Jenny Wright
2
Parting We hear the train’s shrill climax of approach And know the drill, the disentanglement, The jagged goodbye jokes… So how about I jump now? I suggest. And then all kinds of parts of me could stay. My body, in its raw, indecent element, undressed, The tissues And the tiny tender vessels of my self, exposed To pay For mutilation’s crime of raw, explicit nakedness: A lashing on the tracks. I jump in mime; you reach To pull me back, Bestow an angry smack, I laugh, and say; But you could come to visit every day! A little regime role play In the rain. Beneath your boots the throb and flinch Of late night Leeds bound trains, The wet black concrete platform And my servile, spread remains… You grin, grossed out, and walk away With one last pinch of arse And press of kiss, And suck Of cigarette, the smoke Like soft, regretful fists Groping the space between us. Beth Calverley
3
Nani and the Washing Machine A regal woman with shy glints of gold She kindles fires within her chest The glimpse of her silvery red hair from beneath her chadar Defy her eighty-three years Life has inscribed stories amongst her wrinkled skin Softened with scented oils, her touch is smooth But the mind still sharp wrestles with signs Wrestling with the dials and symbols Of a machine with no instructions Cycles of thoughts spinning with the drum For three hours now No one to explain, she calls out for the imaginary children Who have left their shadows behind She tugs at the clip trying to open the door But the door remains locked The days of dhobis with stones and water have gone Voiceless boxes with wires in their place, confusing her Defying her intellect once enriched with pistachios and almonds Nurtured with love, ghee, fresh saag, kish mish and makhan She can still work out your monthly costs Recall every incident of pain you told her Recite ayats of the Quran from memory Make a roaster salan like no other But today, the cycle of the washing machine Reminds her of inadequacies Of a body that cannot stride continents to be with loved ones Of fingers that dont facetime without help Of an old lady who cannot guard her handbag while shopping Of a woman who fails stop a cycle from spoiling her clothes
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For three hours now She reminds herself she is nothing but days The drum of the machine still spins She imagines the dust of the earth as her blanket She wants to see her great grandchildren marry Before she’s lowered into it But she can’t even stop her clothes from spoiling Three long hours now and counting... Hafsah Bashir
5
August After Hereford station I slept not in those West of England fields but amongst the steep woods of my homeland, of my north country where men centuries old greeted me their cries stilled quiet in their throats. Such acres of dead men in their clean summer coats who each second bore fresh wounds and studded the earth both metal and bone. And I bowed to their king, a skeleton warrior with battle burnt eyes and the weight of his men upon him and the thick briar ringing his head. He awoke me, warning we weren’t north after all but come south instead forced down the line to Pontypool, to buddleia creeping out from the concrete platform and the air alive with insects. Eleanor Ford
6
Empty Streets As I stroll through these empty streets, With chocolate wrappers dancing And brown leaves rising in the wind I spy some small graffiti. A chimp looks slightly puzzled With the question ‘Why believe?’ Scrawled underneath his scrunched up face. So I look to where his gaze lies. A closed down shop is what he sees With the paintwork starting to curl And shutters standing firm Like some giant metal fort. Taylor’s Local Convenience Store Can still be made out, but only just. And still the wrappers dance, From Tesco down the road. The shop goes very nicely With the empty school nearby As me and the chimp stand there, With confused marks upon our face And look at our community. Nathan Capstick
7
if you lie down with writers, you get up as fiction i It could have been an epistolary novel. That’s the thing; and there is fact in fiction, they will tell you, and epistolary novels create a transience between the two. And you’re all about transience, you are, oh, god, more than anything. But this was not an epistolary novel any more than it was myth. ii There must be something about the young that gets them going. Maybe they like to see fresh skin crumple with the raise of an eyebrow, the short exhalation like they have grown altogether too old for this, whatever this is. And you are a first edition she prises wide open. She turns you into the subject of her journal entries, into a guide for quarter-life crises. You tuck her twelve surplus years under your garterbelt like wisdom, understand that it is only the broken wisp of confession: you are a kink in her wedding fantasy. You represent freedom for her. Others will Frankenstein you into their metaphors. They’ll stab their quill into the way your existence spans time and space. You are shipped between nations, flown, driven. You are buried beneath the ocean’s core in layers of tin can and come out the other end unspoken for and sometimes unable to speak, try to stir translation into your coffee. You are shipped between nations. Like Helen of Troy, another thinks. Sure, you accept, sinking ships. This is countless, the number of ships you sink. They turn away of their own accord. They ebb slowly, un-Titanic-like, and you don’t even have the driftwood bones to show for it. You are fortified, nonetheless, by the myth where they lie on ocean beds with their arms stretched out towards you, skulls hollowed, obituary. 8
iii You know of at least two who have reached enlightenment, like the solstice sunrise, with wet fingers thrusting, another who indulges you platonically, a fourth who bleached her brain clean after dreaming she kissed your neck. You are built up by these fantasies, the sheer intensity of orgasms you know the language of. Kissed me quite insane, some half-fiction declares, and you know this by the way you are lost in delirium of adolescent desire and desire returned. You swallow confessions like vitamins, pretend you are not starving, don’t recognise that you are starving, because you didn’t notice your diet had changed quite so. “I must confess,” he begins, and you smile smugly, knowingly, like the mass inside their confessions is getting too big, swelling your ego, overdose. You are gluttonous, demanding stories and ideas and admirations, all of them fiction. You receive them easily, lazily sprawled, like you needn’t even clutch at them or hold them dear to keep them from dissipating. They will settle on your skin regardless of your need and write themselves into the creases of the morning after. iv You collect laughter because it helps to moisturise that mouth they so love to see curl. You shoot fast witticisms until you are choked by the carelessness and you are running ink and you don’t know how to stop. Poetry slips down your throat like rosé, burning kindly. They write you into their fiction and if they didn’t you would not be certain you exist at all. You must keep reading it, must keep making their ideals your own personal tragedy. You demand honesty but flirt with fiction. Didn’t she write something like that? Oh, how gluttonous you are, fortified by their visions. You’re like a lion cub that just caught a whiff of fresh steak and it’s kind of gloriously savage when you tear into arguments and hearts alike. You will grow, then, to be a queen. You will sink teeth into their tender, bleeding flesh, absorb iron and become a lady. You will turn yourself into a weapon. 9
Eleanor Ford
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v You come to exist in a series of visions: hatreds, idealisations, wet dreams, and memories. You are no more than what they see. Your mouth has been parched for a week. You didn’t understand the metaphor until now. (It has to be a metaphor, you see; if it isn’t, it’s meaningless and you do not exist.) You are thirsty but they have put the book down. They have turned the last page.You scan the reviews to see how you turned out, how many stars you were rated. I read this book several years ago, they probably begin. They are forgetting the plot twists. You are disgusted by the synopsis. It is so unjust. You are more than their glance. You are angry now but you never stopped to find out why. There is more to it than this, you swear, quietly. I’m your Jungle Book monarch, your Oedipal classic, your foreign pocketbook dictionary. I’m the poem about the suitcases, you insist, regurgitating your literary interpretations. You are shrinking to the size of the barcode on the book, and that can hardly be called a narrative. You unwittingly resign yourself to the fictions on t-shirts. Troublemaker. Heartbreaker. It is less believable without the sources to support the theory. You rummage through instant messages to back up your existence. It’s all in the bibliography, I swear. You are losing fiction but you are not becoming fact. Yours sincerely, Theirs forever. Summer Violet
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Deja Vu A moment
The dream’s sense hung
in the cafe of the hospital
for a 4am aeon,
like ‘40s Army barracks
time’s skin sealing
dim artery corridors we wheeled you down
the slippery
to get here.
pulse of a terror you couldn’t quite fathom
A horrible nightmare
again.
you once had clad in sleek silk
Something about...
nightwear,
unable to walk... whisked
waking in darkness
through slim corridors
clenched in sweat’s fist
of sanitary trenches
and shaking
with brown varnished floors?
uncontrollably for fear.
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Deja Vu
Opposite, on a visit
in this grim cafe with its clientele:
after school we
The Fatally Old
wince
(ghosting the motions
as you target the bitter cup
of slurping
of Earl Grey
and grinding on
shaking
grey sandwiches;
uncontrollably -
chewing cud)
again.
And you
Beth Calverly
brought so so low in your adult’s high chair.
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Bunting Opposite seats of the train Just about to leave Through the window I watch the digital clock Eyes fixed on sluggish seconds The air between us bitter The table is our referee If it had arms it would be Pushing a hand hard Into our chests Stopping us ripping each other To shreds Earlier when we argued Colourful bunting struggled To release itself The string not letting the flags Blow away with the wind Little sharks teeth all spread out Over three rows If they had a voice They would all be screaming Let me go, let me go. Hafsah Bashir
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Scapegoat Well, the goat has got away with it again— I tried to catch him but he escaped And ran headlong into an imaginary abyss. At first I thought we were the same, And then that that prick with the pince-nez had shaped It all in his own way, but no, the cliff Off which one may jump is always there; Impassively eroding the field above it— Eating into our opportunities so That even the grass where The poor goat coughs for his sheer love of it Crumbles at last into the sea below. Rik Baker
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Bob Drake Winner of The Scribe’s Halloween Ghost Story Competition
Which blackbird was uncertain, he was unsure. But he had definitely seen it prying before. His bad skin was sick of his old clothes. No sleep and no home made bad skin crawl. Might as well roll up and roll off. His bad skin is a thin white sleeve and he had lost it under layers of dirty clothes. He picked at mothers’ blessings, bad skin came away and didn’t hurt in the cold. He shook and sat up out of his vile. Long eyes with a body that followed behind, he saw the morning wobble, blur on each side. “Like shit,” he ground out alone. The old man dug around in his coats skinning his bones, scratched his old and famished face, which hung to the left with a beard. He pointed it down the hill to the bottom of the town. From there to the river, Mallards lived in Widow Weeds and wet land. Blackbirds about the size of thumbs, caught his eye in a twitch. He couldn’t roll them, all dry and unrested. He felt like a Cod or some Tench straight out of the river, blistering in a flop, gold yellow and green, covered in grime. Plains and trains and the mouth of a yelling public servant, were damp in his ear. The old man flinched, breaking his neck onto his shoulder where he swatted at the air. There was nothing there. “Jesus, paranoid fool.” He picked at his fingers. He began to gnaw. In the wavering fields little movements struck his eye. He caught out a cat slunk into the ground. Slinking for those blackbirds that hopped around in that spring-loaded way. He had nothing to do but sniff in the cold. He couldn’t bear to rub his nose. At least he could tell November was near. Was it the tar spit frozen in his beard? He looked down into his puddle, where he had been laid, a sight that saw his stomach gurning, it contorted the bad skin that rubbed on his dirty clothes again and again. He turned his feet, he hadn’t taken them out in a while, he imagined them maybe like red wax or dead
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blocks but they cracked and popped, adding pus to the wet. He looked towards town and climbed seventeen steps. It was just the mounting fear. He had had it, he had had it with the god awful bur that kept him snuff and got water heavy later in the year. He imagined his burnt matchstick of a body out naked instead, a body that itched and was sore. Muscles thin, they spasmed regular like ticks. He wanted out but he had lost it. Under layers of clothes. He freaked and hallucinated a little. A little man in bad skin. He bent around the red brick streets, looking like some shadow stretching across. He moans, he had lost his hands scratching, between his hips and ribs. He finally squatted near an orange glow. Dabbling, sat still for coins. His briefest of directions, ignored, they went home. A black bird pecks at his spine, as he lashes and passes out, people scoff and laugh. He returns to lucidity and it’s dark. “Eargh fuck?” he wheezes and keels but he doesn’t seem alone. He looks around for warm voices. “Hey mate, do you want a rollie?” a young man in face paint extends to him a bone. He is a skeleton suit filled with a thick set boy. Hanging behind him, is an undressed cat lady, clutching her bag and talking to her phone. “Are you alright mate? You’re looking a bit green, here take this cig.” Horror show costumes pass by, lining up at clubs and bars. “It’s a real shame you’re on the streets and that is really what I think.” He smiles as the old man reached out his old hand and takes the cigarette between his bad lips. “Rob, come on, we have to go.” They see each other, dead in the eye and they shake each other’s hand. The old man stares and holds on for too long. “I’m scared,” he rolls his eyes. The boy pulls away but in his hand the old man stays. Bad skin that slipped from the bone, dead and rotten and old. He screams and tosses up yellow sick and a doctor cheers and so does an ape. Jacob Kelly
17
Look At Me God save the Queen Squeals the Topman drunk Adding glitter and glamour To the corpse of punk. Potential recruits flee the bar Abandon Orwell and pack the floor Enchanted, engrossed and overwhelmed They proceed to observe with reverent awe The nonchalant pose That raunchy stare He’s studied hard And he’s well prepared. This is exactly how He imagined it would be Dutifully living out A weathered bedroom fantasy. Values and ethics Are so trite and taboo. My name will become a global brand And I will own a chocolate lagoon. He swigs from his pint And raises his fist A cry of encouragement From this avid monarchist.
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But beneath those big glasses The prematurely greying hair The carefully torn jeans Lie engravings of despair. A muffled voice Desperately called to me And urged me to embrace Fickle idolatry. But I’m an atheist, thank God For there was no message I received From that plaintive, shackled stage In which I could believe. Rudi Abdallah
19
Three Words Three words: I said them to you then, And you said that you already knew. Did you know then too That, though countless tongues had tied Themselves around the void between the ‘I’ and ‘you’, You were not now saying it as you used to do? I tried a ‘missed’ uncertainly, And you said: “Well, you always do.” Did you not then too Feel the absence of uncertain miles Fall silently between us two? It’s not too late, you know, to start anew. I said again, the same three words— A phrase worn out like an old shoe; And you: “You already said that”; true, But what else fills the void between us? If I had lied Would it have made the least bit of difference to you? Or does your not saying them mean that we’re through? Rik Baker
20
Karya Imirzalioglu 21
Merl Zhu 22
First Day of Advent On this day I get up at night, and dress by yellow candlelight, But now begins the last descent, towards the dark, dim-lit year’s end, And although skies are dark and days still diminish, Soon it shall all be finally finished. The solstice is in sight! Huddle together everyone, Too long you have sustained your summer’s play, Danced with too much light while days decay; So let’s come together before the year is gone. It isn’t over yet and the end is far away, But the nadir, nearly here, can be seen from this day, The skies are still pale and the trees are still leafless And the landscape still bears its hollowed features. As the descent slows, and the worst can be seen, I begin to able to see spring in my dreams, For after just twenty-three dismal days The night will be eaten by growing sunrays. Leo Graham
23
Alix Jones
24
25
The Great Snowball War of 1999 When was the last time you ran for your life? I was six. The great Snowball War of 1999, grandma’s house. Christmas EveEve. I was but a lowly private then. Enlisted in the “Grand Army” of my cousin Rick, I had to lie about my age. I told them I was 7 and a half. Hour one slipped by easily. We drew sentry first, me and Rick’s best friend Jack. We chewed the fat while we chewed gum and told each other about our life away from the frontline. I told him about my girl back home. We swapped notes and held hands for an entire lunch break. If only the enemies hadn’t intercepted the postal service, I said, I could have a letter to warm my thoughts. Second hour passed without event, no problems reported from the sentries. We sat at base, amusing ourselves with a pack of Dinosaur Top Trumps I’d brought with me. The third hour held no such luck. One of the sentries, a kid two weeks and a day older than me, came running all in a bluster. “They got Dan.” We peered around The Tree at the sentry post; There he was, snow dust clinging to his coat. They were dripping snow down the back of his neck. “Savages!” We cried. Rick pulled us back down. “Right, lads,” he said dutifully, “Let’s show those blighters how we deal with invaders. Commando squad team, Go!” Little did they know they were running into a darn bloodbath. I was designated recon, so I held back with Jack. Our comrades ran screaming at the aggressors, who dropped their victim (he was now undoubtedly beyond saving and extraordinarily moody) and ran for the shed. We shifted nervously, peering at the shed as our last man passed behind the corner. A beat passed. A second beat. The air was still. Then the air split open.
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Our men came sprinting in a frenzy from behind the shed, howling at the top of their lungs. They’d already lost half their number; they must’ve laid in wait and ambushed, the rotters. I saw the look in Rick’s eyes as a snowball hit him in the back of the head. Our eyes met and he fell to his knees. I couldn’t move as our men were mowed down in a hail of fire. Rick was the respectable age of ten. I was six years old, way too young for this kind of action. If I never got out of this one, I might never find that shiny Charizard. I turned and ran for the nearby thicket. I ran so hard that my sides felt like they might burst and my feet numbly thumped on the crunchy floor. I dived behind the thickest tree and waited, hastily balling snow in my hands and waited. Lone survivor. I could hear a thundering of legs tearing through the woods, closer and closer. I pulled my girl’s note from my coat pocket and looked at it for a moment through my misty breath. I was lucky that the armistice of Dinnertime was called that day. Here I am, a grizzled veteran of nine-and-a-half. I’ve been in many Snow Wars since that day. But that first time hardened me to the hell that is war. So, private, tell me: When was the last time you ran for your life? Matt Broadey
27
Frost Like a repeated word, to clarify, another frostily traces the magpie’s flight from deciduous to conifer. I try to repeat the branch trilling, the hum of light and shadow. A night train rushes past Ely again. Again a train incants in the night to you and I, asleep, apart, softly, the soft rumble of the carriages quiet as the birds awaiting the silent ministry. Daniel Boon
28
Sansouci Prince
Elizabeth White
29
Jenny Wright
30
Birnam Forest The woods approached furtively, their long shadows cast by heavy boughs lapping at the eaves of the houses. We did not see them, obscured as they were by the trees, which was, of course, the last place we’d expect them, until it was too late. Firs, oaks and beeches tore up the tarmac released petunias rampant from their pens and enacted a slow unfeeling revenge on the patios that had corralled them. Greenpeace sent negotiators to broker a cease fire but were murdered by angry ferns. The woods later released a statement that they disregarded all claims of diplomatic immunity but were sorry for our loss. Christopher Donkin
31
Interview with Matteo Bianchi, Poet (4th November 2013) To many, Ferrara is just another stop on the Venice-Padua-Bologna train. Some may be aware that it’s the birthplace of Ludovico Ariosto and the setting of Giorgio Bassani’s stories, without ever discovering the city’s vibrant cultural scene, abounding with poets. One of the most exciting voices to come out of Ferrara in recent years is Matteo Bianchi, poet, editor, journalist, and only 26. Matteo’s poems are taut affairs, his language stripped bare, always steeped in the great lyrical tradition of Italy. He has won several awards and his third poetry collection was published earlier this year: ‘L’amore è qualcos’altra’, co-authored with his friend Alessio Casalicchio. He talked to Scribe about what it means to be a poet and his English language influences. When did you start writing poetry? And why write? I started writing in high school, not so much to express anything as out of resentment and envy of a classmate, to write because he wrote. So in those years I accumulated a trunkful of feelings and later, whenever something struck me, I always felt an intimate need to vocalize an interior voice, to feel that I was flesh and blood. How did you get published? I was published by luck and because others believe in me. At nineteen I took everything that I had written and showed it to my professor of Italian and Latin, Rita Montanari, a poet and writer herself. Under her editorial guidance over metre, syntax and poetic images, and after being introduced to a local publisher, my first collection, ‘Poesie in bicicletta’, came out in 2007. You’ve co-authored ‘L’amore è qualcos’altro’ with your friend Alessio Casalicchio: two different voices greatly influenced by Giacomo Leopardi. What can you tell us about it? I’ll speak for both of us. The project was born when we met at university in Ferrara and developed out of mutual interests, as we discovered a profound harmony between our own poetry. The title is about a different understanding of ‘love’. Unlike English, in which ‘I love you’ is a monosemous
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expression, Italian has two expressions - ‘ti voglio bene’ and ‘ti amo’—differentiating respectively between a couple’s love and affection between friends. It’s also a homage to Leopardi, a poet that has always brought Alessio and I together, and to his great love for his friend Ramusio. I recall an afternoon discussing Raymond Carver, an author which you said greatly admire. What are your other English language influences? I will always admire Carver, he was intellectually honest about his flaws. There is of course Shakespeare, but also Keats, Robert Frost, Emily Dickinson and Seamus Heaney. Recently, I have discovered the new collection of Theo Dorgan, Greek, and the concrete images in the poems of William Letford. What do you see when you look at Italian poetry today? I don’t see anything. I note a rising standard of culture and I’m happy to read those authors without pretensions of glory, in a bedlam of people elbowing each other, trying to be remembered in history. But really, there isn’t a lack of good contemporary poets. At a recent Scribe open mic, lots of people read but very few described themselves as poets. What does calling yourself a poet mean for you? That’s a perceptive question. I firmly believe that you cannot ever define yourself as a ‘poet’. Some of us have a passion, maybe even a talent to compose verses but to crown yourself is vain and deceptive. You should always keep writing, not necessarily to get better, but to grow in the process. What advice would you give to people out there writing poetry? Inasmuch as possible, surround yourself with honest and loyal friends, those are the ones that you will remember later. Treat everyone else for what they are, good to know. And read, a lot and always. English translations of Matteo’s poems can be found at: http://www.italianpoetry.org/bianchi_matteo_2.html Rodolfo Barradas
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Rodolfo Barradas 34
35
from Cupidity’s Arrow I - What We Will Do For The Rest Of Our Lives The wind and the rain are Picking up around here We don’t have to endure this time, this time Whisk me away to a brighter place, The lights aren’t bright enough here. We are new people, with this motion Shedding skins Saving lives Ours. We’ll move by timetables and bus departures And live by the hour. Mistakes are no problem, We’ll leave them In the dust made by our wayward soles For whoever’s left to shake their heads and sigh. Our worlds collided long ago But sunsets all seem the same nowadays. II - In Love And Lust Passengers Please be aware that Train doors may close up to 30 seconds before departure time. Time, don’t do this. Whittling away my minutes ‘Thou hast but one bare hour to live’, Love.
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Give me but one more hour in this lover’s bed, Warmth and hope between the bedsheets That sold me your scent. One more hour sharing this pillow That lies in memory. Give me more time under your heart, These cold snaps kill. Passengers Please be aware that Train doors may close up to 30 seconds before departure time. Memory, return I BEG you. Features disappear This isn’t fear This isn’t fair Don’t send me away. The lights are on the tracks coming Ever closer and striking my midnight. Deal me this blow And end me so, Old horizons don’t hold hallowed ground. Come with me You are my sensation alone Come with me Come with me Come with me. Greed, PAY. (I get on the train and overhear a woman tell her brother she has lung cancer on the phone. Momentarily I can deal with patience. I elect to walk home in silence.) James Grimshaw 37
Cloud Shadows “It burns,” she whispers, touching the swollen redness defining itself on her cheek. A quick glance in the mirror confirms that the likelihood of her being able to cover it up before opening curtain is slim to none. Just imagine, as it comes through: first act magenta, scarlet by intermission, a sickening ooze of mauve by the final curtain, and then tomorrow the headlines – Actress Alex Maddison Abused? – or something trashier, simpler, devoid of a question mark, because after all the newspaper is the truth for the people and it is the people’s right to know the truth about everything. Around her in the dressing room, chorus girls have stopped their bustling one by one and their eyes have focused on the mark, the welt that is made more grotesque by the high wattage bulbs surrounding the mirror where Alex sits. As if suddenly surfacing from a prolonged dive, she gasps. Tadg O Connor
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Oh What A Lovely War! (Musical Theatre Society) A Musical Entertainment by Joan Littlewood Stage One, Stage@Leeds Directed by Matthew Baker Produced by Zoe Cave Lighting by Matthew Baker Musical Theatre Society’s most recent endeavour has proved to be a resounding success. It begins with the distant, chilling sounds of war and a lone figure, standing resolutely in a spotlight. After a deafening blast of electronic music to video footage of recent war stories, the military figure is removed of his uniform and a larger than life compere comes to the fore with Alex Charing as the dapper, black tie-wearing narrator. An incredibly effective beginning, you instantly know that director Matthew Baker has taken this show into a world of its own. The show explains the events leading up to World War I and how both soldiers and those left at home felt during the war itself. Through imaginative design, this performance certainly gives an update to Joan Littlewood’s original 1963 piece. The set is thoughtfully arranged and the lighting design is particularly strong, adding the necessary emphasis to certain parts excellently. The talent of the cast is evident with all the females being particularly strong in the songs when both singing and dancing. A notable solo performance was a delightful tap dance from Serena Brett which, when combined with the clarity of her singing was just fantastic! All of the ensemble songs worked well with the standard of vocal performances throughout being very high.
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I was delighted to see that the humour of the piece had in no way been forgotten. Baker’s clever decision to have the Englishmen arrive in ‘the Allies confer’ scene, on toy horses was hilarious, with each actor committing fully to the trotting motion and aftercare of their equestrian counterparts once they had dismounted. Ed Bridge and Laurence Schuman had got their characterisation and physicality spot on with very amusing portrayals of these men. In Act 2, the ladies’ discussion of events was also very funny; with Victoria Burgess’ character and accent being particularly enjoyable. The use of the narrator to rain down rubber ducks on to the stage in response to the shoot I felt did go on slightly too long but was a brilliant addition, keeping the audience tittering when flung during serious discussions. The second act takes a notably more serious turn as we begin to see numbers of losses projected on to the back of the stage, high above the action. The male members of the cast really come in to their own here with a couple of excellent songs made even more poignant by the statistics above and behind. The choreography used in the waltz at the officer’s party was fabulous, allowing the audience to see another side of the war. This warm glow is suddenly taken from us again as Laurence Schuman’s rendition of ‘There’s a Long Long Trail’ provides a chilling reminder of the horrors faced by the soldiers. Additional humming from the boys raises this already impressive song to an unforgettable part of the show. The Irish rebellion is some welcome comic relief and Victoria Burgess and Serena Brett’s drunken rendition of ‘I Don’t Want To Be A Soldier’ have the audience giggling away at Victoria’s particularly long finishing note.
Still more clever direction is seen in two particular scenes towards the end of the production - a washing line with English clothing adorning one side and on the other, German, being spun around by two gossiping housewives - an ingenious way of portraying them. Serena Brett and Holly Heasman-Durham also cleverly switch hats between themselves to become a number of different officers discussing the state of affairs – another smart move by Baker. Overall the production is one of the highest standard in both direction and in execution. Every cast member had noteworthy performances and the quality of their talents was evident at every turn. Baker and his producer, Zoe Cave should be very happy with what they’ve achieved- a pretty much flawless piece that should make MT’s committee very proud too! Dominique Alexander -----------------------------God of Carnage (Workshop Theatre) by Yazmina Reza Directed by Jessica Hilton and Gregory O’Hara ‘A comedy of manners without the manners’ This could not be a more apt description of God of Carnage. With a production team of just two directors, Jessica Hilton and Gregory O’Hara, and of course the legend that is Lee Dalley, the resident WT technician, the play surpassed all expectations. It can be difficult for independent student theatre to take to the stage without the support of a theatrical
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society but this production is a shining example of the potential that WT offers those students with a vision. Two sets of parents (the Reilles and the Vallons) meet to resolve a recent event: one of their sons has attacked the other with a stick. No, not attacked, that seems a bit strong. Let us say injured. They civilly tip-toe around the pressing matter focusing more on redefining the event than solving it, alluding to the modern phenomena of political correctness in the process. It isn’t long before the thin veneer of politeness starts to disintegrate and the four adults slowly degenerate into the very children they represent. The casting was faultless so that not only was there a wonderful juxtaposition between the couples but within each couple there was a perfect chemistry between husband and wife. The presentation of all the characters was authentic, avoiding the pit of caricature and archetype. As the evening progressed, more alcohol was consumed, playground antics emerged and it became clear that there was not only tension between the couples but within them too; the relapse of all four parents into childhood is a delightfully painful spectacle. This collapse was efficiently reflected in the staging decisions. There was a clear divide of the stage at the beginning with the Reilles stage right and the Vallons stage left which, like the respectability of the characters, disintegrates. The characters cross both theatrical and social boundaries. It is often challenging for a production that markets itself as a ‘comedy’ to live up to its name but for God of Carnage this was no hard task. There were numerous moments when the cast had the audience in stitches. The timing
of Annette’s (Lizzy Morgan) vomiting was impeccable; it was unexpected, sharp and did not appear over-rehearsed. Her gradual metamorphosis throughout the performance from an uptight middle class woman, with the aura of respectability, to a drunken teenager was compelling. There are also a number of other instances in the play where the characters’ morals are thrown into question. A notable example of this is when we learnt that Michael, beautifully played by Eddie Halliday, had released his daughter’s hamster into the street to fend for itself; a recurring narrative that grew with dramatic intensity as more details of the situation were revealed. Michael’s morality is questioned by both the Reilles and his wife, Veronique, who Sacha Crowther played with real honesty. The hamster situation attracts more attention than the moral critique of Alan’s career as a lawyer. Harry Wise was worryingly convincing as the cold detached lawyer, playing his role effortlessly. The comedy and triviality of the hamster story provides an avenue through which the bigger issue, whether one should support unethical ventures like pharmaceutical companies, can be explored. This production illustrates accurately how we never really outgrow our childlike selves; they remain close to the surface. Its relevance transcends the situation of the play to incorporate all social interactions in which we recognize dividing social boundaries and thus attempt to represent ourselves in the best light. Having an all-student cast inadvertently speaks to this idea of regression into childhood since most have only recently left their parent’s nests, so to speak. For students, our social persona is fragile
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Jorine Beck
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and liable to crack under pressure. For those who missed seeing this production I can only say that you have been unfortunate. There’s always the recent film adaptation, yet I for one am completely satisfied with WT’s production and shall be steering well clear of it. Kelly Rose Smith -----------------------------The Aleph (Open Theatre) by Eli Keren Banham Theatre Directed by Kayla Martell-Feldman Assitant Director – Susanna Dobson Produced by Chloe Marks Stage Manager – Katy Hill ‘There is a worse fate, than looking into this ball and seeing the horrors of the world, ending up like Junks back there. Would you like to know what it is? To look into this ball, see the horrors of the world... and feel nothing at all.’ Open Theatre’s production of The Aleph, directed by Kayla Martell-Feldman and written by her brother Eli Keren, could have fallen flat as a new writing piece but managed to provide an evening’s entertainment that had me on the edge of my seat as the plotline began to climax. The Aleph was a dystopian journey story: a team of soldiers are sent to recover a mystical object and encounter more than personality clashes along the way. The story was redolent of a number of contemporary sci-fi plot lines but was delivered with enough conviction to keep you engaged and forget these similarities. The revelation of the Aleph was enticing: an object that shows the viewer the entire
contents of the world in one look was an intriguing concept, tempting audience members to question their own take on the ‘optimist vs. pessimist’ analogy. The dialogue was relatable, despite the lack of a specific time or place, and the cast perfected their foibles and nuances to give believable vulnerability within each character. The play had a number of captivating and well-written passages that absorbed me completely, most notably the dialogue by Junks after looking in the Aleph. Structurally, the opening contained vast passages of information relevant to the task at hand and this could have been fed into the story in the subsequent scenes, however the director no doubt wanted to retain the original structure of the piece. The small cast managed to assert their differences of character, with rogue ‘Junks’ played by first year Theatre and Performance student Marcus Marsh. In the first half of the one act production Marsh played Junks arrogantly, juxtaposing with the nervous wreck he became in the second half after looking into the Aleph. Marsh’s physical performance was compelling and dramatic, with little relief. Christopher Hudson commanded the stage with a powerful voice, giving a believable performance of Corporal Lawson’s moral dilemmas as he conflicted with Sophie Strickland-Clark’s character Evans and her failure to retain control. The choice to cast a female as Captain Evans was interesting, throwing a number of questions into the air about a woman’s place as leader. I would be curious to note the differences created if the sexes of the cast had been played with, or if the cast list presented in Open Theatre’s Aleph was true to the original.
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All in all, The Aleph was a thoughtprovoking story delivered with ambition and strong performances. The minimalist staging worked exceptionally well, and the dramatic flow of tension tended to build and fall with a curious twist in the tale following the arrival of ‘Tom’ (Alec Walker). Everyone involved should be very proud of their work, and I wish the playwright every success with following productions. Jess Macdonald -----------------------------Titus Andronicus (Tg) by William Shakespeare Stage One, Stage@Leeds Directed by Max Bruges and Alex Hargreaves Produced by Jocelyn Cheek Stage Manager – Beca Roberts Lighting Design by Sarah Braithwaite On entering Stage One, a trepidatious audience was immediately greeted by the imposing stance of General Titus Andronicus (Rik Baker), presiding over a now very sombre procession of viewers into seats. The bare scaffold structure, playing host to soon-to-beEmperor Saturninus (Dave Reeson) and his brother Bassianus (Solomon Lucas), stood forebodingly behind him, and we knew exactly what kind of performance we were in for - a well-wrought, highly strung production brimming with raw emotion and grisly expression. Shakespeare’s Titus Andronicus comes early in the canon of his plays, and lends itself to a much rawer form of theatre, following on from the traditions in which Shakespeare would eventually carve his own unique niche. Preceded by its gory
reputation, Titus marks one of Shakespeare’s first forays into tragedy, the nuance of his later work budding in the torments of General Titus as the play progresses. Titus follows our aforementioned General, victor of a war against the Goths at the expense of twenty-one of his twenty-five sons. His actions in the wake of war, and the interest of revenge for his own personal loss in sacrificing Alarbus (Susunnah Shane), provoke the Queen of the Goths, Tamora (Olivia Hickey), to initiate a cold, merciless attack on Titus’s family and kingdom ̶ resulting in a series of increasingly horrific events carried out by her lover Aaron (Chaila Chisabingo) and sons Chiron (Sophia Popadopoulos) and Demetrius (Elen Gibbons). Chaila conveys Aaron’s ruthless intelligence and amorality with ease, playing off Olivia’s delightfully scheming Tamora with brooding charm; whilst Olivia swings convincingly from enticing temptress to embittered villain. Madeleine Gray portrays Tamora’s most unfortunate victim Lavinia with fragile grace, animating her voiceless pain dexterously throughout the violence going on around her. Turns from Dave Reeson and Solomon Lucas as Roman brothers Saturninus and Bassianus impress, with depictions of near-manic devotion to power, and haunted logic respectively. Guy Hodgkinson nearly stole the show with his portrayal of Lucius, Titus’ son ̶ fury, frustration and determination put across with a rough but delicate charm ̶ were it not for Rik Baker with his uncannily real Titus, in equal parts military genius, aged madman and remorseful father, all strongly represented with such aching, commanding fragility that this reviewer had no choice in being drawn headfirst into the unimaginable torment
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of the play’s events. The first scene after the interval, in which we find the mutilated bones of Titus’ remaining family Lavinia and a robustly well-performed Marcus (Adam Button) captured so perfectly a certain discomfort, making tangible the myriad horrors this play encapsulates. Aside from very few cases of what might be considered ‘melodrama’ on the part of Popadopoulos and Gibbons (forgivable considering the great challenge of attempting to play the opposite gender) the cast proved to be remarkable in bringing to life an especially difficult play of Shakespeare’s; the accolade also of course goes to the play’s directors, Alex Hargreaves and Max Bruges, whose vision led to some fantastically staged scenes, in particular the grisly orgy of a final scene. The beginning may have felt somewhat sluggish, almost as if much of Alex and Max’s focus fell to the more action-oriented scenes, however this momentary lull was made up by the second half, as their direction steered the production masterfully through to the bitter end. The costumes, chosen by Jocelyn Cheek, were incredibly well thought through, providing an edge to Saturninus’ egotism and giving Tamora a look that could kill, while Titus’ family and army sported effective uniform, reminiscent of less-than-favourable armies from history and putting a particularly interesting spin on the setting of the tragedy. As a whole, the play was represented extremely well by its cast and crew, and as the lights dimmed on its final scene, this reviewer could not fully reconcile with exactly how carried away he allowed himself to get. Where minimal slip-ups and occasional over-eggings occurred, the play did not falter; nor did
it fail in conveying a very complex and vivid array of emotions using little more than the guile of two talented directors aided by a professional backstage crew, the eclectic charm of the cast, one particularly robust-looking stage and as many blood pouches as you could shake the proverbial stick at—in short, a pleasure. James Grimshaw -----------------------------Jekyll and Hyde (Musical Theatre Society) Riley Smith Hall Directed by Graeme du Plessis Musical Director – Dan Antonio Assistant Director – Nadia Beaumont Produced by Eleanor Pead Given the precedent of MT’s first show of the year, Oh What a Lovely War! and the fact that the pre-set with which Jekyll and Hyde began as the audience entered – dust-masked automatons staring impassively out at their audience - was in itself so strikingly powerful, I must admit I had high expectations for this production. However, as is often the case with first nights, there were nerves in evidence here and the performance took a good few scenes to warm up and really get going. Admittedly, this was not helped by the fact that the first performance of the run seemed to be experiencing a number of technical errors which, whilst this reviewer would have expected to have been ironed out in a tech rehearsal, were nonetheless not the actors’ fault. Personally, I feel that the problem could have been managed by more adequate projection in the moments where the mics inexplicably cut out, but to debate this at length is to
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trivialise what obviously had great potential as a production and which I hope went on to enjoy the success the hard work of its participants and their production team so clearly deserved. Director Graeme du Plessis’ cast have clearly been hand-picked for their musical rather than acting ability. This is not to say that the quality of acting was in any way lacklustre, but rather that on occasion there was evidence of the odd nervous tic – pressing of ‘the invisible button’ springs to mind – creeping into the dialogues which, initially, felt more like padding for the songs than any driving force behind the narrative. However, what the performers lack in confidence they more than make up for in sheer talent. Nowhere is this truer than in the case Sam McCagherty, whose performance as Dr Henry Jekyll (and later the abomination that is Edward Hyde) grew and grew as, scene by scene, the extent of Jekyll’s obsession with finding a cure for madness in the conflict of good and evil in man’s soul became horrifyingly evident. Thwarted at every turn by friends and colleagues alike in his attempts to administer a serum to a volunteered patient from among the masses of the Victorian underclass, Jekyll becomes despairing of the ‘Façade’ of the society he lives in, that is content to let insanity and suffering persist provided the rigours of science do not encroach too far upon personal freedoms. The ensemble work in creating this atmosphere is particularly noteworthy in this respect, with songs like ‘Façade’ and later, ‘Murder, Murder’ perfectly creating a sense of the tension and paranoia lurking behind the respectable mores of Victorian life towards the turn of the twentieth century.
Similarly, I felt that the brothel scene occupied a pivotal moment in the 1st half, where the respectability of Jekyll and his medical associates was shown to be in danger of disrepute from the temptations thrust upon it by the characters of Nellie (Nadia Beaumont) and Lucy Harris (Genevieve Brown). Mr du Plessis clearly has not shied away from the prospect of presenting scantily clad young women on the Riley Smith stage and, whilst this was as uncomfortable for the audience as it was for Jekyll’s associate John Utterson (Alex Weston), it was made less so by the commitment with which both Beaumont, Brown and the members of the ensemble embraced the characters of these prostitutes. ‘Bring on the Men’ was, without doubt, the musical highlight of the night, with Brown’s cockney drawl never missing a beat, even while delivering the piece with perfect clarity of diction. Another such highlight was McCagherty’s ‘Transformation’ into Hyde towards the end of the 1st half, in which Jekyll’s body was contortioned like a marionette across the stage by cold, clinical nurse figures. As the ‘Transformation’ ends, Hyde takes over from Jekyll to segue into ‘Alive’, which returning to reprise before the interval, leaves the audience primed for the second half. The second half began with an explosion of energy with ‘Murder, Murder’ as Hyde continues his serial killing spree. I felt that McCagerty started to cut his acting teeth here as he embraced the schizophrenic aspect of his dual identity as Jekyll/Hyde - ‘Confrontation’ was a particularly high point for this. There were also some tender solos for Jekyll’s neglected bride Emma (Becca Muress)
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which had the quality one so often looks for and rarely finds in theatre and has something to do with a tingling sensation in the spine. Muress’ duet with Brown’s Lucy, ‘In his Eyes’ was yet another example of this. Suffice to say that, what this play lacked in preparation and stage experience, it more than compensated for in commitment to character, slick ensemble work and, above all, talent. My congratulations to everyone involved. Rik Baker -----------------------------Blood Wedding (PCI) by Federico Garcia Lorca Stage One, Stage@Leeds Project Managers - Lois Taviner and Ellie Hanbury Lighting Design by Natalie McLoughlin Sound Design by Sophia Lee Costume Design by Isla Watton As part of the third year ‘Performance Project’ module here at University of Leeds, this week saw a particularly engaging interpretation of Frederico Lorca’s Blood Wedding at Stage@Leeds. The company took Lorca’s disjointed structure and plotline and reinvented it; the lighting, space and physicality of the actors were used simultaneously to portray the play’s harrowing nature. The immersive approach to the performance seemed to all but compliment the work entirely; the audience became participators rather than merely spectators. We were abruptly and forcefully thrown into the dark world of the ‘wedding’, seeing both the bride and the groom’s points of view towards the anticipated event. From the outset, the actors were not hesitant to interact with the members of
the public. One moment we were asked questions regarding our attendance at the ‘wedding’, and the next scene we were taking photos with one actor and being shouted at by another. A clear highlight from the performance was the use of aerial ribbon dancing in the ending scenes. The actors performed complex and extremely impressive routines, whilst using phrases from the ‘Moon’ character’s abstract monologues from Lorca’s script. The change in approach to this scene was both refreshing and intriguing, as the audience were no longer a part of the action; rather we became on-lookers to a physical yet highly emotional battle between the bride’s two love interests. This scene was particularly memorable as the scenes previous to this had been in a very similar format. Although interesting, it was stimulating for the audience to experience this sudden change of pace. What was even more significant to acknowledge during this moment, was that there was no actual physical contact between the two men. Their fight was symbolised through the use of the aerial ribbon, which added to the distorted and unfamiliar atmosphere surrounding the work. Overall, the performance was physically engaging and visually stunning. Although it is debatable as to whether some moments within the piece had particular purpose, it was an incredibly clever adaptation of a heartbreaking but fascinating piece of work. Grace Baylis
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