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’s All 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 Tempest certainly 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.

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.