forming useful connections. The state of the Conservative Party, currently barrelling towards irrelevancy, is merely an afterthought.
Rum and Revolution – The October Club
The following Friday I join my proletarian brothers (it’s all men) at a gathering of the communist October Club hosted in Magdalen, one of Oxford’s richest colleges. The stately Oscar Wilde Room is quite the contrast from the rundown scout hut where the Conservatives mustered. I’m handed a Guiness (I’m enjoying the communal spirit already) and we get cracking with the first motion: ‘do we have freedom of speech in modern Britain?’
The formula, in which we chat first in little ‘breakout groups’ before sharing our thoughts with everyone, works well. There’s none of the showmanship that comes with addressing a large crowd, so we’re actually able to have a normal conversation. We discuss incitement to violence, no-platforming on campuses, Kathleen Stock and the recent terror charges against a member of the Irish hip hop group Kneecap.
Image Credit: Stanley Smith (for Cherwell)
Next up, ‘what would education look like under communism?’. At this point, it quickly becomes clear that there are very few actual communists in attendance. In our group is myself, an OLC committee member, and several Australian post-grads with distinctly liberal politics. The one actual October Club regular gets us started by voicing his objection to the “authoritarian power of the teacher” and advocating for a decentralised, communal approach to education: although he declines to flesh out what this would actually look like. The conversation is quickly steered to more ‘realistic’ aims, such as reducing the cost of higher education. During the whole group discussion, the faces of the committee members become increasingly downcast as they realise they are playing host to what is essentially left-leaning liberal chit chat, rather than real talk of revolution.
This divide comes to the forefront with the self referential motion ‘is Rum and Revolution counter-revolutionary?’ The Aussies, pretty inebriated at this point, are full of praise for the evening: “this is what we need, coming together to find common ground!” The communists are unimpressed, pointing out that sitting around talking placates us from taking real action. We might have affirmed our lefty values, but will we take part in any protests? Will we go down to the pro-Palestine encampment set up in the Angel and Greyhound Meadow? The fact that the room is entirely white and entirely male is raised, something that everyone agrees is a problem, but no one is quite sure how to address. The evening ends with this tension unresolved.
Out of all the parties I visit, the society most anxious to stop talking and start doing, through its lack of careerism and its well-structured format, is actually the best conduit for a good discourse. Unfortunately for the organisers, the conversation doesn’t always go in the direction they would like.
Liquor and Liberalism – Oxford Students Liberal Association
The following Wednesday, I stand outside of the venue in New College. I pause before entering, mentally preparing for another evening of endlessly introducing myself. When I walk in, however, I realise I won’t have to. Inside is every white man from Port and Policy, and one or two from Beer and Bickering as well.
The setup is two long tables positioned so that, when we sit down, the sides are facing each other. This gives the room a distinctly House of Commons feel, a vibe that is bolstered by the conduct of the members. As the ‘speaker’ for the evening walks to the centre there are cheers, banging of tables, and shouts of ‘resign!’
The first motion? ‘This house believes that Britain was ‘“freest” between 1832 and 1918’. A man I recognise from OLC kicks off proceedings by pointing out the obvious: no, Britain wasn’t “freest” when women and working-class men couldn’t vote. “Point of information” interrupts the guy sitting next to him, with a big grin on his face. “Wouldn’t you say that everything was just so much better then?” Roars of laughter.
I realise now what I’m in for. Each speaker offers their own brand of edgy humour (Get the kids back in the mines! Rebuild the British Empire!) “It’s basically just a stand up comedy club,” the bloke I’m sitting next to takes it upon himself to explain. This isn’t eminently apparent to me as we endure a five minute speech given in all sincerity about how the decimation of the “British officer class” during World War I put Britain on a path of terminal decline. As for the ‘comedy’, many of the speakers don’t quite have the charisma to pull it off, nervously looking around the room and stumbling over their words as they quote a brain rot meme from TikTok.
“Across the board, these gatherings are not even pretending to have carefully-considered solutions to the very serious public policy issues facing the British people.
During the second motion (‘this house would cut the foreign aid budget’), there are a few more serious speakers. An ex-president gives an impassioned defence of foreign aid, while a committee member rails against it as an enormous waste before she is informed that we have, in fact, already slashed our spending. One member goes on a jingoistic tirade declaring that bombs, not nappies and bandages, are the way to assert Britain’s power on the world stage. I’m sitting next to her, so I can see the faces of the guys opposite as they light up with admiration.
The evening continues in this manner, three silly speeches for every serious one. I feel increasingly awkward being there in my capacity ‘as a journalist’. This doesn’t feel like a public political meeting of people brought together by shared values, certainly not by a commitment to the Liberal Democrats. Instead, I’m observing the goings on of a small friend group which just so happens to revolve around the Oxford political scene. In the same way I wouldn’t sit on the sofa with a group of friends I don’t know and stick everything they say in Cherwell, my presence feels like an unwanted intrusion.
Oxford politics: an increasing irrelevancy?
As with the national level, politics in Oxford seems more fixated with personality than party. Both Port and Policy and Liquor and Liberalism feel like another forum for aspiring BNOCs to mingle, rather than groupings with any sense of party identity. Beer and Bickering, on the other hand, seems to be suffering from the opposite problem. It’s so hamstrung by its commitment to the national party that it dares not voice alternatives to the policies of a government it’s clearly thoroughly disappointed in. Across the board, these gatherings are not even pretending to have carefully-considered solutions to the very serious public policy issues facing the British people.
So what about the alternative parties? If you’re looking for a good discussion, I’m tempted to recommend the October Club, but they’re not always so welcoming to those less enlightened than themselves. There are also clear gaps in the political landscape. Both of the insurgent parties, Greens and Reform, have next to no presence, although many members of OUCA expressed their belief that it won’t be long before a ‘Stella and Stop the Boats’ is created.
Ultimately, the innovation which will shape tomorrow’s politics isn’t happening in Oxford anymore. British politics is no longer dominated by the friendships made by undergrads ready to take the reigns of powerful party machines. What I witnessed was a small elite jostling for an inheritance that’s long been spent. Far more important in the politics of today are social media algorithms, fury at living standards that haven’t improved since 2008, and a popular hatred of politicians. Wherever the politics of the future is, it’s surely very far from here.
