They might not always be in the spotlight, but lighting and costume designers are absolutely crucial to the smooth running of any production.

Sean Ford is the lighting director for Life Is A Dream. He says it is “quite different from most student productions in the Playhouse. It’s very surreal, the main characters are in a dream world”.

Sean has considerable work to do as the backdrop doesn’t change throughout the show: any change in mood or atmosphere has to be conveyed through the lighting.

Inspired by the Italian baroque, the lighting is intended to convey a 16th
century feel – the trend back then was for light to come from specific directions rather than simply shining across the room. One side of a face,
for example, would be highlighted, rather than a uniform wash across the actors. Sean says there are people who’ve been doing this for
years, but “a lot is still guesswork”; with lighting one can think of things that “could work” and only be able to tell whether it does or doesn’t once in the venue. “There’s a lot of trial and error”.

Another part of theatre production that is often forgotten about is the role of the costume designer. Rosie Talbot, performing this role for Life is a Dream, says the skills of a good costume designer are flexibility, patience, imagination and the ability to work fast. Value for money in student drama is essential, the idea, therefore, is to create the best effect with the smallest amount of money and that can often mean making something yourself from scratch.

“It’s important to be able to understand characterisation. A costume designer is part of the process of bringing a character to life on stage, as well as helping shape the overall aesthetic of the play. So, it’s important to listen and understand both the brief from the directors and the focus of the play, as well as character motivations and how the actors will play those characters. A costume must be able to move and be as comfortable for the actors to wear as possible.” 

But the basics matter too: “it also certainly helps to know your way around a sewing machine!” she says. 

Life is a Dream “focuses on the boundaries between true life and constructed reality. That required us to make some pretty dramatic costume choices from the beginning to tie in with the themes.” The characters inhabit “a type of dreamspace” which explains the largely monochrome palate of black and white that she has opted for. “I chose to work with fabrics that reflect light in different ways. Sharp contrasts of light, texture, colour and form are part of the overall aesthetic of the play.”

She describes Estrella’s costume as her favourite “Her costume works particularly well alongside the Damas, her Ladies in Waiting.”

Talbot encourages people interested in design to try out costuming. “I dived in at the deep end and took on a whole production but, if you haven’t got that kind of time, designers are often looking for assistants to help create and source costumes and find fabrics. It is an immensely rewarding thing to do and working with actors and directors is never dull!”

On the 2nd April, Spot the Dog’s Birthday Party was performed in the Oxford Playhouse.

The performance was a special one – staged on World Autism Awareness Day, it was designed to make children on the autism spectrum, as well as their parents, feel included and at ease. Spot has been romping about on paper and on screen since the eighties: however, the series was only adapted for stage in 2000. It was first staged at the Playhouse, and this month Spot came home to enjoy a special matinee performance: lighting was less intense so that children who have sensory issues were not distressed, and children could make noise and come and go as they pleased.

The idea of welcoming autistic children into the world of drama has long been championed by autism campaigners. Lizzy Clark is a young actress with Asperger’s Syndrome who played Poppy in the film version of Jacqueline Wilson’s Dustbin Baby. Poppy the character had Asperger’s, and the decision to choose a child with Asperger’s to play her sparked debate across the
dramatic community. 

Lizzy Clark and her mother, Nicky, began a campaign called ‘Don’t Play Me, Pay Me’, the idea being to change how disabled people are represented
onstage and on screen. The campaign took issue with how disabled people’s storylines are often centred around their disability, and – worse – these storylines often involve them needing a non-disabled character’s help. The Clarks’ campaign also challenges the practice of hiring non-disabled actors to play disabled roles. 

The Clarks see non-disabled actors playing disabled characters as the “blacking up of the new millenium”, and yet, five years after the campaign began, we see a non-disabled Luke Treadaway assuming the mantel of Christopher in the West End production of The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time. 

When I tweeted Nicky Clark about this, her reply seemed more measured than her campaign’s rallying cries: according to her, directors should “ideally cast authentically, but always choose the best actor”. However, she stipulated that castings should “always include people with disabilities/impairments”. 

At one point in The Curious Incident, Christopher Boone asks “Is acting a lie?” – for some, Treadaway’s performance of an autistic boy is an unforgiveable untruth.

For the hundredth time, I have to bite back the reply that The Woman in Black isn’t scary at all – it is actually full of bunnies and rainbows.

I’m working as an usher at a the Fortune theatre.There is something especially unique about working in a theatre that has housed the same ghost story for almost a quarter of a century. 

It may, perhaps, seem surprising that this is London’s second longest-running play (The Mousetrap takes first place). It is an extremely simple production with a rather clichéd plot and very few effects, what with (officially) only two actors on the stage and an extremely sparse array of props. 

Part of the explanation may be that the play now seems to be tied to this tiny, old theatre which has, somehow, become part of the set, with rumours of ghosts haunting the building itself. The intimate auditorium lends itself to creating the perfect atmosphere of isolation, on which the play’s suspense-filled moments depend.

The fact that this is a ‘play within a play’ provides a meta-theatrical experience which can be, in turns, both comforting and unsettling. While there may only be two characters on stage most of the time, their lively and occasionally
humorous dialogue means that you soon start to collude with them. You quickly supplement the scarcity of props with your imagination, sharing this experience with the actors as well as your fellow audience members. 

So much of the play relies on the audience’s imagination, which makes the Woman herself much more of a terrifying figure: the boundary between reality and fiction becomes blurred. Indeed, this probably explains why there are myths surrounding the play itself. There are always a few audience members adamant that no aisle seat is safe, or convinced that they saw something out of the corner of their eye. It may be set in another era but the investment of the audience’s minds in the events on stage maintains a timeless connection, enthralling you in a way that few other plays can do. The active role, that the audience has no choice but to take, is what, primarily, explains its continued existence in the West End. It is what makes this play worth not just seeing, but experiencing.

In her debut novel, published this April, Meike Ziervogel reinvigorates a topic that has been visited countless times before. Magda sees the rise and fall of Nazi Germany through the perspectives of three women: Magda Goebbels, the wife of Hitler’s propaganda minister, her daughter Helga, and her mother. Effortlessly unifying fact and fiction, Ziervogel’s exclusive use of female perspective to broach the subject of life under Nazi rule is a bold decision that pays off; Magda becomes as much about destructive mother-daughter relationships as it is about Hitler’s innermost circle of Nazi associates, and is a novel with deeper reaching implications because of it.

The author’s portrayal of how it is impossible to grow up untainted by the cruelties of Nazi rule is brutal; she masterfully exposes how the concept of childhood is distorted and broken in the suffocating confines of Hitler’s bunker, putting the reader in the difficult position of empathising with the enemy. Heavy irony abounds in Magda; the use of ‘Dear Gretchen’ to begin the diary account of Helga’s experience of growing up confined in Hitler’s bunker draws a painfully bitter parallel with Anne Frank’s own ‘Dear Kitty’, collapsing the conventional dichotomies between victim and oppressor the reader may expect.  This is part of Ziervogel’s intention to show how every relationship in the novel is toxic, the characters’ capacity for love eaten away by the awareness that their lives as the most powerful and untouchable citizens in Germany are coming to an end.

Where Ziervogel really shines is in her expert handling of the narrative’s chronology; weaving back and forth over different points in the three women’s lives, she enables the reader to piece together an innate understanding of the motives behind Magda Goebbels, the woman who was capable of murdering her six children when she knew Germany has been defeated. While this makes for uneasy, and sometimes agonising reading, the end result is worth it; one comes away unable to forget Ziervogel’s haunting insight into one of the Nazi’s most notorious female members.

It is billed as “the first major museum retrospective of this innovative and influential artist’s photographic portraits”. Man Ray: Portraits is an exhibition that doesn’t disappoint. The National Portrait Gallery is currently displaying many singularly beautiful images that have never before been shown in Britain.

Rare works are exhibited alongside familiar favourites, such as Le Violon d’Ingres (1924),and Noire et Blanche (1926). The 150 works are presented chronologically: from his formative years in New York 1916–20; through his experience of the avant-garde of Paris 1921–28, 1929–37; into Hollywood 1940–50 and Paris 1951–76. This exhibition constructs an all-but-definitive list of the artistic and cultural behemoths of the period. Contextually as well as compositionally, the works are engrossing and entertaining. 

Man Ray’s description of Hemingway, alongside the 1923 portrait, “a tall young man… with his hair low on his forehead, a clear complexion and a small moustache” hardly does justice to the the intensity of the author’s frank and uncompromising gaze. Man Ray’s penetrating scrutiny is evident in each of the works of the exhibition. The intensity in the eyes of each figure (where visible) is thrillingly expressive. 

At times, though, I felt the lack of inclusion of art in other media limited my appreciation of certain works, such as stills of avant-garde films, La Retour á la Raison (1923) and Emak Bakia (1926). 

Undeniably, there is much to be fascinated by in this well executed exhibition: the meticulous and subtle composition of each portrait, the survey of Ray’s use of innovative photographic techniques, and the surrealist humour that dances through these playful works. One photograph showed fellow Dadaist, Marcel Duchamp, uncannily disguised in drag. 

This retrospective not only provides a narrative of the artist’s photographic career, but shows the development and legitimisation of photography as an art form. The closing portrait in the exhibition – of French actress Catherine Deneuve, 1968 – is a final, potent, compelling testament to the unique power and potential of the photograph. And for this, perhaps above all else, I do not hesitate to recommend a visit to the exhibition before it closes on 27th May.

While studying law at London School of Economics and Sheffield, Hilary Mantel’s favourite non-academic activities at university were ‘sex and housekeeping’. In the surprisingly prudish age of the 1970s, Mantel had to marry her boyfriend in order for them to live together.

She explains, ‘no one would rent us a flat without a marriage certificate, and we couldn’t afford to pay rent twice, even if we’d wanted to. Even in those days of grants and no fees, the system didn’t always work and students could find themselves very poor.’

I ask Mantel whether her flair for writing showed itself when she was a student. It turns out that initially, writing was not something that came naturally to her at all.

‘When I went to LSE to study law I had no thought of being a writer in the creative sense of the word. I had a serviceable style and sometimes a flash turn of phrase, but I felt style breaking down under the pressure of answer- ing ‘problems’ in a set format and reading case law. It took me a year for my prose to regain flexibility.’

For Mantel, university was a time that revealed to her ‘a huge frustration about the way life could have been.’ Arriving two years after the activism of 1968, she was ‘a bit late to be a student revolutionary, and to be truthful, I’d already got through that stage. But it’s probably no accident that my characters in A Place Of Greater Safety were revolutionaries and lawyers.’ Mantel started writing her first novel in 1974, a work centred on the French revolution. Though she spent her twenties writing it, it was not published until much later in her life.

Meanwhile, the Law Faculty lost track of Mantel, who preferred to spend her time in psychology lectures and the University’s Labour Club. In fact, being a Labour Club girl is what helped her realise that ‘politics, besides being desperately serious, was desperately funny’ – a sense of humour that has translated directly into her books.

Mantel moved to Sheffield part-way through her course at LSE to be with her boyfriend. She says, ‘there were some difficult events in both our families, and they drove us together rather than apart’. She didn’t make friends in Sheffield, however, though her Geologist boyfriend (and future husband) enjoyed the camaraderie of university field trips. They also struggled to make ends meet: ‘I devoted myself to the art of shrewd shopping and stewing cheap cuts. We were very ingenious with two electric rings and probably ate better than we do now.’

Mantel remembers working very hard – too hard to take up student theatre – ‘though maybe not at my subject’, she admits. However, law did in fact influence Mantel’s writing in unforseen ways. She explains, ‘lawyers have a way of thinking and reasoning that’s hard for non-lawyers to pick up.’ Translating this into her two Man Booker prize winning novels, Wolf Hall and Bring Up The Bodies, has been her life’s endeavour, and she is now being
richly rewarded with critical and popular success. Whilst Mantel does not attribute this solely to her diverse university experience, she has certainly been influenced by her unorthodox path through the pit-falls of post-adolescent life.

And after all, ‘the more ways of thinking you have, the better.’

The soundtrack to Spring Breakers was compiled largely by Cliff Martinez, famed for his work for the Drive soundtrack, and Skrillex himself, the hooded horseman of the dance music apocalypse. As evident in the unlikely pairing of the two, the album, like the film itself, is about extremes, hopping from meditative ambience to the garish and abrasive. It opens with Skrillex’s distinctive anthem, ‘Scary Monsters and Nice Sprites’, a song that sounds like the aural equivalent of a Jägerbomb and sets the scene for the rest of the record – that is, a fantastic pastiche of a particular brand of American teen culture.

This ebb and flow of original incidental music interspersed with pre-existing dance and hip-hop songs continues throughout the record, with a Skrillex remix of Birdy Nam Nam’s ‘Goin’ In’ filling in for the EDM whilst Waka Flocka Flame and Gucci Mane provide the hip-hop. A rare occurrence in Flocka’s ‘Fuck This Industry’ sees the rapper sound less like a snare drum than usual, as he trades in his yelling for a softer, more restrained whisper. It goes beyond a novel inclusion of signature party music but shows considered compilation, as Waka Flocka Flame of all people begins to sound introspective.

The penultimate track, which had me guffawing in the cinema as I recognized Martinez’s strings carving out the melody to Skrillex’s ‘Scary Monsters and Nice Sprites’ in the aptly titled ‘Scary Monsters on Strings’. Yet as much as I enjoyed the music whilst watching the film or think that the songs are tastefully chosen, the record on its own isn’t all that enjoyable.

Conceptually, it works. In tandem with the film, it works. Divorced of its context, however, the album loses its humour and its novelty, and the combination of “ambience and abrasive” begins to turn into mere boredom and annoyance.

Download: ‘Fuck This Industry’