It's Classic blood and guts
You might recognise Harry Sidebottom from Ancient Discoveries on The History Channel (presenter, not artefact); or perhaps you read Ancient Warfare (OUP, 2004).
You might recognise Harry Sidebottom from Ancient Discoveries on The History Channel (presenter, not artefact); or perhaps you read Ancient Warfare (OUP, 2004).
For a couple of years now, ever since I read Lost Oasis, I’ve had an on-off arrangement to interview Robert Twigger. Only problem is, he left Oxford in 2004. These days he lives in Cairo. So time came and went; Twigger was in London, I was away; he was going to visit but got something in his eye (I know; but seriously…). And then I found myself with a girlfriend who a) hadn’t been to Egypt and b) was prepared to bankroll the trip — at least in the ‘short’ term — and suddenly it was all go, without a second thought as to whether Twigger, presumably enjoying the pace of his self-imposed exile, even wanted to be tracked down, and least of all by a journalist (I mean, did anyone actually ask Livingstone?).
It is August, 1964. A ship from Colombo is docking at Southampton. Roma Tearne is waving at the shore, her father waving back from the observation platform at the Ocean Terminal. Except she’s not.
Actors, MPs, educators and A.S.H. SMYTH were at the launch of a new guide to theatre training
There comes a time in every young critic’s life when he realises he will never see Dylan go electric, Bowie’s last appearance as Ziggy Stardust, or, indeed, Michael Jackson play the O2. So when it happened that I was offered a ticket to see Oasis (a band about whom I’ve always been pretty ambivalent) at Wembley (a venue I’ve always tried to avoid), I figured I’d better take it. Y’know, in case my kids ever asked.
For their 50th birthday celebrations, Hampstead Theatre have chosen to revive Michael Frayn’s Alphabetical Order, which premiered there in 1975. Set in the cuttings library of a regional daily newspaper, Frayn’s first full-length play considers the interplay of order and freedom/chaos (depending on the width of your own authoritarian streak). Governed by arcane principles of what to cut and what not, the beleaguered librarian, Lucy (pictured), collates vast files on everything from power stations to parliamentary bloopers. No one looks at them much. But folk do pop down to use the kettle, have a natter, and argue about her choice of keywords for filing. There’s Arnold, a despondent, alcoholic, features writer, in bottle-green velvet; Geoffrey, the insufferable messenger, dispensing “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do” cheer; John, an academic-turned-leader-writer who can’t hold a sentence together without the glue of a thousand punctuation marks; Wally, the office joker (sports desk, obviously), with his idiotic, end-of-the-pier grin. And then in comes Lesley, the new assistant librarian, who sees straight through everything and doesn’t like what she sees. She has zero sense of humour, let alone irony (“I don’t know if it helps, going round sticking labels on things.”) and before the beginning of Act II even the tea tray is ship-shape. Philosophical comedy is a tricky thing, and Frayn is a genius. But his gig is wry observation (“When anyone says they often think something it means they just thought of it now.”) – it’s top notch, and whip-smart; but not exactly laugh-out-loud stuff. The philosophical point is well enough made, but at the expense, I fear, of the comedy. The characters are annoying as hell (all of ’em: it’s like Are You Being Served?), and the setting has simply failed the test of time. They play is parochial and dated – and even a parochial, dated audience didn’t warm to it. Honestly, after the best one-liners the only audible reaction was my neighbour’s indigestion. The whole business would have been better rendered as a novel – a novel like Towards the End of the Morning, which Frayn wrote eight years earlier and which deals with the funnier aspects of the newspaper industry.
Jimmy Osmond talks to A.S.H. SMYTH ahead of the arrival of musical Chicago at the New Theatre
A mate of mine has long harboured an ambition to update Salome, setting it in one of those grimy South London terraces that abut railway embankments and have abandoned Tesco trolleys in the gardens. I’ve always liked the idea. But after seeing Katie Mitchell’s new take on the Dido tragedy, I’m seriously reconsidering.
‘He did not say ‘unforeseeable’. You may have heard him say that but he did not say that. And that is a fact.” The Minister for International Development, Simon Foster MP, has dropped a right clanger. In an unthinking moment, and on national television, he has accidentally averted war in the Middle East.
In the wake, as it were, of the King’s death, Elesin, Horseman of Oyo, is expected to commit ritual suicide and cross over to The Other Place. Elesin (Nonso Anozie) chooses a ceremonial bride, and begins his preparations. Drums beat, women sing. A lot.
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