Cherwell’s Verdict
“Angelic performances break up some heavy material”

Set in New York in the 80s, Angels in America sees a community of young homosexual men being torn apart by the AIDS crisis. The art, however, of this script is that in every scene when you might want to cry, you’ll want to laugh too. Humour pervades the play, which – cunningly – only serves to make the terror of the situation all the more horrific. Playhouse student shows often play it safe. Recently we’ve had Arthur Miller’s A View from the Bridge – not his greatest play, but one that features on GCSE syllabuses. There’s been Sondheim, Pinter, Chekhov – all of them household names. But now Oxford will see something genuinely unusual: Angels in America, a three hour play that verges on opera, by Tony Kushner.

The cast bring the comic quality of the script across excellently. Nor do they ham it up and descend into pantomimic camp to portray homosexuality, even though every male character is homosexual and every actor heterosexual. The relationship between Prior Walter (played by Ed Barr-Sim) and Louis Ironson (Arty Froushan) was believable; it was tender, too.

The script’s exploration of the politics surrounding the AIDS crisis manages to be both delicate and bludgeoning. During the main plot issues are alluded to, implied and suggested, but the sub-plot – that of Roy Cohn, a vicious McCarthyist lawyer (played by Barney White), as his diagnosis is revealed to him – treats the politics of the situation like an essay topic to be explicated and laid bare. This sub-plot is at least saved – as much as it can be – by White’s compelling performance and the historical interest (Cohn was a real person).

Angels in America had just over a week to go till opening night when I saw it, and it was shaping up impressively. All the actors – not just those already mentioned – were performing at a very high standard; all that seemed left to do was to polish the scenes so that they would shine, rather than just glow. The technical side of things sounds promising – not only do we get flying flats, we’ll have a flying actress too. The music, which, opera-like, will be played throughout the play, is entirely original and is currently being recorded. Nor will their director, Jack Sain, pare down the energy any time soon; “it is good to be obsessive,” to use his own words. 

Cherwell’s Verdict
“Not Maid for the faint-hearted” 

If The Handmaid’s Tale is set in a world of suppression and autonomy, then the cast of this operatic version of Atwood’s novel is a far cry from the society they reproduce. With roles passed merrily around the group over the course of different scenes, musicians becoming actors and singers becoming dancers, the overall effect adds to the abstract atmosphere of the story whilst also rallying a tightly-knit and highly cooperative cast.

A group of enthused undergrads and postgrads have got together to write, perform and stage the production, which, whilst closely based on the book, exploits the full potential of the Jacqueline du Prés music room as a space for sound, dance, and visual effects. I am told that one moment of the opera will consist of all the pianos in the building being played simultaneously with the internal doors open to create a homogenous mass of noise, the floor of the acting space is to be a scrabble-board, and projections on the balcony will create various effects and backdrops.

The use of space is certainly highly original. I watched the on-going rehearsal from the stage looking down into the area usually used by the audience but wrongly assumed this was a temporary arrangement. The audience for this particular production will be treated to a place on the floor literally at the feet of the actors; later they will be moved up onto the raised stage where I sat and view the production at the eye-level of an actor, a surprisingly more engaging experience which cuts out the all too familiar situation of leaning backwards in the seat, squinting with an aching neck at the actors above. Yet the balcony of the concert hall is also put to use, and actors emerge singing and spitting from underneath the stage itself. ‘Spitting’ is no exaggeration unfortunately; within innovative and haunting melodies from all members of the cast (a duet between Ellen Timothy and Anna Appleby re-enacting the perverse ‘ceremony’ of reproduction in Atwood’s dystopia was particularly striking), is a slightly heavy-handed tendency for experimental musicianship.

Repeated words, stuttering consonants, wordless a capella and ad lib singing combine to make much of the music indistinguishable from the rest – you certainly won’t leave this opera singing your favourite tunes Gilbert-and-Sullivan style – yet this is hardly the point. Their aim is to shock, to experiment and to challenge, and in this they will almost undoubtedly succeed.

The Golden Globes are Hollywood’s hybrid event; a bit like the Oscars but also a bit like the BAFTAS, judged by the comparatively tiny Hollywood Press Association. However, they always make for an interesting night, slightly less grandiose than their weepier counterparts and with a history of entertaining hosts.

This year’s shenanigans were led by America’s comedy darlings, SNL team Tina Fey and Amy Poehler. Following the much talked about show hosted by David Brent, sorry, Ricky Gervais, they were a guaranteed success, prodding fun at the eternally mockable Hollywood acting circle whilst remaining light hearted and engaging.

Though the Golden Globes looks like a pretty good night out, it is more often considered to be the indicator of who is going to be giving an overlong speech come the Oscars. Apart from the TV nominees, of course. They probably won’t be invited. However, this year saw the field blown wide open as Ben Affleck won Best Director and his film Argo pipped the tipped Lincoln for Best Film Drama Award. (It’s ok, Stephen Spielberg. You’ll live.) Jessica Chastain deservedly took the Best Actress in Drama Award for controversial Zero Dark Thirty, whilst Christopher Waltz proved his ever growing popularity with a win for Django Unchained.

Nevertheless, some things seem set in gold, with Daniel Day Lewis scooping a Best Actor in Drama award for Lincoln (he’s probably still in period dress) and Les Misérables taking Best Picture – Musical or Comedy.

Awards aside, the most dramatic event of the night was not a fictional one, but a real and heartfelt speech from Jodie Foster, upon the reception of her Cecile B DeMille ‘Outsanding Contribution to Entertainment’ Award. This prestigious nod has previously been awarded to Alfred Hitchcock, Martin Scorsese and Walt Disney, with Foster becoming the second youngest woman to receive it. Having been in the public eye for 47 of her 50 years, Foster has dealt with her fair share of media invasion. From a stalker who attempted to assassinate President Reagan on her behalf, to continued debate about her sexuality, she dealt with these situations with dignity and elegance, the two key elements to her speech. The speech marks the first time she has publicly acknowledged her sexuality, and her dedication to both feminism and film makes her a wholly deserving recepient of the award.

Alongside Fey and Poehler, wins for Homeland, Adele, and TV series Girls, the Golden Globes went a long way to highlighting the female success stories in Hollywood. Here’s to the girls. 

Golden Globe Awards 2013

Picture, Drama: “Argo.”

Picture, Musical or Comedy: “Les Miserables.”

Actor, Drama: Daniel Day-Lewis, “Lincoln.”

Actress, Drama: Jessica Chastain, “Zero Dark Thirty.”

Director: Ben Affleck, “Argo.”

Actor, Musical or Comedy: Hugh Jackman, “Les Miserables.”

Actress, Musical or Comedy: Jennifer Lawrence, “Silver Linings Playbook.”

Supporting Actor: Christoph Waltz, “Django Unchained.”

Supporting Actress: Anne Hathaway, “Les Miserables.”

Foreign Language: “Amour.”

Animated Film: “Brave.”

Screenplay: Quentin Tarantino, “Django Unchained.”

Original Score: Mychael Danna, “Life of Pi.”

Original Song: “Skyfall” (music and lyrics by Adele and Paul Epworth), “Skyfall.”

TELEVISION:

Series, Drama: “Homeland.”

Series, Musical or Comedy: “Girls.”

Actress, Drama: Claire Danes, “Homeland.”

Actor, Drama: Damian Lewis, “Homeland.”

Actress, Musical or Comedy: Lena Dunham, “Girls.”

Actor, Musical or Comedy: Don Cheadle, “House of Lies.”

Miniseries or Movie: “Game Change.”

Actress, Miniseries or Movie: Julianne Moore, “Game Change.”

Actor, Miniseries or Movie: Kevin Costner, “Hatfields & McCoys.”

Supporting Actress, Series, Miniseries or Movie: Maggie Smith, “Downton Abbey.”

Supporting Actor, Series, Miniseries or Movie: Ed Harris, “Game Change.”

Cecil B. DeMille Lifetime Achievement Award: Jodie Foster.

★★★★☆
Four Stars

Salman Rushdie is in the dog-house. His recent memoir – an aggrieved portrait of ten years evading homicidal fundamentalists, written, oddly, in the third person – has been raising literary hackles. The notorious author claims the New York Review of Books is afflicted by a kind of post-persecution narcissism, which has boiled over into the snobbish nastiness of a Disney villain. He is suffering, apparently, a malfunction of “compassion”. I don’t know anything about what Rushdie is like as a man, but if evidence were needed of said compassion, his new film would be an excellent place to start.

Rushdie’s novel of 1981, Midnight’s Children, has hit the big screen. Refracting the many painful chapters of Indian history through the mystical life of a changeling boy, Saleem Sinai, it is a sweeping vision of warring nations as much as a raw cross-examination of individual choices. This is point blanc panorama – as Rushdie-esque a paradox as you might hope for. Though shot with an ironic resignation to fate, it is nevertheless an optimistic clarion call, reaffirming the hopes and dreams born at independence.

Midnight’s Children isn’t as disorientating as The Satanic Verses; for one it doesn’t take long to grasp what the hell is going on. What is going on? A roller-coaster spin through Indian history. We’re lead through hospital wards during partition, opulent colonial mansions, slaughter-scenes at the secession of Bangladesh, the slums of ‘70s Bombay, and torture cells in the emergency years. Through it all the protagonist Saleem’s unlikely life turns out to be a wearily self-conscious metaphor about hope living amongst us. But, you know, who cares? It is, at least, refreshingly eccentric.

Surprisingly, Midnight’s Children is performing poorly at the box office, and the critical reception has ranged from lukewarm to politely interested. Undeniably, the gaudy magic-realism brings the film close to an uncomfortable sense of slum-glamour, and a number of promising figures – including a whole host of mystic children – retreat from view almost as soon as they’re introduced. But I suspect the real reason for the film’s meagre audiences is that nobody seems to have heard of its existence. Which is a shame, because it does exist, and it should be seen.

For fear of interruption by Rushdie’s various shrill detractors, the film was shot in awkward secrecy in Sri Lanka. Iran, unfathomably, tried to prevent filming taking place at all, and the Sri Lankan president had to intervene. They needn’t have worried; apart from a violently severe portrait of Indira Gandhi, there’s little controversial about this film. Self-consciously pluralist and unashamedly dreamy, Midnight’s Children is sensitive and humane, and speaks volumes about its writer’s capacity for compassion. Tell that to the New York Review.