It seems like everyone wants to forget about the Henry Hathaway film, the original True Grit. The new Coen Brothers’ film cringes at the idea of being called a re-make. The directors have said themselves that they wanted to go back to the novel pretending that the original film never existed. Jeff Bridges claims that the Charles Portis book reads like a Coen Brothers’ script anyway. The Coens have been criticized for making clever post-modern films that don’t say a great deal about anything. But their latest film is doing something important, albeit something very different to the film released in 1969.

It’s impossible for the film to start completely from scratch with a clean slate. The first film isn’t just a generic Western: it’s a John Wayne movie, and it must have been hard to leave his personality behind. It’s a story that must have struck a chord with Wayne. He liked the novel so much that he lobbied for himself to play the drunken marshall. It’s as much about Wayne as anything else and played around a lot with his considerable age. In a sense comparable to what the 2006 film Rocky Balboa was to Sylvester Stallone, this was a reprise of Wayne’s past roles. John Wayne’s decision to take on four men at once has Maddie Ross whooping: ‘No Grit Mr. Cogburn? Not much!’. For a finale, having been berated by Maddie ‘You’re too old and fat to be jumping horses’, he proves her and the audience wrong by taking a run up and jumping the picket fence. The jaunty music plays him out.

Jeff Bridges’s Cogburn is more grounded. The Coen production is deliberately nostalgic, much more of a period piece and Bridges totally inhabits this world, so much so that sometimes his authentic slurs are barely comprehensible. He gabbles to himself, his back turned away from Maddie and the audience, giving the film a realistic solidity which the fantastical adventure of the original lacks. Still, it’s hard to imagine that the Coens wanted to escape the Wayne legacy entirely. The Rooster Cogburn of the novel never wore an eye-patch and, according to Mark Kermode, the detail comes from Henry Hathaway, director of the John Wayne version.

The two interpretations of Cogburn point towards something important about the way these films work as a whole. The trailer for the 1969 film didn’t promise anything more than a frolic – ‘A slip of a girl, a pot-bellied one-eyed western marshall and a texas ranger wearing britches a size too big’; japes, larks and ‘irreverent humor’ with a tomboy, a drunk and a bully. The original hid its complexities behind a comic front; John Wayne played a snoring, drunken lout whilst himself being, next to Bogart, one of the biggest smokers in Hollywood and dying of lung-cancer. Meanwhile, the film’s morality is rarely black and white, even if the ‘Cowboys and Indians’ cliché might have led us to believe otherwise. During the course of the film, John Wayne takes down several teenage boys, steals a horse and cart from three strangers and kills a pony. The courtroom scene at the opening is a fantastic conceit as we are in fact seeing the trial not only of Rooster Cogburn but also of John Wayne himself. The new trailer for the Coen brothers’ film, on the other hand, promises to deliver justice more simply: ‘Retribution’ proclaims the last word of the trailer. The nostalgia is for a more simple world in which the success of the chase is all.

In the last five minutes of the new True Grit we witness the passing of a whole way of life and realize what the whole film has been working towards. The Westerns of the ‘60s, even the thoughtful ones, had bright blue skies and verdant landscapes. The Coen’s True Grit has a look of its own, all snow, ice and mountain desert; free from John Wayne, even the landscape becomes part of a swan-song for the Western genre itself.

The Coens execute a master-class in cinematography, humour, and performance. The film’s energy and violence gives the ageing genre of the Western a youthful sheen and mirrors what Hathaway succeeded in with Wayne: silencing the doubters and proving the audience wrong. They have this Western take a run-up and jump the picket fence one last time.

A man sits at a desk, frantically typing away, before breaking off for a hoarse coughing fit. As we soon discover, this is George Orwell, composing what will be 1984, living alone on a remote Scottish island while slowly dying of TB. This grim existence is soon spiced up by the arrival of Sonia Brownwell, literary femme fatale, whom Orwell has invited here in a last-ditch attempt at love, followed swiftly by the lecherous editor Cyril Connelly, bent on keeping Sonia and Orwell apart for Orwell’s own good.

Orwell’s (Nick Davies) and Sonia’s (Georgia Waters) first meeting is beautifully awkward, with Orwell’s social reticence juxtaposed with Sonia’s flirtatious and assured tone, behind which an appealing vulnerability lurks. This is brought out clearly in her scene with the sleazy and self-confident Cyril (Andrew McCormack), keen along with all the other men on the London literary scene to objectify and seduce her, a rare and resented powerful woman, labelled frigid when she rejects their lechery. Their relationship in itself is sure to be a poignant affair given the tragic circumstances, but the subtle characterisation is what makes it particularly appealing to watch.

Meanwhile, Orwell is visited by hallucinations of the animals he created for Animal Farm, including old friend Boxer the horse, whose innocent concern for his beloved author George is extremely touching. Their conversation is tense, with Boxer sensing that something is wrong, slightly jealous at sharing George with Sonia, and fearful of events which an invented horse simply cannot comprehend or help with. His sweet naiveté is juxtaposed with Orwell’s pained grasp of harsh reality, such as when he contemplates with confusion the fact that Orwell killed him off, trying to salvage the situation by linking them as sufferers- ‘My lungs got me too, didn’t they George?’ ‘No Boxer, the pigs got you. You were faithful too long.’ Orwell’s patience but clear unease around Boxer makes for extremely moving viewing.

A well-acted production of an interesting play about interesting people. The visitations from animals add a surreal element to an otherwise painfully real situation, and the interior and exterior worlds of Orwell complement each other to make a very powerful whole. This is certainly one to make time for in 6^th week.

Thursday to Saturday of 6^th week, Corpus Christi Auditorium, 7.30pm, £5/£6

‘Live by the foma that make you brave and kind and healthy and happy. (The Books of Bokonon. I:5)’. Thus reads the epigraph of Kurt Vonnegut’s 1963 novella Cat’s Cradle. Despite the fact that Cat’s Cradle was written at the height of the Cold War, I cannot help but feel the suggestion that life is based around foma, or ‘harmless untruths’, is as relevant today as it was in the apocalyptic paranoia of the 50s and 60s.

Cat’s Cradle is based around a fictional religion called Bokononism, which uses this strange type of foot sex as a form of worship. Foot fetishes aside, it’s a religion that knows it’s bollocks, but likes the fact that it’s bollocks. You tell yourself that everything is hunky-dory even though you know that it isn’t; all you have to do in order to achieve this state of ignorant bliss is follow the foma of The Books of Bokonon. All this is based on the handy visual metaphor of the cat’s cradle (the bridge-like construction children make between their hands with a loop of string). The network of string stands for the lies and conceits that we embroil ourselves in on a daily basis, despite the fact that we often know that these beliefs have no founding in reality whatsoever – they are merely held up by our own hands. Vonnegut was writing during the Cold War. Like many he’d seen the effect of the bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki and had experienced the atmosphere of mirage and brinkmanship at play between the world’s superpowers. Cat’s Cradle is certainly a product of this era, an era that dubbed atomic weapons ‘Little Boy’ and ‘Fat Man’. For Vonnegut these crass ‘untruths’ imbue the world with a sort of beautifully twisted humour

Admittedly the clear cut binary I have drawn between truth and untruth in the above synopsis is overly simplistic. The novella itself is not concerned with revealing ‘truths’ amidst a sea of corruption. It is, rather, based on a much more subtle sense of existential doubt than I have suggested. However, the idea that we, as humans, in our interactions with the world, choose to remain consciously ignorant of uncomfortable things (I won’t say ‘truths’) is nonetheless suggestive.

Yet, every now and again ‘Breaking News’ will burst this little cosy bubble for us. The issue is, however, that this ‘News’ is only new to the extent that it is the first time it has been forced into the public conscious by the mainstream media. Recent months have to have borne witness to a number of these revelations. It started with the MP’s expenses scandal; then we had WikiLeaks.  For about a month at the end of last year the whole world sparked into debate over the level of transparency with which official diplomacy should be treated, as thousands of sensitive documents were leaked into the public domain. Yet, the organization has been leaking documents on the internet since 2006 with very little public attention and the organization, or one similar, will probably continue operating long after WikiLeaks is such a hot media topic. Furthermore, we may consider the recent revolts across North Africa. The US and UK have been supporting Mubarak for the past 30 years; they told themselves foma in order to keep themselves happy. Only now are they changing this position, which will undoubtedly in turn lead to a new set of foma being formed. The thing is do we really need the media to reveal these things to us? Do we already know them or do we find it more convenient to ignore them whilst weaving our own utopian narratives?

In Vonnegut’s words ‘so it goes’. That’s the way the world works. The public constantly kid themselves and those in power are all too happy to keep the conceit rolling. Jump back to April 2010. Jump back to Westminster. A gaggle of Lib Dems are congregated around a table. ‘I just want power’ sulks a petulant Nick Clegg, ‘Tell me, you bunch of wet flannels, tell me what on earth can I do?’ An ambitious aide stands up, ‘I’ve got an idea’ he says, ‘It’s very clever, and really not that clever at all. Tell the nation’s students that we’ll give them free university education.’ ‘Why on earth would I want to do that?’ whines Nick. ‘Ah!’ replies the cunning aide holding up his hands, palms facing, about six inches apart, ‘See the cat? See the cradle?’

“a tribe is a group of people connected to one another, connected to a leader, connected to an idea..a group need only two things to be a tribe: a shared interest and a way to communicate”
Seth Godin – Tribes.

Taking their name from Seth Godin’s bestseller, Tribes have genuinely taken his words to heart. Dan – the guitarist – asserts that “the book just seemed to fit what we were doing and the words stuck” (added to the fact that they had to settle on a name by the end of the day, and the only other option they had come up with was ‘Jesus the Movie’ – “just think of the artwork and the t-shirts!”) They are indeed a tightly knit group, having grown up together: “we’ve been playing together for as long as we can”. And with thoughtful lyrics combined with 90s-esque chord progressions they seem to have hit on a successful method of ‘communication’, rapidly attracting a devoted fan base. “The 90s stuff, I know we get labelled with it, but we do like it” admits lead singer Johnny. Major influences include Smashing Pumpkins, R.E.M. and Radiohead…. “We’re expecting Thom to walk in any minute… I’m sure he will, he must have got the memo”. I point out that he has been known to walk his dog in university parks… “reeeally?” “is there a bandstand?”

As hypothetical as this scenario sounds, stranger things have happened in Tribes’ short life (a year and a day long to be exact): their sixth ever gig was supporting their heroes the Pixies at Troxy, and out of the blue Mystery Jets asked to do a cover of Tribes’ song ‘We were children’, which resulted in the bands touring the U.K. together.
It is safe to say that Tribes have acquired a solid fan base, and the Camden boys’ Oxford debut went down a storm. As soon as they stepped on stage streams of headbanging devotees filled the Cellar’s monthly clubnight ‘Yoof Presents’, singing along like pros and begging for an encore. Anyone would have thought they’d been transported to a sold out comeback show of long absent rock legends. In front of me one enthusiast shouted in the ear of another “it’s just hit after hit after hit!”.

While not quite the ‘secret’ ‘underground’ ‘organic’ anti-Myspacers NME have them pegged as (“we don’t have an agenda against it, we just don’t want to put all our chickens into our Myspace” “as they say”) the band are still very proud that their fan base “just seems to be building…there’s no cheating, people are coming to see the shows and enjoying them and coming back, it’s just great”.

Not only do they have a gripped audience, refreshingly, they also have something interesting to say. Discussing ‘Sappho’ and the mellower ‘Nightdriving’, a tribute to childhood friend Charlie Haddon, Johnny states, “I think when bad things happen in your life you either go one way or the other, it’s like a complete catalyst for change. When you think somebody’s dead and gone to heaven it makes you feel better, but my opinion wasn’t that…it’s just the pointlessness of everything that’s what it’s about, and now we’re talking about it so that’s pointless as well”. Despite the obvious nihilism, his final comment is not delivered without a hint of self mockery, and is met by chuckles from the other three. This delicate balance between seriousness and conviviality pervades both the band’s music and their attitude towards it. They are wholeheartedly committed to what they do, recognising “going where we wanna go with it you’ve got to put everything you have into it, more than 100%”, “we’re in it for the long run definitely, we’re not going to sit here like Brother and say ‘we’re the best band in the world’ cos we’re not, but we aspire to be so in the future if we can”. Happily though these efforts go hand in hand with nights out on tour with the Mystery Jets “off the fucking scale”, “we were just egging each other on or something – ‘this is fucking great let’s go for it!'”
‘Work hard play hard’, a mantra familiar to many an Oxford undergrad, emerges as this band’s philosophy. And well it is serving them too. With lots of touring planned for the summer, if you’re lucky Tribes might be coming to a venue near you… or maybe even a self constructed bandstand in University Parks…y’hear Thom?

Any mention of Jamie xx in the more discerning electronic music circles will, as a rule, be met with a certain degree of disdain. Despite, or perhaps because of, his success with his band The xx, Jamie’s talents as a DJ are generally regarded rather sceptically by those more resistant to the Pitchfork-induced hype surrounding the artist.

But We’re New Here, an album of remixes of tracks from Gil Scott-Heron’s acclaimed I’m New Here and Jamie’s debut full-length strictly as a producer, is not without its promise. Throughout the record Jamie exhibits a deep understanding of vocal sampling; whether chopping Gil’s voice to rhythmic effect on ‘I’ll Take Care Of U’ or juxtaposing it against ghostly, pitch-shifted vocals on ‘I’m New Here’, Jamie’s keen ear for melody characterises much of the music on We’re New Here.

Jamie’s love of UK dance is epitomised by We’re New Here and the dark atmospheres of his post-dubstep productions are well suited to the deep throatiness of Gil’s spoken-word delivery. The problem is that whilst, on paper, We’re New Here ticks all the boxes, the whole record is constrained by Jamie’s less than accomplished production. Indeed, Jamie’s drum programming leaves a lot to be desired; the beats on We’re New Here are so laboured, almost clumsy, that even the strongest tracks find themselves robbed of any sort of groove.

It might seem unfair to be criticising Jamie xx’s music for a lack of technical prowess. After all, it was the appreciation of simplicity that got his Mercury Prize winning band, The xx, to where they are today. The uncluttered approach taken by The xx allows for a focus on the minutiae – the soulful textures of the vocals, the touch of reverb on the guitar – elevating their music far beyond the sum of its relatively few parts. In contrast, the technical deficiencies of We’re New Here feel more a like a restriction, indicative of the producer’s limitations, rather than a conscious decision. And, although Jamie’s heart is firmly in the right place, it’s difficult not to have sided with the doubters by the end of this record.

After its initial disastrous first performance, The Barber of Seville has proved to be one of our most enduring and well-loved operas, being the eighth most performed opera worldwide last year. Therefore the challenge of setting such a well-known opera in an original manner can be a little daunting, but the New Chamber Opera rose to the challenge to produce a performance that lived up to the comic, dramatic and musical legacy of the work.

From Almaviva’s opening aria the tone was set: Nick Pritchard’s voice carried well ensuring that the audience could appreciate the words. The decision to sing in English was, I think, a prudent one in a theatre that does not have the capacity for surtitles. In an opera with as many plot twists and humorous lines as Barber a performance in Italian would have diminished the comic effect somewhat. The chorus was well-received (complete with sousaphone, sunglasses and Red Bull) and my main criticism here would be of Rossini for not giving the chorus a more prominent role as they produced a magnificent sound in their brief appearance!

The performance continued in the high standard that it set itself from the start. It is a shame that all the orchestra were not quite as precise as the woodwind section and there were some balance issues in some of the solo arias (especially when characters were walking around the platform, which was unfortunately quite resonant) but overall the standard was high throughout, especially in the second half. Dominic Bowe’s Largo al factotum was balanced and moreover brilliantly acted; it is a great credit to all the cast that the characters remained believable and movement was not confined to the recitatives, even given the amount of vocal acrobatics involved. From this perspective Esther Brazil’s portrayal of Rosina was superb; well acted, technically secure and never self-indulgent, an impressive feat given the notoriously challenging role. Tom Bennett, in his sycophantic portrayal of Don Basilio, was the perfect basso buffa; articulate, entertaining and producing some very impressive bass notes. Ensembles were exceptionally good; the sextets and septets at the end of each half are worthy of particular merit.

The comic nature of Rossini’s opera was truly captured in this production and reflected in the audience’s unanimously positive reaction. A thoroughly entertaining evening doing full credit to the libretto and score.