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Fiddler on the Roof has been performed thousands of times since its 1964 opening, and, courtesy of The Eglesfield Musical Society, has now been performed four more times in a garden of The Queen’s College. While its first night was not without its issues on both the technical and musical sides, it was truly a delight to listen to and watch.
Competing for my attention with the Fellow’s Garden, which lay immersed in a golden sunset and backdropped by an ornate 17th-century library, the cast entered and quickly won me over with their shamelessly danceable rendition of ‘Prologue: Tradition’. While the central character Tevye (Jacob Ostfeld) set the scene alone on stage, he was accompanied by the violinist Isabel Lesser playing the title character in a first floor window off to the right, who would later join the rest of the cast as they paraded into the first musical number.
The on-stage musical soloists were well chosen. The aforementioned fiddler punctuated the narrative with smooth performances that did not waver regardless of her movement around or proximity to the stage and orchestra, and provided a sombre mood to the beginning and end of the musical. Her placement off-stage up in the window was a nice touch; I take it that the roof was out of the question.
The clarinettist Matthew Rogers was fantastic and deserves special mention here, since the title gives them no credit. Standing stage right with one foot planted proudly on a chair, they played skilful melodies as well as shorter runs over the more energetic numbers with so much charisma that they have become a contender for my favourite character. Despite being quite far from the stage-facing screen which displayed the conductor live, their playing remained in time with the rest of the ensemble. They even joined in on the action during the wedding scene, giving out silver plates and exaggeratedly crying during the speeches, which gave me a giggle.
The rest of the orchestra was generally strong, the brass and woodwind sections warranting mention for their pretty flawless accompaniment. The higher and lower strings occasionally seemed a little out of time with each other, but the percussion section especially could use practice. The snare was noticeably untethered to the beat, causing a few head turns. This problem was at its worst during ‘To Life’ – a raucous, joyful, high tempo song set in a bar celebrating Lazar’s engagement (played by Charlie Bach). As the townsfolk united in dance, all attention should have been on the choreography and the bouncy upbeats, which the snare should have emphasised, but it was unavoidably distracting as the punch of the drum missed the beat and instead hit the audience around the ear. In addition, there were a couple of comically incongruent triangle hits during the play’s regular dialogue. Overall, though, the instruments were played very accurately, capturing the music’s folk roots and coping well with tempo changes (aside from their less-than-perfect return after the intermission with ‘Entr’acte’, which evoked the atmosphere of a haunted circus).
Among the cast, there wasn’t a single weak voice. They suited styles ranging from genre-typical musical theatre singing to more choral pieces like ‘Sunrise, Sunset’. Harmonising beautifully, every singer worked well in tandem with the others, with some extravagant vibrato thrown in too. All of this was while jumping around, running, and dancing, which somehow didn’t leave them out of breath.
The choreography, arranged by Magdalena Lacey-Hughes, was very fun, with plenty of bouncing and amusing prop usage. While this sometimes brought its own complications, the actors carried on without issue. During ‘Matchmaker, Matchmaker’, for example, three of the sisters (Sydney Haskins, Emma Leibowitz, and Nicole Palka) pass their mops to one another. One missed a throw to the second, but the third caught it and passed it along without missing a beat. When doing the same dance, the actors were often a little out of sync, with one or two starting or ending late or early.
By that same token, however, the cast really came to life when they were let off their leash and set free to each dance or act individually as part of a crowd. It genuinely felt alive when the stage was filled with a backdrop of many people conversing, working, or dancing in their little groups. This was especially true during the unforgettable wedding scene, when the crowd joined in with their clapping and cheering. Some people were forced to join in, picked from the crowd for short dances, which they seemed to enjoy – a cruel way to make me sweat anxiously at the thought of participation. The actors always looked like they had something to do and worked engagingly with physicality, for which I commend them as well as the director, Hannah Davis, and assistant director, Phoenix Barnett.
Jacob Ostfeld and Anneka Vetter gave outstanding performances as Tevye and the Matchmaker Yente respectively, both charming the crowd with melodramatic line deliveries, large movements, and exaggerated expressions. It was a shame to see so little of Vetter. Despite having had little time on stage, her characterful way of speaking and gesticulating at one point earned her a mid-scene applause break as she exited. Ostfeld was brilliant, his performance impressive with its range. He played moments of seriousness with the soberness they deserve and moments of pantomime-like cheese without ever being too hammy. As he stomped onto stage the first time with his cart, I could feel his steps through the dirt. A memorable moment of skill came when he skipped a verse of ‘If I Were a Rich Man’, quickly apologised in-character, and jumped back in so flawlessly in coordination with the orchestra, who also took it in their stride, that I honestly wasn’t sure if that was part of the song.
The costumes were a muted rainbow of earthy reds, browns, and greens, all in-keeping with the setting. Constrained by the historic garden, the production managed to integrate itself neatly into the space, with three islands of raised staging separated by the ground (designed by Kathrine Surgay). Seating was split down the middle, allowing actors to come by and drag the audience into the story. During ‘Tevye’s Dream’, the bed was not placed on the stage, but on the ground, leaving many viewers to watch the backs of people’s heads, rather than the sleepy couple. However, it’s fair that they didn’t want to lift it all the way up, and I had a great time admiring the haircut of the person in front of me anyway. The lighting was utilised well to portray warmth or a lack thereof (designed by Felix Gibbons), but the slow spotlights occasionally left characters speaking in the dark.
The sound system left something to be desired. The microphones were necessary, ensuring that the voices of the actors, the music of the orchestra (sat far in the back), and the playing of the violinist (in the window) would not be lost in the open air, but they picked up a lot of breathing, wind, and page turning. In Act 2, an infrequent chirp would play over the speakers during musical numbers. Everyone did an admirable job of continuing through these interruptions, as well as those caused by proximity to High Street. The noise of reversing vehicles and the emergency services did not interrupt their depiction of early 19th century Imperial Russia.
I loved this production. Supported by a brilliant cast, a generally excellent orchestra, a great creative team, and a dedicated crew, it was a standout evening. While there were some hiccups, those can be forgiven as opening night woes. Enveloped by the music and a warm coat, I found myself immersed in The Eglesfield Musical Society’s commendable production.
The first line of the “About” page on the University of Oxford’s website makes a claim for the institution’s central focus on internationalism: “Oxford is a world-leading centre of learning, teaching and research.” Despite the fact that the University consciously fashions itself as a world leader, proudly promoting its international profile and multicultural scholarly community as a strength which is “unlike that of any other university”, xenophobic sentiment amongst the student population is rising.
It is true that the proportion of international students in the United Kingdom has risen to 26%, partially as a result of the exorbitant international fees that these scholars from abroad pour into UK institutions. Furthermore, these international fees, to a certain extent, make universities more accessible to less-privileged home students by supplementing their fees which are capped by the British government. It is, however, disappointing to see increasing globalisation framed as solely due to these financial considerations. Especially at purportedly proudly multicultural institutions like Oxford, it is hypocritical and reductive to discuss the systemic flaws of the British university system as if it mainly victimises British students.
Whenever an anti-international moral panic seems poised to ensnare British students and taxpayers, it is important to humanise “the international student” with an individualised account. As a South African student, I sought tertiary education in Britain due to the extreme lack of funding for my subject area in the humanities back home – a situation which Britain directly contributed to as a colonial power, and still unapologetically profits from culturally and fiscally.
I rarely see students like myself – hailing from developing nations with already-crippling international fees compounded by unfavourable interest rates – represented in these conversations. Even when some of our families have to scrape together years of savings and make immense sacrifices to afford a British education, we are erroneously reduced by mainstream political discourse to a bottomless wallet.
The University and student body often claim to be committed to decolonisation and diversification, hence the “Uncomfortable Oxford” walking tours and the removal of statues and portraits of slave owners, yet there is a worrying lack of accountability when the time might come for a British student to make what they perceive as a sacrifice. When both elite British universities have historically accrued wealth through imperialist investments, how ethical is it to prioritise giving exceptional academic opportunities to British citizens over international students simply because of where they were born? Even average Britons benefit from a higher quality of life and financial freedom than the majority of the world. The Global South may not pay taxes to the British government (anymore), but they often pay dearly for the privileged lifestyles which have become normalised in the North. The South, for instance, disproportionately shoulders the negative impacts of climate change, all while struggling to recover from the atrocities committed by European colonialists.
Of course many international students come from wealthier countries and personal backgrounds, not all of which are shadowed by colonialism, but this is not to say that these students are undeserving of the uniquely exceptional resources and training Oxford has to offer, which may still be superior to the offerings of their home countries. To imply that an international student is only offered a place because of their increased fees does a gross disservice to their intelligence, tenacity, and holistic potential.
Clearly, there are deep injustices of the current university admissions and funding system, but pitting international and domestic students against one another is a misguided response. If we can agree that the main functions of a university are to provide high-quality education and to produce cutting-edge research, it is in our best interests as a global community to ensure that the brightest thinkers gain access to it, regardless of nationality.
I have concerns that closed-minded, “us vs. them” rhetoric about university access can be a slippery slope to the kinds of extreme right-wing views espoused by President Trump in his de-globalisation efforts. International students do not swoop in and snatch opportunities away from British students any more than immigrants come to maliciously “steal jobs” from citizens. Many make extraordinary financial and personal sacrifices to seek better opportunities, which citizens of more developed countries often assume is rightfully theirs. Let us not be tempted by the easy response of scapegoating the Other and look to approach systemic injustices together.
I still remember the first time I saw Anselm Kiefer’s work. I was in the Pompidou Centre, Paris, and I’d been stumbling around the seemingly endless number of rooms for hours. I was in the state where you’ve taken in so much art that nothing excites – another room of cubism leaves you unmoved; you’re oversaturated with abstraction.
Then I stepped into another room, scarcely noticing the change, and stopped straight away. It was a plain room with some glass cabinets containing submarines. This might sound bizarre, more like what you’d expect to find at a war museum than a modern art gallery, but I was captivated. The base of the cabinets was filled with a greyish sand, and the boats, huge and elongated, painted a rusty orange or darkish green, hung suspended in the air, silent and supine. They were haunting. For reasons I still cannot articulate, I was frozen by their presence, as if I’d stumbled upon some secret, hideous crime scene.
A few years later, elsewhere – Germany, perhaps – I again was wandering the halls of a practically-deserted gallery late in the day. Entering another room, with capacious ceilings, I came head-to-head with Kiefer once again. This time I recognised his work instantly, having spent some time researching him after the Paris encounter. Even though I’d seen pictures of his incredible work, nothing prepared me for the sight of them in person: the canvases are enormous, achingly wide, and the scenes portrayed speak to the complete devastation, annihilation, of war and destruction. Charcoal black is set against greys and reds of flames, whilst use of wood and other materials like nets makes the works practically fall off the walls.
Kiefer is clearly fascinated by war, but particularly those involving his native country, Germany. At the start of his career, in the late 60s, he gained infamy for controversial performances and photos in which he performed the Nazi salute, challenging the taboos and culture of post-WW2 Germany, a country famed for its culture of Vergangenheitsbewältigung (coming to terms with the past). At a time when writers and philosophers wished to delicately work through the collective trauma of the Holocaust and Adorno famously questioned whether poetry was possible after Auschwitz, Kiefer crashed onto the scene, re-opening sealed conversations and old wounds.
Given this tumultuous personal history, an exhibition tracing the development of one of the most celebrated contemporary artists sounds particularly fascinating, and this is exactly what the Ashmolean’s exhibition Anselm Kiefer: Early Works delivers. There are none of the vast works for which he is best known here: as Wim Wenders’ gorgeous documentary, Anselm, shows, the scale on which his later works are produced requires teams of people and machinery. Instead, what the exhibition shows is not only Kiefer’s obsession with history, war, and German culture, but also rare moments of beauty, and a deep affection for romanticism.
Even in his earliest works, the traces of what’s to come are apparent: swirling paints illuminate tortured faces of German soldiers and strategists, whilst austere lines in watercolour depict abandoned Nazi buildings in all their severity. There are dark reds everywhere: fires and blood, echoing both the destruction of bodies but also of books and art. As the recurring motif of the palette suggests, the early Kiefer is constantly considering the possibility of art itself, particularly important against the backdrop of Hitler’s crusade against ‘degenerate’ art. In possibly my favourite work on display, Unternehmen ‘Trappenfang’, the dark slashes which are instantly recognisable are set against whites and blues more evocative of impressionism than anything else, and the paths in the field extend for almost the full length of the canvas, in a manner similar to that of Béla Tarr’s magnificent tracking shots.
But it’s not all darkness: in the last room, we see lighter watercolours – landscapes and portraits, more typically ‘beautiful’ than the ominous and overwhelming works he is associated with. His landscapes recall the high point of German romanticism, which celebrated the power of nature, whilst more abstract watercolours are akin to the gorgeous colours and natural forms of Odilon Redon. Even amongst these airy works, there’s still intensity and suffering: a striking photo depicts the burning of a field, with thick black smoke billowing from the left-hand side, becoming a solid rectangle of darkness.
In sum, then, there’s nothing individually as breathtaking or monumental as his later work, but the exhibition provides a fascinating and oftentimes stunning overview of the development of one of the world’s best contemporary artists.
This week at the Burton Taylor Studio, a new rendition of Tennessee Williams’ Suddenly Last Summer is a feast for the eyes and the eardrums. In true Tennessee Williams fashion, all facets of the stagecraft were tuned to the atmosphere of the scene, despite the intimacy of the theatre. Music intensified as we saw Catharine Holly’s mental deterioration, lighting narrowed as her extensive monologues paced faster and faster, and maybe it was just the front row, but the stench of tobacco definitely sold the gritty feel.
A one-act play, Suddenly Last Summer is one of Williams’ more obscure works, yet the themes of A Streetcar Named Desire and Cat on a Hot Tin Roof linger. With sinister threats of lobotomies and uncertainty of the truth, we are transported to a midcentury New Orleans and forced to decipher the backstories of these characters through trailing speeches and thick tension. Lead actress Céline Denis embodies the elderly Mrs Violet Venable, with her eerie facial expressions leaving the audience markedly unsure of her next word. Her fingers subtly but erratically tread over one another as she recounts the almost incestuous obsession Mrs Venable has with her cultivated yet morally corrupt son, Sebastian. Her eyes do not move, her body remains stiff in her wheelchair, until moments of rage lead her to snap. She is theatrical and over-the-top, but that is exactly what she should be. Her devilish plans to force a lobotomy on her niece are absurd, but that is exactly what we should expect from the melodrama of the Southern Gothic. Denis stands out as one of the highlights of the show, along with Hafeja Khanam as Catharine Holly, the mentally-ill niece of Mrs Venable.
Khanam dominates the final scenes of the play, with impressive monologues and exuding gripping emotion. She stands almost uncomfortably close to the audience, each twitch in her expression is visible to us. Her highs are high (and incredibly loud), fighting Sister Felicity (Kaitlyn Walsh) for the solace of a cigarette. Her lows are also low; her voice trails off, she clings to the excellent Dr Sugar (Jem Hunter) in mental and physical agony, meticulously recalling the summer she spent with Sebastian, the summer in which he procured for homosexual men, and was then cannibalised by small children. It sounds absolutely absurd, but Khanam’s delivery is so convincing that even the most ridiculous of premises can be taken as sincere, and open our eyes to such a powerful metaphor.
When asked about her favourite symbols used in the production, Céline Denis told Cherwell: “I think my favourite one was the comparison Catharine makes between Sebastian and bread. It really connected the dots for me and made me realise how Tennessee Williams constructs Sebastian as an elusive Christ-like figure, especially with the symbolism of blood throughout the play.”
She also says that this is her first time acting in a university play, an impressive feat for the second-year Christ Church Art Historian. “I prepared for my role by reading all my lines in a southern American accent then transposing them back into Received Pronunciation. I was trying to find a way to channel the concept of the ‘southern belle’ through a British perspective, which was pretty interesting.”
Suddenly Last Summer at the Burton Taylor Studio was certainly not one to miss – with standout performances from Céline Denis and Hafeja Khanam, the production was uncomfortably thought-provoking in the best way. A highlight of Week Four, Suddenly Last Summer exemplified creative uses of space, ear-splitting wails, and gripping performances that demand your attention.
In the last half-decade, the medium of ‘recorded theatre’ has undergone a boom, with it now being the expectation that performances of all levels not only be observed in person but also preserved on film. While there are obvious advantages to this new hybrid medium, are we witnessing the downfall of the priority of ‘LIVE’?
The concept of recorded theatre seems an oxymoronic one: how can a medium defined by its being live, in person, and on-stage suddenly become pre-recorded, remote, and on-screen? Just as digitalisation has done with countless other concepts, the very definition of theatre is changing.
Recorded theatre is undoubtedly helpful in its ability to widen the catchment of those able to witness outstanding shows. For example, National Theatre Live claims to offer audiences the best seats in the house from the comfort of their own home or a cinema at a fraction of the price of a seat in the stalls, with performances such as Jodie Comer’s ‘Prima Facie’, Rosamund Pike in ‘Inter Alia’ and Ncuti Gatwa in ‘The Importance of Being Earnest’ all on offer. But most will acknowledge that there is always something missing from seeing the performances second-hand. After all, theatre is unique in its spontaneity: a performance is a one-off event that cannot be replicated and the same can be said for the audience experience of a live show.
But perhaps what we lose in ‘live feel’, we gain in education: through the increasing culture of recorded theatre, students, actors and fanatics alike can analyse performances through watching and rewatching in a way that’s never been possible before. We are living in a world in which the memories of some of the greatest performances of the age are being lifted out of the mouths of their audiences and placed onto the screens of the masses: Benedict Cumberbatch’s performance as The Creature in the NT’s ‘Frankenstein’ is not just the stuff of myth, held in the memories of the select few live-audience members, only accessed through attempted articulation to others, but it’s now a single search away on YouTube and has become a cultural staple of recorded theatre. We have access to master performers and classic shows. In this way, there is a huge new opportunity for aspiring actors, writers and directors to study their favourite plays.
So how then should student drama embrace recorded theatre? At Oxford University, the student theatre scene is rich and incredibly broad with a range of performances varying in budget, venue, cast size and content. But is it worth investing in a university-wide means of recording all productions and preserving the beauty of student theatre for generations of thespians? Or should the intimacy that student theatre invites be left to those dedicated to the live shows?
For many, this potential investment is not necessarily practical. Budgeting is already stretched thin for most productions, and recording performances would only add to the strain and for what purpose?
If student theatre can remain raw and impromptu as it is in its current un-recorded state, let it. The beauty of student drama is in its slightly unrefined, almost haphazard nature; every performance is the product of genuine desire to perform for the sake of performing. Audiences revel in sitting on that knife-edge of potentially witnessing something groundbreaking or something downright awkward, and recording those kinds of unexpected works would simply dull that thrill. Despite the pressing academic deadlines and the general business of university life, student plays are the result of impassioned individuals taking the time to make a statement and make it on a stage of all places. There is no need to reinvent the wheel here, folks. The joy of university plays is their unexpected brilliance, so let’s keep it unexpected.
There is a passage in James M. Cain’s Double Indemnity (1943) in which an insurance agent, warming up to defraud his company and murder a client, likens himself to the casino man behind a roulette-wheel:
“I’m an agent. I’m a croupier in that game. I know all their tricks, I lie awake nights thinking up tricks, so I’ll be ready for them when they come at me. And then one night I think up a trick, and get to thinking I could crook the wheel myself…”
A similar thing happens when literary critics turn to novel-writing. They have spent so long combatting tricks that they eventually start thinking up their own. Not all good critics make good novelists. Some good novelists make bad critics. Some great critics write terrifyingly bad novels. Leo Robson – a croupier who reviews copiously for the New Statesman, New Left Review, and London Review of Books, and therefore knows all the tricks – is both an excellent critic and an excellent novelist.
The Boys is the sparkling, enjoyable, and sometimes sad story of Johnny Voghel, a thirty-year-old university administrator grieving both his parents while navigating some extraordinarily tangled relationships between a half-brother, half-nephew, half-great-niece, aunt, girlfriend, and two students, all during the 2012 Olympics in the oddly specific locality of Swiss Cottage (a part of London which must be alien not only to non-Londoners but to anyone unfamiliar with the grey spots of the Jubilee Line).
Debuts can be brought down when the author possesses one of a) overambition in describing things about which he knows nothing, or b) uncertainty as to how to sustain a narrative beyond a limited wordcount. Robson, with his critic’s eye, spots these bear-traps but avoids them too self-consciously. In response to quibble a) he writes about what he knows, but that means confining himself largely to a very narrow milieu of North London postgrads; some of the best passages only come when he looks beyond this range, for instance when Johnny reflects on the history of his family of Jewish immigrants. In response to quibble b) Robson expands the word count all right, but with the result of a loosely plotted, loosely structured book, stuffed with rambling conversations, long fluid sentences, and padded-out descriptions of London meals and walks, which might have made a good novella but which, spun out to three hundred pages, can lose its momentum.
Though it has a serious emotional core and contains a powerful account of grief, The Boys is fundamentally a comic novel: it belongs to the school of English comic fiction whose originator was Henry Fielding and whose greatest living practitioner is Jonathan Coe. The criticisms of Robson which I have made above – leisurely pacing, unnecessary details, and aimless tangents under whose weight an infirm plot gasps for breath – are all characteristic of this school. They do not matter, because of the simple fact that Robson is funny. His humour is one of two special qualities which mark him out as a writer of rare power. He can write about ubiquitous things, such as Selfridges or smoked-salmon bagels, and make them seem hilarious:
“‘You don’t mean your Selfridges ban?’ At some point before my brief stint working there, Lawrence had been involved in an incident of minor vandalism, as well as repeated attempts to steal a waistcoat.”
“Lawrence was leaning over the kitchen counter. ‘Whoever invented cling film was a cunt.’ He was surrounded by the debris of three or four attempts to wrap a smoked salmon bagel.”
In both these instances, it will be seen, the source of the humour is a single character. And that leads on to Robson’s second great quality: his power of characterisation. Though it is difficult for a writer to be funny, it is even more difficult to draw characters who are funny in themselves, as Robson’s characters are. His paper-and-ink figures – especially Johnny and Lawrence, the “boys” of the title – inspire the affection and attachment that usually come from real-life friendships. When I turned the last page of The Boys the feeling was not of having finished a novel but of having spent a week – a very funny and emotionally turbulent week – with close friends in London.
In his next novel Robson would do well to hone these two great gifts, humour and character; if he does so, he will become that rare thing, a debutant who fulfils his promise.
The Boys by Leo Robson is published by Riverrun (£16.99). ISBN: 9781529428186
There is nothing more fascinating than a good historical drama; something about a true story that packs an extra punch, an added shiver down the spine. However, it is important to be aware that dramas based on historical events are exactly that: based.
In any case, it is quite impossible to give a “true” rendition of history. History is a too cumbersome and overcomplicated thing to ever drop neatly into a plot line with villains and heroes premade. It is necessary for playwrights to adapt, mould and simplify when producing an effective tale. However, rather than berate theatre for not attempting the impossible task of historical accuracy, is it not more interesting to focus on what insights historical theatre can provide us with?
Hamilton is undoubtedly one of the best known musicals in the world. Famous for its incredible music, and ability to turn challenging subject matter into fast-paced, yet easily digestible entertainment. Hamilton has brought historical drama to the attention of theatre critics across the globe but, of course, the musical is not completely faithful to the real life of its eponymous hero.
Hamilton’s complicated relationship with the slave trade is simplified in his favour, allowing the audience to sympathise more easily with the story’s protagonist. His duel with Burr is depicted as taking place directly after and due to Jefferson’s election, whereas the real duel took place many years later. However, this simplification is necessary to produce engaging story arcs and characters who, whilst being certainly well-rounded, are not so overly complicated that the audience does not know who to sympathise with. Instead, Hamilton gives us an opportunity to examine broader themes of the period; the importance of honour or the atmosphere of ambition in newly independent American society.
The most interesting thing, historically speaking, about Hamilton is its self awareness. During the song ‘History Has its Eyes On You’, Washington reflects on how vulnerable his story is to manipulation by future generations. The play has a wonderful sense of its own being in this way, with Lin Manuel Miranda clearly pointing out both his own manipulation of historical fact and a broader warning about the malleability of history, emphasising our lack of control over how history is recorded and perceived. Miranda’s very transformation of these historical figures into characters emphasises this point.
Martin McDonah’s Irish plays, such as The Cripple of Inishmaan or The Lonesome West, although highly comedic, also contain several insightful comments on life in 20th century rural Ireland. His plays are permeated with a sense of claustrophobia and emphasise the poor quality of life experienced in tiny, rural communities at the time. McDonagh creates a complexity to the reception of his characters, simultaneously provoking laughter and sympathy. He encourages a wider compassion for the ordinary, luckless inhabitants of history, whose stories although not grand or well recorded are nevertheless worthy of attention.
It is also interesting to consider how plays could be interpreted as historical artefacts in and of themselves. Shakespeare’s Richard III portrays King Richard as a ruthless and irretrievably corrupted murderer, by blaming him for the death of the princes in the tower, despite the fact that the true events of this story were, and still are, unknown. By doing this, Shakespeare manipulates historical figures and facts to promote the Tudors who usurped Richard’s throne as a just and righteous house; an attempt, perhaps, to gain favour with the contemporary monarch, Elizabeth I. Richard III, therefore, gives us an excellent insight into the ways in which theatre was used as propaganda in Tudor England, as well as a tool employed by Shakespeare to further his political advancement.
We can not use historical plays alone to learn about history. However, they can supplement and support our understanding, provoking questions about how history is shaped and by whom, providing an alternative route, from the dusty tomes of the history shelves, to engagement with our past and the stories of our ancestors.
On Thursday night, the Oxford Union debated the motion “This House Believes the Right to Die is a Human Right”. It was carried by a majority of 41, with 175 votes in favour and 134 votes against.
Lord Pannick, a pre-eminent barrister in public law, and Lord Neuberger, former Supreme Court judge, spoke for the proposition. His Eminence Anba Angelos, the Coptic Orthodox Archbishop of London, and Professor Sleeman, a palliative care doctor and researcher, spoke for the opposition. Jennifer Yang, Secretary of the Union, also spoke for the proposition, while Katie Pannick opened for the opposition.
Before the debate began, Anita Okunde, the President, introduced a piece of President’s business. This was a motion to reinstate a standing rule to fly the rainbow LGBTQ+ flag during Pride month. Okunde stated that the rule had previously been included, but had been “accidentally” removed. Earlier this month, the Standing Committee voted 7-4 against reinstating it.
Arguing for her motion, Okunde emphasised that what she sought was “transparency, not tokenism”, and that she was not seeking to reinstate the rule “because it is radical… but because it is right.” She asserted the importance of openness and democracy, and criticised the unannounced removal of the rule “without a vote, without a record, and without an explanation.” Her speech was followed by loud applause.
One member stood in opposition. Charles Amos took issue with the “political” nature of the flag, and argued that the Union did not fly political flags. He called the business a “wretched motion” and reduced it to “tokenism”. He cut himself off before detailing precisely what the motion was an “attempt by the President” to do. Some groans followed.
The motion was carried, with deafening ayes. The noes appeared to come exclusively from Amos’s direction.
The evening’s debate centred on “the right to die”, and whether it constitutes a human right, particularly due to its clash with the central right to life. Currently, the Terminally Ill Adults (End of Life) Bill, is at the report stage in the House of Commons. If it passes and receives royal assent, this bill will legalise assisted dying in England and Wales, subject to certain safeguards.
Secretary Jennifer Yang opened the debate, in her first paper speech. She contrasted the abstract arguments for the sanctity of life with the “grinding reality” that those with degenerative illnesses faced, invoking “patients trapped in a broken body, pain no medicine can touch”. From a linguistic perspective, she argued that “human” has two meanings – firstly as individual and distinct biologically from animals, and secondly as synonymous with compassion and righteousness. From these strands, she argued that autonomy and dignity are the most important human qualities. In cases where there is a “grave incompatibility between mind and body”, she argued assisted dying “reconciles the gap and restores a person’s autonomy.”
While introducing the speakers, Yang said she was “excited to see which side of the House will ‘Pannick’ more tonight”. Katie Pannick, a History student at St John’s, opened for the opposition. She immediately addressed “the elephant in the room” – her father, Lord Pannick, was sitting opposite her. On the topic of ‘nepo babies’ she joked that “if it wasn’t for [her] illustrious career in the Union, [Lord Pannick] might never have been invited to speak” at the debate.
Pannick devoted most of her time to a practical evaluation of the right to die. She set out the content of the Assisted Dying Bill, and considered its safeguards. She suggested that there would have to be absolutely no error within the assisted dying process for it to be viable, and this was simply impossible – doctors make mistakes in far less important areas. Even if there were sufficient resources, she argued that they should go towards addressing palliative care, or the root causes of despair. A right to die would instead lead to a society that “begins to accept death as a solution to their social and economic problems”, and a state that “moves from protecting life to facilitating death”.
Lord Pannick continued for the proposition. He picked up on a point made by his daughter that the Assisted Dying Bill “makes legal what would otherwise be considered murder”, and correctly argued that this is not legally true. He detailed the Suicide Act 1961, which decriminalised assisted suicide, as well as the Mental Capacity Act 2005, which allows adults of sound mind to give direction not to be resuscitated. He argued that the Assisted Dying Bill merely filled the gap left by these acts, for those who need assistance to die. In short: “I say to those who are arguing against this proposition – You’re too late! You’re 64 years too late.”
Professor Sleeman was next for the opposition. She emphasised that her opposition was not to the principle of a right to die, but to the practical implications it would incur. The vulnerable populations most at risk, in her view, “are voiceless in this debate. We don’t hear from them. We can’t.” As a palliative care doctor, she discussed her experience in deprived areas, where elderly patients had an average reading age of 8. In light of this, she considered the proposed safeguards. She argued that mental capacity requirements, and assessments of an absence of coercion would not be effective for the most vulnerable. She feared systemic coercion, as well as “people ‘choosing’ an assisted death because they can’t get the care they need.”
Lord Neuberger concluded for the proposition. Like Lord Pannick, he made a more practical argument based on legal reality. He argued that “the current law… actually criminalises compassion” by preventing those who require assistance to die from doing so. He did acknowledge the dangers of abuse, but emphasised that the response to this would be “curbing freedoms appropriately, not removing them.” Ultimately, he argued there should be a balance struck between “the risk of a few cases of abuse… with the assistance you’re giving to many people who are suffering badly”. He also criticised the ‘slippery slope’ argument as the “last refuge of someone who can’t find any objection to legislation”.
Archbishop Angelos closed the debate. He emphasised his religious perspective, but also his experience with dying and despairing people. In their lowest moments, he argued, people want to die, “but they come back from it”. The pain these people felt should be treated with “support and embracing” not a “quick fix”. He considered people feeling like a burden, and argued that the option of assisted dying would only amplify this feeling. He highlighted the need to “fight for every life, even if the holder of that life feels like he or she is not worth being fought for”, and the danger of giving into despair with easy access to assisted dying.
The result was at odds with the general public. YouGov’s most recent survey had 75% of British adults in favour of assisted dying being legal, with 13% against, and 14% not knowing. The Oxford Union was far more divided. With 175 ayes and 134 noes, the split was 57% for and 43% against.
Our recent spell of sunshine has offered a welcome opportunity to rediscover the natural beauty that the city of Oxford nurtures. Perhaps you’ve enjoyed a picnic by the river in Christ Church Meadows, played a game of frisbee in University Parks, or gazed at the horses in Port Meadow. You may have also caught sight of a squirrel springing between branches or heard birdsong cooing among the trees.
Architecturally, Oxford is a beautiful city as well. With the exception of hotly contested brutalist architecture, much of Oxford’s charm lies in how its architectural grandeur entwines with the natural environment – ivy climbs the walls of centuries-old buildings, while oriel windows are bordered by flowers in full bloom. After a typically bleak Hilary term – when most of us were tucked away indoors, hiding from the grey skies and constant drizzle – this reappearance of life feels restorative. When the sun does finally come out, everyone takes notice. It’s a quiet reminder that nature can subtly lift the weight of the term-time intensity. And haven’t we all felt better for the arrival of spring?
Scientifically speaking, at least, we certainly should have. It is popularly touted because it holds true: spending time outdoors in nature is good for you. Some theorists suggest that nature’s inherent mathematical order may provide us with a subconscious sense of harmony and coherence. It is, perhaps for many, the rare situation in which fractals, the Fibonacci sequence, or Euler’s number produces calm rather than anxiety. It’s a compelling idea to consider how such underlying structures might influence our perception and wellbeing.
In fact, time spent in nature may even have improved the quality of your work. Research suggests that exposure to natural environments can enhance cognitive function by restoring attention and supporting sustained concentration. Combined with the physical benefits already mentioned, this creates an ideal setting for clearer thinking and more focused study. Taking a quiet walk to your favourite green area might be more than just a break. It could be the reset your brain needs to re engage with the demands of academic life.
The philosophers agree that nature makes us feel better. Immanuel Kant delves into this in his Critique of Judgement, where he suggested that we find beauty in nature not because it serves a purpose, but because it doesn’t. It simply is. In our world of deadlines and goals, natural beauty offers us an experience free from self-interest. While nature has biological roles which serve us that is not why we walk through Magdalen’s deer park or linger by the Cherwell. We simply pause to appreciate.
Similarly, in the Metaphysics of Morals, Kant also looks at the theory that natural beauty makes us better people morally. Ultimately, the fact that we derive pleasure in something which is an end in itself may make us more open to being moral in general. The positive effect nature has on us can disseminate to other parts of life. On a societal level, we can conclude that it makes us more gentle in all parts of life. We become more moral, and the world becomes a better place.
Hopefully, we can carry this aesthetic disposition into other areas of our lives, into how we engage with friends, family, attend events, or pursue intellectual curiosities – not merely as a means to an end, but for the intrinsic joy they offer. Perhaps this helps explain the delight we feel when admiring Oxford’s ornate stone buildings and the discomfort sparked by its more brutalist corners – think St John’s Sir Thomas White Building, Somerville’s Margery Fry and Elizabeth Nuffield House, or Keble Road’s Denys Wilkinson Building.
Recent years have seen mounting threats facing our green spaces. Urban development and pollution increasingly loom over the green spaces we so enjoy. Despite our regular enjoyment of these environments, many of us remain unaware of their vulnerability. We picnic beside the Cherwell, have a croquet game in the college gardens, or read under the shade in University Parks – but too rarely do we consider how we might give back. The preservation of Oxford’s wildlife is not simply a matter of environmental stewardship, but a defence of something more intrinsic to the very nature of student life here. It is a matter of protecting those moments of outdoor tranquillity that punctuate the academic intensity of a library session. Perhaps it is the very aesthetic characteristic of nature which could ultimately help it save itself from us.
What is it, then, that Oxford’s flora and fauna gives us? Oxford’s natural spaces provide something humbly essential: physically, psychological, and philosophically. So, take time to visit your favourite green space. And when you’re there, consider the effect it has on you. Not just physically and psychologically, but morally.
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