One of the greatest young British violinists playing one of the greatest  romantic sonatas: this was the spectacle at the Holywell Music Room last  Sunday, as Jennifer Pike gave a breathtaking performance of violin sonatas by Ravel and Franck.  Pike won BBC Young Musician of the Year in 2002 at the age of twelve, and her recital last Sunday showed that her early promise is certainly being fulfilled.  The famous Franck sonata was particularly well received by the audience, who filled the hall easily.  It was so full, in fact, that people had to sit on the stage behind the violinist.

Accompanying Jennifer Pike was her father, Jeremy Pike.  The great understanding between the pair was evident, particularly in the antiphonal section at the beginning of the third movement of the Ravel.  This movement was particularly energetic, with dashing semiquavers, and was well appreciated by the audience.  Ravel’s love of jazz was clear in both this and the second movement.  Upon hearing a black jazz band in 1921 in Paris, Ravel asked in a letter, ‘Have you been to hear the negroes?  Their virtuosity is at times terrifying’.  This virtuosity was clearly on display in Pike’s performance.

The Franck sonata certainly lived up to Jeremy Pike’s description as both ‘uplifting’ and ‘tragic’ in different places.  The intense silence of the audience following the third movement showed their appreciation for Jennifer Pike’s playing.  The themes which recurred throughout were brought out beautifully by the young violinist, and the fiendish piano part was exceptionally well played; this was especially noticeable in the second and final movements.

The concert ended with an encore. Jennifer Pike played an arrangement of Gershwin’s ‘It ain’t necessarily so’.  Her love for the piece was clearly on show, and was hence transferred to the audience.  After such a fantastic concert, the next in the series is eagerly anticipated.  It will be held next Sunday at 11.15am, and consists of the Tippett string quartet playing Beethoven and Tippett (tickets available from Tickets Oxford 01865 305305). 

Sarah Karacs goes behind the scenes at rehearsals in Keble.
The Flu Season runs at the Burton Taylor in 3rd week, from 29 January to 2 February, at 7:30 pm.

In the last few days and weeks I’ve blogged about the threat to the ruling CDU in Germany posed by this Sunday’s regional election in Hesse and Lower Saxony, and how both the rise of the neo-communists and the alleged racism of Hessian Prime Minister Roland Koch may turn the tide towards the opposition social democrats.

Well, I was wrong to claim that the election was

certain to get zero coverage abroad.

Today’s Independent and Washington Post, as well as yesterday’s FT, all pick up on the threat to (federal) Chancellor Angela Merkel’s ruling party.

As the Independent reports, Merkel came over to my temporary home of Frankfurt last night to speak in front of the grand opera house in the centre of town. It’s the major city of Hesse (10% of the state’s 6 million inhabitants live here), so the Frankfurters’ votes are certainly, erm, worth their mustard.

Sadly for her, they through ketchup back in her face, and called for “Nazis out” in reference to her support for CDU colleague Koch’s attack on foreign criminals – he’s being called a “racist who talks shit” for the sin of mentioning crime problems among the immigrant community and suggesting the introduction of boot camps.

Whatever the truth of his statements, Koch’s shot himself in the foot and handed votes to the SPD and far-left parties (the neo-communist Die Linke are on a massive 10%, according to one poll — that’s more a bigger share than the Greens, the SNP, Respect, Plaid Cymru, UKIP, the BNP and Sinn Fein got put together in the UK general election in 2005). It looks like his latest contribution to the Hessian melting pot may spell the end for the CDU’s very short political honeymoon.

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5/5 And now, a break from our regularly scheduled programming; Lifestyle skips a meal in favour of a night on the town with DJs Jamie and Rachel at new night Action Stations.Baby Love bar is tucked away just off the High Street down a small, dark alleyway. It’s pretty easy to miss. That would be a shame, because it is now host to one of the most original club nights in Oxford; Action Stations. The posters promised me blues, jive, rockabilly and 1950s music, something I was initially dubious about; I’m a big a drunken fan of “Rock Around the Clock” as the next person, but ‘50s-themed nights generally send my gimmick-o-meter haywire. Settling into the bar though, watching the black-and-white projector throwing images of ‘50s singers onto the opposite wall, and feeling grateful I wasn’t amongst the hordes of shivering people outside waiting to get in, I did begin to see the appeal. The dance floor was packed by 10 with girls in polka dot prom dresses and boys in sharp suits jiving – young people these days – and even I was encouraged to join in. The music really was very good, ranging from ska to rockabilly through the blues, with songs that would be instantly recognisable even to the most hardened drum and bass fan. The main event itself – Action Stations – played seamless 50s rocknroll, prompting a hectic rush downstairs to the dance floor. Twenty minutes in and I was a total convert, loving every minute of their two-hour set. The free CDs and numerous balloons my friends tied to my arm might not be available every night, but Action Stations is definitely worth a visit for the atmosphere, not to mention the fantastic music – although the chance to slap on red lipstick or pretend to be a sharp-suited Jerry Lee Lewis is an incentive in itself.At £4 entry (£2 if you’re lucky enough to make the cheaplist on their Facebook page), the night is great value, although drinks may set you back a bit more. They range from £3 for a Woo-Woo to a fiver for the best Mojito I’ve had this side of Mexico. It’s best to turn up early for their next night on the 6th February; they might advertise with the premise “let’s try and create a real alternative to Filth and the Bridge”, but both were clearly second-best last night.

by Cassie Lester
See the C24 Video Team's interviews here.

Mohsin Khan compares foreign arthouse to eating cornflakesForeign art-house cinéma: it makes you think of cultured ideas and high-brow creativity. The reality? Boredom, immaturity, wanton shock, and two minutes of cleverness stuck in an epilogue for the critics.

Take Tarvosky’s Solaris. It has a ten minute long scene, shot from the back of a car, as it goes down a road. There’s no dialogue, no emotions seen, nothing besides a Soviet bloke with a muppet haircut driving. There’s not even a traffic light changing colours. Whatever purpose the scene served, three minutes would have been enough. Or thirty seconds. The director said it was deliberately boring. If I want to be bored, I can eat some cornflakes. Evoking the existential feeling of ennui is showing me nothing new. 

Nor is showing me random out-of-focus penises on a street corner in the first five minutes. French films love doing that. We’re not talking about a naked person in a bathroom doing something useful like peeing or changing clothes or having an orgy. We’re talking penises in public during daytime. For no reason. Why? I never see men walking around unzipped in Paris, so why do I see it in their films? Still think French films are high-brow? Lowest-weird-denominator, more like. What they forget is that gratuitous shocking cannot stand on its own – there has to be some meaning behind it.

Then you have the pompous narrators. Art-house loves blokes who jump in randomly, talk for twenty minutes while staring at the sky, and then return you to the film. Film is not an audiobook – what happened to show, not tell? And the dialogue in art-house films is freaky. Even with the translation. “I bless the day I was made immune to you and all your kind” (Anatomie de l’Enfer) – Who, in the 21st Century, talks to a stranger like that? Who?

Oh, and they love water. Maybe it’s because foreigners don’t live on an island, but when you see your fiftieth ocean “metaphor”, it gets a bit tiresome. There’s only so much you can see in an iceberg. Unless you crash into it.

Foreign films also have names for buildings and companies that sound like something out of Monty Python. Can you imagine a gay nightclub seriously calling itself “Club Rectum” (from the otherwise-perfect Irréversible)? With a patron named ‘le Tenia’ (the tapeworm. Now there’s a name that GCSE French missed)? It’s just like a tute essay: art-house just “blags” from nothing!

Foreign art-house cinéma: it makes you think of cultured ideas and high-brow creativity. The reality? Boredom, immaturity, wanton shock, and two minutes of cleverness stuck in an epilogue for the critics.

Take Tarvosky’s Solaris. It has a ten minute long scene, shot from the back of a car, as it goes down a road. There’s no dialogue, no emotions seen, nothing besides a Soviet bloke with a muppet haircut driving. There’s not even a traffic light changing colours. Whatever purpose the scene served, three minutes would have been enough. Or thirty seconds. The director said it was deliberately boring. If I want to be bored, I can eat some cornflakes. Evoking the existential feeling of ennui is showing me nothing new.

Nor is showing me random out-of-focus penises on a street corner in the first five minutes. French films love doing that. We’re not talking about a naked person in a bathroom doing something useful like peeing or changing clothes or having an orgy. We’re talking penises in public during daytime. For no reason. Why? I never see men walking around unzipped in Paris, so why do I see it in their films? Still think French films are high-brow? Lowest-weird-denominator, more like. What they forget is that gratuitous shocking cannot stand on its own – there has to be some meaning behind it.

Then you have the pompous narrators. Art-house loves blokes who jump in randomly, talk for twenty minutes while staring at the sky, and then return you to the film. Film is not an audiobook – what happened to show, not tell? And the dialogue in art-house films is freaky. Even with the translation. “I bless the day I was made immune to you and all your kind” (Anatomie de l’Enfer) – Who, in the 21st Century, talks to a stranger like that? Who?

Oh, and they love water. Maybe it’s because foreigners don’t live on an island, but when you see your fiftieth ocean “metaphor”, it gets a bit tiresome. There’s only so much you can see in an iceberg. Unless you crash into it.

Foreign films also have names for buildings and companies that sound like something out of Monty Python. Can you imagine a gay nightclub seriously calling itself “Club Rectum” (from the otherwise-perfect Irréversible)? With a patron named ‘le Tenia’ (the tapeworm. Now there’s a name that GCSE French missed)? It’s just like a tute essay: art-house just “blags” from nothing!
by Mohsin Khan

4/5
25 January Ageism is not an easy subject for a filmmaker to tackle. Any film with an axe to grind runs the risk of seeming preachy, whilst the premise of a crusty old man befriending an impressionable teenager smacks of sentimentality. Yet director Michael Shroeder manages to avoid both pitfalls, creating a film that is thoughtful without being too worthy, and moving without being saccharine.

Christopher Plummer stars as Flash; a retired Hollywood gaffer with a bad temper and a drinking problem. Plummer manages to imbue the cantankerous old man with real charm and likeability. It is a poignant and highly nuanced performance of a deeply troubled film veteran who grudgingly befriends a novice.
Shroeder is brave enough to people a film about a retired and forgotten Hollywood crew with a cast of retired (and largely forgotten) Hollywood actors. M. Emmet Walsh plays a mistreated ex-screenwriter, creating a tragic glimpse into the phenomenon of nursing-home neglect. Former child star Michael Angarano more than holds his own amongst this experienced cast, and is convincingly gauche as Cameron, the teenage would-be director that enlists Flash’s help.

It is the growing bond between these two that forms the emotional core of the film; Shroeder’s writing is eminently believable, and Plummer and Angarano have real chemistry. Shroeder only disappoints when he fails to trust in the power of the leisurely narrative and attempts to jazz things up. The flashy camera work that has become his signature can be forgiven, but the school-yard scenes fail to convince. Man in the Chair does not need such references to youth culture to be attractive to all ages; the powerful script and sterling cast are more than enough.

by Emma Whipday

Album review: Love Is All Mixed Up by Love Is All Modern Swedish music seems to be making quite a splash recently, with bands such as Shout Out Louds, The Knife and the confusingly-titled I’m From Barcelona all making the jump across the North Sea. Love Is All made that same journey in 2006 with their debut album Nine Times That Same Song, sounding like a happy mixture of The Go! Team, Yeah Yeah Yeahs and with a little bit of The Pixies added in. Mixed Up, as the name might suggest, is a remix album done by artists such as Metronomy and Hot Chip. So how does it fare?Quite well, really. Leaving almost nothing of the original, each remix takes the track in a totally new musical direction, from the synth-laden sound of Maps’ version of ‘Turn The Radio Off’ to the danceable beats of ‘Spinning and Scratching’, Metronomy style. However, one or two tracks drag, with some overly long running times for no apparent reason. Particularly guilty of this is Studio’s remix of ‘Turn The Radio Off’, which stretches the same idea over ten minutes and bizarrely features the riff from Talking Heads’ ‘Psycho Killer’. Opening track ‘Felt Tip’, remixed by Fyars, is passable, but pales in comparison to Hot Chip’s take on the same song, which has a much more ambient feel than most of the album, while still managing to be cheery and upbeat. Admittedly, the general electro theme does get a bit tiring, especially when many tracks have a fairly repetitive style.Mixed Up provides a refreshing new look at old songs, and is well accomplished in its own right. Fans of the original may miss the fast-paced intensity, but there is such a variety of styles on this album that most will find at least a few tracks to enjoy.
Four stars.
Thomas Barrett

5/5
25 JanuaryThe clever approach of this thoughtful anti-war film lies in its choice of protagonist: Tommy Lee Jones plays a patriot, whose loss of faith with his son’s involvement in Iraq is charted via unexpected and sordid discoveries in both personal and political realms. This original angle, taking an empathetic and humanising view of individual American soldiers, will make it hard for the pro-war lobby to dismiss. Focusing as it does primarily on the story of a murdered son, it engages viewers’ emotions first, with intense and intelligent acting; only at the start and finish are horizons broadened.

Initially, a backdrop of radio and television clips seems to present the triumphant rhetoric objectively, but soon these voices lapse into silence and the potent image of a coffin draped in an American flag is used to silently voice dissent. However, the bitter irony is that this young man has been killed not serving his country abroad, but on home soil. The aim is to illustrate the dehumanising effects of military combat – how war turns young men into killing machines, drives them to depravity against their will and makes many of them victims too.
Paul Haggis, the only man ever to write two successive Oscar winning scripts, has penned a smart and compelling indictment, not only of Iraq, but of all wars. Charlize Theron is a savvy maverick detective, Susan Sarandon a rather underused grieving mother, but more chillingly convincing than either is the culture of secrecy portrayed as symptomatic of the higher echelons of the military. The closing note is one of defiant disillusionment, as the Stars and Stripes are hoisted up the flag-pole deliberately upside-down – an international distress-symbol, and a sign that something is very wrong.

 Album review: Beat Pyramid by These New Puritans Every song on this album follows the pattern of opening track, ‘Numerology’. An insistent drum-beat starts out, broken into by a harsh guitar riff, before the whole thing is ruined by meaningless repetitive lyrics in Jack Barnett’s terribly grating voice. “Are these guys American?”, my roommate asks, “perhaps they’ve been affected by the writers’ strike?”. Barnett appears to be trying to use his voice like an instrument, constantly repeating the same words. Trouble is, the words are hollow and his voice is unpleasant and whiny. This effect only really works well on the oddly-named track ‘£4’, and I longed for more tracks like ‘MKK3’, where the singer’s voice suits the bleak monologue and he doesn’t repeat himself too much or actually attempt to sing.This is a shame because the band has a genuinely good rhythm section, reminiscent of Interpol or Franz Ferdinand at their best. Synth effects are less uniformly successful. They can they provide brooding interludes or palate-cleansers as in ‘Colours’ and ‘En Papier’, but sometimes they just get in the way or sound cheap, as in ‘Costume’ and ‘Swords of Truth’. All in all, this is a bruising, unforgiving record. I wouldn’t recommend anyone to listen to this start to finish; it pounds ceaselessly into your skull and the band don’t seem to have grasped the concept of varying their sound to give the listener a break. Having said that, there are some songs that would work great at indie club nights; they know how to build up to a climax and break it down. This is an eminently danceable record with some great beats and rhythms, and if they just found themselves a new vocalist they could even go far.
Two stars.
– Michael Bennett