Game of Thrones concluded its fifth season this past Monday, with a finale that encapsulated all that the show has got wrong as of late. The wheels have fallen off the show’s well oiled machine, with it foregoing political intrigue and personal conflicts in favour of gussied up expedition. At the same time, as the show’s story has become increasingly disinteresting, the show runners have instead chased spectacle, usually in the form of either visual effects, or harrowing, cruel, and tone-deaf scenes of shocking and misogynistic sexual violence. This has been the first season without a single female writer or director, and boy has it showed. Would we have spent so long over the last few seasons on Daenerys’ meandering, aimless, plot if she and her wig were not the young, of-age, nubile, female face of the show?

Already this season, two women have been raped in order to advance male bystanders’ narrative arcs, and now in the finale another, Cersei, is publicly sexually abused. It’s handled with all the nuance and restraint one would expect from the show that only one episode before utilised the imprisonment of a female assassin as an excuse for a needless prison cell striptease. That is to say, almost none. And so Cersei is coerced into admitting to sleeping with her cousin. In her horrendous fall from grace and consequent humiliation she is stripped, shorn, and forced to walk, naked and bleeding, through the streets of King’s Landing. The scene encapsulated Game of Throne’s fraught relationship between female characters and their sexuality on screen. The show features a vast array of wonderfully complex, fascinating and genuinely innovative female characters, in a world where being a women is to carry a target on your back. Yet for all the respect the show’s scripts afford to the show’s female cast, the camera’s lascivious glare tells a different story.

To rehash discussions of the show’s narrative misogyny, and to offer anything new is the prerogative of someone with a far more enlightened perspective than I. Instead, what I find so irritating about Game of Thrones is the way in which the show systematically and deliberately panders to its straight male audience, at the expense of its huge female and gay audiences, hiding behind a paper thin argument that they’re illustrating a patriarchal world. The systematic use of male-on-female sexual abuse as a narrative device conveys this just fine thanks, we don’t need, and don’t want, you to set every other political scene in a brothel, with disembodied breasts as frame filling set dressing to labour the point.

And so returning to Cersei’s walk of shame, we see the show’s conflicting interests perfectly, frustratingly encapsulated. The sequence cuts between close ups of actress Lena Heady’s visage, as she precisely plays a progression from determined pride through embarrassment, resolution, humiliation, violation, relief and finally rage. Compounding this emotional tour-de-force (Heady is surely a shoe in for a second Emmy nomination come awards time) are point of view shots which allows us to experience the venom and invasiveness of the amassed crowds from Cersei’s perspective. But then there are the unnecessarily frequent wide shots, complete with dodgy face replacement effects, where the composition instructs us to stare upon her naked body, sharing in the crowd’s ogling, even as the sequence, and human decency, suggests one should look away (the uncomfortable class dynamic where we’re to look upon the “othered” hordes of the great unwashed whilst sharing in their disgust and leering gaze is also somewhat uncomfortable).

That the show also used a body double for Cersei’s nakedness, choosing to give her the body of a 20 year old glamour model, says everything about the show’s privileging of certain audiences and the heterosexual male gaze, even over the quality of storytelling. Would a more realistic, 40 year old woman’s naked body not have far better brought home the feelings of vulnerability and exposure so central to the scene and to Cersei’s dramatic arc? Would this not have avoided reinforcing unreasonable expectations of women’s bodies, particularly ageing ones, in one of the few times they’ve been represented on screen in the show? Instead, some 12-year old’s first boner has been prioritised over the effectiveness of the entire season’s denouément, whilst at the same time encouraging the sexualisation of a systemically victimised woman.

What’s worse, the show can’t conceive of her struggle outside of its own raging madonna-whore complex. Cersei is caught between the earthly realities of her public sexual identity, and the idealised, elevated maternity represented by her son, holed up in the Castle to which she frequently gazes skyward, as her source of strength. Only a select few female characters are awarded convincing characteristics outside of this simplistic dichotomy.

Whats more, this is not an isolated incident, and it’s not an equal opportunities thing. There’s a gross imbalance between male and female nudity, and this isn’t just a numbers game. It’s about the way these scenes are shot, the perspective the audience is invited to adopt, the narrative contrivances taken to get attractive characters in the nude. I’m glad Hodor got to flash his junk and all, but why wasn’t it Daario’s instead? It’s not like the straight male audience are being served anything outside of 2015’s gym honed, juice cleansed and almost hairless ideal of the female form. Or how about we just stop wasting precious minutes on serving the base interests of a specific audience, when that time could be used to unfurl a narrative that already strains against its hour-long runtimes? If you want to stare at tits, go on Google. Audiences tune in for adventure, not unnecessary areola.

I want to keep watching the show. I’ve invested 50 hours into it, and countless more reading, talking, and thinking about it. But, as a gay man, this becomes increasingly difficult with every lingering shot and leering pan over a rogue boob serving as a reminder that the show is catering to a demographic into which I definitely don’t fit. And when this titillation comes at the expense of the storytelling, it’s incredibly frustrating. Surely we can all be a little more discerning, than to demand our pathos with a side of good-looking genitalia.

★★★★☆

Four Stars

The creeping power of an avalanche sets in motion the forward march of a family’s breakdown in Ruben Östlund’s Force Majeure. Currently doing a victory lapof arthouse cinemas, the films is a must-see that set alight last year’s Cannes, sweeping up the Jury Prize on its way to crashing into cinemas a year later. It’s a powerful, affecting and brutally intense drama that takes place high amongst the French Alps. We follow a beautiful, affluent, apparently happy nuclear family, as they ski, eat and relax together in the mountaintop hotel. Until a cascade of snow descends upon their resort, and their true natures are exposed.

The film is excruciatingly tense right from the beginning.The hotel perches precariously against the vastness of the mountains. An intrusive janitor watches the family a little too closely. We hear muffled conversations and sneaky asides – rifts in this family’s perfect veneer which seem destined to break into yawning cracks. And all the while, we watch, at a distance, as director Östlund controls the pace, forcing us to observe long ski-lift rides, gradual movements along a conveyor belt, long silences as the family wait for food. We watch as the parents absent-mindedly stop watching their children – perhaps just for a crucial moment too long. In these moments we feel a simmering heat, unexpressed grievances, the first particles that will gather momentum and a million other unexpressed feelings until these people’s frustrations become an unstoppable force. It’s nail-biting stuff, and a real feat of directorial ingenuity.

The incredible adult cast – led by Johannes Kuhnke and Lisa Loven Kongsli – are uniformly wonderful. Kuhnke in particular is magnificent as the family’s patriarch as he begins to realise just how delicate his self-worth and masculinity are. Konglsi too delivers incredible work in the less showy role of the mother, precisely revealing the frustrations and claustrophobia she feels being caught between her independence and allegiance to the family unit she’s formed. Both are incredibly cast, he with all the openess and breezy masculinity of dad-bodded Scandinavian Stephen Dorff, she haughty, classically beautiful, perhaps a little too calculating. Both are able to convey character just by being. The chemistry between the two is white hot, almost searingly so. A late night tooth-brush session in front of the bathroom mirror expresses everything in the silence. They’re a magnetic pair, almost a force of nature.

The minor key of the story allows us to scrutinise every choice each character makes, parse out the extent to which personal vendettas cloud their clear judgement. These characters are flawed, bitter, selfish, and all the more understandable for it. We chastise their arrogance, and that of the resort itself, attempting to offer respite and safety from the cruel elements whilst sitting so delicately on a ledge – one stunning late night drone sequence in particular captures this, as blinking red lights nip across the creaking, monolithic mountains. The film is a real tale of fire and ice, warmth and coldness. Expressive closeup invites us into the characters’ minds, then demands objective judgement by deploying a well-timed long shot. The film finds its rhythms, and plays them at an ever-increasing intensity. It is a tour de force of storytelling, taking huge risks and stylistic gambles which never feel showy or forced.

Force Majeure is a marvel. It’s gut wrenching, devastating, and not to be missed.

★★★★★

Five Stars

In a word, brilliant. On Saturday night a packed-out Oxford Playhouse was treated to two uproarious hours billed as the Oxford Revue and Friends. During those two hours we were subject to everything from a finger broken during an anal examination, to the Hogwarts student who died from starvation after Harry Potter bought everything from the trolley. Variety, depravity and hilarity: the unholy Trinity that made this one of the best things I have seen on the Oxford stage. 

We opened with Dan Byam Shaw, whose provocative spoken word piece extolled the miseries of being a white man barred on grounds of colour and gender from social justice campaigning. A very incisive piece, perhaps more thought provoking than it was funny but nonetheless a very worthy opener. It was especially good to see comedy that engaged frankly with actual Oxford issues.

Next, Alex Fox presented a one-man mini-family drama by acting out two sons and their relationship with their father. The first son was a rah on steroids (“if you are what you eat, then I eat legend”), the second a forgotten younger brother, bullied into mild depression. This was a fascinating one-man show for it was as compelling as it was hilarious. While sometimes true that comedy has tragedy at its heart, this piece couldn’t quite reconcile the two. In the end we were left wanting an ending as brilliant as the overall execution and conception.

The final piece by George McGoldrick consisted in a series of imaginary letters. They were all delivered in a sardonic nasal monotone which somehow worked for all the letters. The highlight must have been the Harry Potter story, just fantastic. 

Next we saw the Cambridge Footlights. Surprisingly sparse, there were only two of them. They were nonetheless a highly dynamic duo with a lot of ingenuity and skill. However, theyir style didn’t quite fit the tone of the evening. Theirs was a much quieter form of humour based on word puns and the like. These were often executed with lengthy build-ups or delivered in short one to three line sketches. The result was funny but not hilarious. In this respect, following their suggestion that this was a Varsity comedy match, the Tabs were well and truly shoed. 

This brings us to the highlight of the evening, the Revue. What is striking about their style is how carefully, in fact often meticulously crafted their sketches are. There is very much a method in this madness: they really know when and how to put in the laughs for maximum effect. One sketch for example showed us a recitation of a GCSE drama piece. Apart from being spot-on as regard the ridiculous hoop-jumping that it entails (“I am bullied on social media…”) it was a fantastically well-structured sketch. Like a magic trick, it built up to a ‘prestige’- a final trick that you didn’t see coming. In this case, Jack Chisnall, who was awkwardly standing at the back, was pushed as a door. Everyone in the audience who ever did GCSE drama exploded with laughter. 

Their thought/intuition/voodoo/whatever it is that makes their pieces so well rounded and crafted, was complemented by their immense skill. They are in their own right actors, musicians, mimes and much more. The one moment that summed up their sheer virtuosity was a short sketch in which we saw two football fans chanting at a match. The chanting however gradually gave way into classical music. In one particularly impressive feat they went from “Ryan Giggs Ryan Giggs” to Beethoven’s Fur Elise. Another very impressive performance was a song imitating a GCSE French Oral. Switching between a generic description of going to the train station and a question on feminism, it just summed up every bullshit language oral exam I’ve ever sat through. 

All in all a fantastic evening. What was borderline inspiring about the whole thing was the sheer energy, commitment and professionalism of them all. If indeed they keep this up perhaps they too might join the pantheon of the Revue. Well who knows, but if indeed you ever get a chance to see the Revue, make absolutely sure that you go!

★★★★☆

Four Stars

Philip Pullman’s fantasy saga is transported effortlessly to the stage in this adaptation by Laura Cull. The action takes place across a plethora of different worlds, transforming in an instant from the stark light of the ‘Magisterium’ to a murky underworld with translucent curtains draped across a smoke-infused stage. The flexibility of the set is, in fact, one of the greatest achievements of the production, offering a platform for the imaginative conception of the trilogy’s mysterious universe. Triangular white sheets slice the area on the stage, providing various pockets and podiums where more intimate scenes can take place. The lighting has a similar effect; in the opening montage, the flash of a spotlight momentarily illuminates sections of the stage as the audience is taken on a crash-course of the first novel. Though a little confusing to follow, the scene has a kind of dislocating effect on the audience that adds to the fantastical nature of the play. 

The scene introduces us to Lyra Silvertongue and Will Parry, played by Becky Lenihan and Gregory Coates respectively, and we embark with them on their journey to battle against the self-interest and power-hunger of the forces they encounter. The two actors are paired perfectly, each managing to capture a youthful sense of adventure and defiance. The audience witnesses their gradual maturity and growing affection for one another, though a kiss between the two towards the end of the play feels somewhat over-sensual for a girl and boy only just reaching their teenage years. Their relationship is heart-warming nonetheless, and we cannot help but root for them as they face new opposition from the authoritarian church and their ambitious parents. Speaking of which, the performances of Robyn Murphy and Tom Fawcett cannot go unmentioned. Murphy is sultry and seductive in her role as Lyra’s manipulative mother, Mrs Coulter, whilst Fawcett’s booming voice is eclipsing as Lord Asriel, and astoundingly more thunderous still when he shifts to playing Iorek Byrnison.

The fact that the same actor can slip so easily between man and supernatural creature is indicative of the smoothness with which realism and fantasy are blended in this production. The puppeteers on the stage that mimic the actions of the dæmons they control are not only unobtrusive, they actually enhance the tensions on the stage. Their facial expressions reveal the subtle emotions that pass between characters in conversation. Each puppeteer fully inhabits the character of their dæmon, twitching and crawling in an animalistic manner. So convincing are these dæmons that they have the power to invoke fear in the audience, with James Soulsby’s menacing monkey cutting a threatening figure on the stage.

But for all its concern with the fantastical aspects of the play, the production doesn’t lose sight of its political message. In an early scene the head of the Magisterium ceremoniously presents Brother Jasper with a medallion, declaring that all crimes committed whilst wearing it will be absolved. It is an ominous reminder of how easily authority can lead to the abuse of power. Religion and wealth become a means of justifying the unjustifiable, and the innocence of the two children in the face such deception serves as a beacon of hope and purity. This is a classic tale of good pitted against evil that will let you reminisce in the days of dystopian literature you read as a child.

This is not to say that the production is without fault; several scenes feel a little clumsy and forced, with a father-son recognition situation coming across more amusing than endearing (‘Wait…let me look at you in the light…you’re my son!’). But it’s an ambitious project, and it’s been executed with innovation and enthusiasm. It allows you to drift into an alien world, or worlds, and doesn’t release you until the final blackout.

★★★★☆

Four Stars

Beckett is notoriously hard to do well, and especially works like Play and That Time which rely on carefully orchestrated repetition. This production competently and effectively brought Beckett’s works to the audience of the Burton Taylor, through an inherently claustrophobic stage formation.

The three characters of Play were onstage already, staring at the audience and seemingly already in the process of repeating the arguments that compose the work in their heads. Trapped in their urns – which, being dustbins, recall elements of Endgame not unpleasantly – what must have been hard work by the three actors paid off, enunciating and never missing a beat of the logorrhoea.  Brown, Sayer and Greenfield work well together in order to create the sense of disparateness. There were moments of restlessness which occasionally broke the effect, however on the whole it was a successful performance.

The central character of That Time is a difficult role which was pulled off admirably. Essentially performing someone else’s monologue, the protagonist is stuck with his own laboured breathing. However, the rhythm was kept, and his acting struck the needed balance between choreography and genuine reaction to the persecuting voices. Due to the lack of visual stimulation, That Time can be quite a tiring play for the audience, and I’m not sure that this was fully avoided throughout. Yet, despite certain dips, I think Roderick kept the audience’s attention for the vast majority. He was certainly a striking presence onstage.

The lighting – a crucial element of the works – was on point throughout. The timing between lighting cues and actors was impeccable, which tied the works together seamlessly. The spotlight ‘interrogating’ the characters in Play was quick and comfortably reactionary. That Time was less demanding, but the positioning of the character under the full glare of the spotlight, and right up close to the audience, used the interplay between light and dark that the small stage of the BT allows for, to great effect.

Make-up was uniform, which allowed for continuity between the two separate plays and gave the impression of decay and exhaustion. However, there was perhaps scope for some differentiation in the case of That Time, even if it were simply to prompt the audience to study the character’s face in more detail. Having it the same made the face seem unimportant, when of course it is vital to the actor’s performance. A more different make-up structure may have been the way to address the issue of a lack of visual stimulation.

Combining the two plays was a clever move by Jones, and much can be read into and taken from the juxtaposition. Beckett can be tiring and confusing, especially for the unwitting viewer. However, leaving the theatre, a fellow audience member turned to their companion and asked, “Is it supposed to be that way?” – and personally, I would have to say “yes.”