The Glass Menagerie: Shared Experience (Oxford Playhouse)

There's a point halfway through this production when Amanda Wingfield, in a flurry of frantic cleaning prior to the arrival of the longed-for gentleman caller for her daughter, absentmindedly dusts her son as well as the furniture on which he's sitting. She's in the midle of another of her overwrought monologues to the exasperation of Tom. It's a very funny moment and one amongst many that centres on the discrepency between Tom's hopes and dreams and those of his mother. Tom looks enviously towards the future while Amanda harks back to her Southern belle past. In fact past and present coexist onstage. Tom in the "present" in effect presents the main action and occasionally his present self slips into the past, speaking the lines that will be repeated seconds later by others. Within this past there are other manifestations of Amanda's memories (dancing with an old suitor, being swept off her feet by her errant husband-to-be) often accompanied by slowed-down film footage projected onto a screen at the back of the set. It all nicely illustrates the slippage between past and present. The suffocating nature of the family home is all too evident and it's painfully obvious why Tom longs to escape. The beautifully judged final act briefly holds out hope for his fragile, painfully shy sister as she visibly blossoms under the attentions of the gentleman caller (initially appearing a blow-hard, he actually turns out to be kind and pereceptive). It's the only time we see Laura laugh, and for once she starts to interact with another person in a normal manner, which makes the denouement all the more devastating.

Agora

The early Christians who gradually take control of 4th century Alexandria are a deeply unpleasant bunch - little more than a brutally intolerant, self-righteous paramilitary in some cases. As Hypatia points out, there's little evidence that their god is any more compassionate than the ones just ousted. Hypatia herself has the misfortune to be an intelligent, rational woman living in a time of huge religious upheaval. Under the pagan religion she's a respected philosopher and mathematician, inching her way towards the conclusion that the earth moves elliptically around the sun. Every single one of these factors makes her loathsome to the Christians. Even worse, she refuses to be a "silent" woman as advocated in the scriptures, and the prefect Orestes (a former pupil and suitor) values her opinion. Thus she ultimately becomes a victim of the power struggle over control of the city.
Ancient Alexandria is brought vividly to life (the CGI isn't too distracting thankfully) - the teeming streets contrasting with the calm of the great library, while the famous lighthouse domonates the harbour. This cosmopolitan metropolis (with many of the Christians actually looking as though they come from the Middle East instead of Western Europe for a change), renowned for its intellectual achievements, is about to be ripped apart by religious fundamentalism in a horrifying display of violence begetting violence. A pagan being thrown onto a fire by a Christian leads to a pagan attack on the Christians which has disastrous consequences. It's only as they view the mass of Christians filling the streets that they realize they are totally outnumbered. The new Christian Emperor rules on the side of the Christians, sealing the fate of both the pagan religion and the great library itself. The Christians gleefully sack the library, destroying the assembled knowledge of the world (throughout there are such unsettling reminders of other, more recent, events). Ironically the Jews are spared this initial bout of score-settling but as soon as the Christians gain power they turn their attention to them. The Jewish audience at a theatre are stoned by the armed band of Christian enforcers, and in retaliation the Jews trap a group of Christians and return the favour. The sickening sound of stones hitting flesh (and bone) make these dreadfully visceral acts. It's all a long way from Jesus remarking that those without sin should cast the first stone.
It's no coincidence that Hypatia is the only notable female character. It's very much a male world and marrying would mean giving up her teaching and research. In such ways she thoroughly defies what the male authorities (both pagan and Christian) expect of female behaviour. The film is especially good at pinpointing the basic misogyny at the heart of the Christian church and the accusation that she's a witch is one that would be repeated down the ages to dispose of troublesome women. Fanaticism wages war on rationalism under the impassive "perfect" stars that so fascinated Hypatia. No wonder people become atheists.

Irving Penn

What's most noticeable about the photographic portraits on display is how the (mostly) spartan settings focus attention so comprehensively on the figures and faces of the subjects. There are no extraneous distractions and in the early works, where full-figure shots are the norm, the body language tells all. Many of the subjects don't smile, the exceptions being some of the actors (Spencer Tracy positively twinkles while Audrey Hepburn and Grace Kelly exude Hollywood glamour). Not all though: the double portrait of the redoubtable Anna Magnani and director Roberto Rossellini feels thoroughly confrontational as their shadowed faces glower at the camera. That's the other thing. Many of the subjects stare back, unsmiling, at the viewer. They are a fascinating mix of 20th century cultural icons - artists, writers, dancers, actors, designers - and almost best of all, amid of group of Italian intellectuals in a Roman cafe out peaks the familar figure of Orson Welles, completely unexpectedly ...

The Ghost

Noone does creeping unease quite like Roman Polanski, and The Ghost has numerous moments that unsettle the viewer. There are all the more effective for avoiding both bombastic action and heavy-handed jolts. Instead, there's ex-PM Adam Lang's bolthole. Isolated on a windswept island, the house has disconcerting floor-to-ceiling windows that blur the line between inside and outside.. Those inside can watch activities happening outside (a jittery Lang on the phone for instance) but conversely are themselves horribly exposed to prying eyes (watching images of themselves on TV, broadcast from the helicopter flying above the house). The interior decor includes forbiddingly large modern paintings that look more like crime scene blood spatter than art, and then there's the room of the deceased original ghostwriter, his belongings still in place. This house is more than enough to set nerves jangling.
Meanwhile, pieces gradually start to slide into place suggesting that McAra's supposed suicide was something more sinister. The opening sequence of the abandoned car on the ferry sows those first seeds of dread, while also cannily setting up one of the best sections of the film: the pre-programmed satnav taking McAra's successor on an unexpected journey. All is clearly not as it at first appeared.
Pacing is key. The set pieces are thrillingly effective but relatively understated and there's a lovely series of barbed one-liners (many from Lang's wife) that feel entirely in keeping with the characters. In fact, there's a surprising amount of humour, both verbal (the list of refuges for Lang, America aside, includes the uninspiring likes of North Korea, the key being that none of these countries recognises the International Court; Rycart commenting that "they" can't drown two ghostwriters as they're not kittens) and visual (the period dress of the sullen hotel receptionist; the Vietnamese gardener's losing battle against the combined forces of wind and sand) The culmination is a book launch reception at which the ghostwriter realizes he's actually misinterpreted the evidence. The camera follows a note passed hand to hand through the throng before panning up to the appalled expression of the recipient. And as befits such a restrained piece of storytelling, the final action takes place offscreen while the camera fixedly gazes at the street, passersby reacting to the unseen accident and sheets of paper flying past.

Lourdes

Considering the potential to either offend or glorify, Lourdes takes an admirably impartial stance. Christine could indeed experience a miracle or merely the remission (albeit unexpectedly complete) of her multiple sclerosis. Either way, the question everyone - pilgrims, helpers - asks is "why her?". She's not a particularly devout pilgrim - she explains that it's the only way she can get out - so there's no obvious reason why she should be singled out. And there is no answer to this. Rather the camera contemplates the events with a minimal amount of movement. The viewer has time to ponder the sheer number of pilgrims, the oddly beautiful basilica, the tawdry souvenir shops, as well as becoming aware of helper Cecile's increasing pallor and her habit of fiddling with her hair (later revealed to be a wig disguising her baldness and therefore her illness) and of the very slight movement of Christine's hand at the baths. There's even time for a fabulously agnostic joke from the leader of the male helpers (told to a priest!) But the film also captures an essential truth: the cruelty of having hope snatched away. We've already seen it in the figure of the mother whose disabled daughter briefly seems cured, and there's a hint that possibly the same fate might await Christine.

The Headless Woman

The Headless Woman revolves around an act that may or may not have happened. It's never clear whether Vero, distracted by her mobile phone, did indeed run down a child. She certainly killed the dog that was seen at the beginning of the film, but was one the children also a victim? In some respects, whether it happened or not is irrelevant. The important fact is that Vero *believes* she has killed someone, and the film is built around the psychological repurcussions of this. Yes, she's in shock but it never for a moment occurs to her to report the accident. She continues with her privileged life, slightly more detached than usual (expressed in looming closeups of her head), and only several days later - in a queue at a supermarket! - announces to her husband that she's killed someone. But this is a class that believes in taking care of its own and the males make the hospital records, hotel reservation and damaged car all vanish as if nothing ever happened. Yet a boy did die in the flooded canal, possibly drowned, possibly left there by a car accident, but the death means almost nothing to these people. All evidence removed they can continue with their lives, taking as little notice of their Indian servants as they do of the dead Indian boy.

I Am Love

There's much to admire in I Am Love, not least the sumptuous design and cinematography. The latter ranges from otherworldly shots of a snowbound Milan which open the film to the loving display of succulent dishes prepared by young chef Antonio. Yet it's difficult to warm to the film itself. The icily composed upper class Recchi clan, with their immaculate interior decor, clothing and accessories, look pretty but keep everyone, including the viewer, at a distance. The Russian wife, Emma, had her Christian name changed by her husband upon marriage and claims she can no longer remember it, while Eva, who is merely the fiancee of son Edo, remains noticeably isolated among the grieving family at the hospital. Even our heroine, Emma, remains rather unapproachable and unreadable, though her own surprise at the unexpected passion she finds with Antonio is palpable. It's probably no surprise that her sense of freedom, both emotional and physical, finds it fullest expression away from the family mansion - in the sunlight of San Remo and the open air of Antonio's father's estate. The Recchi home feels like a particularly well-endowed prison by comparison. Once the family are away (at university, on business) there's nothing to alleviate Emma's basic loneliness. Even the sympathetic Ida refuses to share a meal, keenly away as she is of her inferior status. It's no wonder the lure of companionship and freedom wins.

Samson and Delilah

No, not the 1950s Biblical epic, but a sobering look at a romance between a pair of Aboriginal teenagers. Samson's early attempts at courtship are met with irritated indifference, though Delilah's granny is highly amused and decides they're as good as married already. Matters aren't helped by his refusal to speak. It's only late in the film, when he finally states his name that the audience realize it's because he has a bad stammer. Likewise a dedication on the radio towards the end reveals that his father is nearing the end of a prison sentence. In fact, the males on show are such a dispiriting bunch you can entirely understand Delilah's attitude. The womenfolk at least have a spark to them, and Delilah shows real resilience in overcoming the horrendous events that happen to her. Violence is worringly rife: the women beat Delilah for supposedly neglecting her granny (she didn't); Samson hits his brother and smashes his guitar and in turn is given a violent beating; when the couple eventually return one of the women tries to attack Samson. It's hardly surprising that addiction is a relief from the tedium, yet this almost costs Samson the girl he loves as twice we see him walking on oblivious to her fate (rape, being hit by a car) This all probably sounds grim, but there's a dry humour - Samson relentlessly following Delilah as she pushes granny in her wheelchair (by the end Delilah, despite being the one with an injured leg, is now pushing Samson around in the wheelchair); the brother and his pals endlessly playing what feels like the same reggae riff all day; Delilah's withering glances at Samson's hapless attempts to impress her. There's even a glimmer of hope at the end.

Ponyo

This has to be the most effortlessly delightful film of the year. It's beautiful to look at and seriously cute but never sentimental. Most of all, it's a triumph for the glories of hand-drawn animation. The pre-credits sequence of a teeming, vivid, colourful undersea world sets the standard and it never drops. It looks deceptively simple but the portrayal of both the natural and manmade worlds is actually breathtaking (the variety of underwater life, Sosuke's house perched on top of the cliff, the junior school and the old people's home) and for once, a sea goddess does feel exactly like the most beautiful and magical creature on the planet. Then there's Ponyo herself. In her goldfish form she is wonderfully cute (and given to shooting waterspouts at the humans around her) Curious and playful, she swims away from home and ends up stuck in a jar before being rescued by young Sosuke. A bond is formed and she magically transforms into a little girl. This is actually where Miyazaki shows his genius. They might be animated, but Sosuke and Ponyo also act just like children. The scene where Ponyo first enters the house on the cliff is a gem of observation. Everything from the fluffy towel she uses to dry herself to the green mug and the honey put in her drink are new experiences for Ponyo and her facial expression captures that perfectly. She charges around the house, gripping these new wonders, and goes head first into the glass door (I have seen a small child do *exactly* the same thing). Undeterred she continues her route, bouncing along the sofa, before eventually falling asleep where she lays. The film is full of such light touches. Miyazaki's characteristic concern with the environment is present and correct too, but it's integrated into the plot rather than being heavyhanded - human detritus litters the seabed and traps fish-Ponyo, her powers threaten the balance of nature and cause a tsunami that floods the town. But this is a children's film so the danger is subsumed beneath the wonder. Ancient giant fishes swim along the roads formerly driven along (badly) by Sosuke's mother; the glowing sea goddess revives a stalled ship merely by her presence. In a way, words can't begin to describe the beauty of the animation. The colours are frequently luminous, the objects unfussily drawn and the viewer wants to curl up into a ball of happiness.

Hedda Gabler: Theatre Royal Bath (Oxford Playhouse)

Surprisingly, there was an awful lot of laughter from the audience for this production. Admittedly, most of that humour stems from the either the self-obsession or self-delusion of the characters. Tesman is slightly pompous and single-minded to a fault. While essentially harmless, he's also totally boring as a spouse - at least as far as Hedda's concerned - and yet he's clearly devoted to both her and the elderly aunts who raised him. Aunt Juliana (who clearly drives Hedda to complete distraction) idolises her nephew, tirelessly nurses her ailing sister and tries to be nice to Hedda, yet has a tendency to both witter and pry. Decent people yes, but Hedda doesn't belong in their world and to be honest doesn't make much effort. We can tell it's the sort of milieu that she will find mind-numbingly stultefying and yet it's difficult to totally sympathise with her because her petulance, jealousy and lack of empathy only destroy. She pushes Loevborg towards self-destruction apparently for her own satisfaction and because he seemingly found some peace working alongside Mrs Elvstad, but his weakness deprives his death of any "beauty". Presumably she would consider her own suicide to be such an act though it feels more like desperation to escape a trap of her own making.

Alice in Wonderland

I am now officially fed up with greenscreen. Sin City and 300 were the epitomy of style over content and now Tim Burton (who has always had an easy approach to narrative) is the latest to decide an all-GCI world is the way to go. It's bright, weird and undeniably imaginative but totally insubstantial (and in 2D replete with many spot-the-3D bits better known as throwing things towards the camera) And as with all CGI, it only takes one thing to be poorly rendered to drag the viewer out of the film. Prime example: every time the Knave of Hearts appears in long shot or on his horse it's so jerky that you immediately stop believing in the reality of the character. There's also that old perennial which has plagued everything from LOTR onwards, the obvious fakery of the digital substitute. The movement is never right and it applies just as much to Alice as it did to the Fellowship running across the bridge. Having said all that, the Cheshire Cat is great, with his disconcertingly wide, toothy smile and a disconcerting habit of popping up unexpectedly, while the poor hedgehog is totally adorable. My other bugbear is the unintelligibility of some of the dialogue (step forward J. Depp, esq. and his silly accents) OK, it's not exactly depriving us of essential exposition but it's very, very annoying. Thank heavens for the clarity of Stephen Fry's Cheshire Cat and Alan Rickman's laid-back Caterpillar. His mere vocal presence can improve any film by 50%.