The Scribe: Vol II issue II by The Scribe

ABOUT US - WELCOME TO THE SCRIBE: VOL II ISSUE II A Leeds University arts magazine dedicated to the publication of student artwork in its many and varied forms, and the representation of arts in Leeds in whatever form that chooses to take. Hello!

Keep eyes peeled on all channels for news on live music & poetry, shows, exhibitions and collaborations over the year.

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Aren’t circles wonderful? That aside, hello there! What you have in your hands is our festively-imbued Volume II Issue II, a labour of love containing some of the finest art the student North have to offer: from poetry to prose to pictures through some lovingly-provided illustrations, eloquent reviews of the latest local theatre and interviews with literati left right and centre. It’s been a tough issue, I won’t lie there. But it has nonetheless been a blast to curate - our editors’ meetings never short of laughter and alcohols, our general meetings never short of laughs and biscuits, and our design team the fantastic kicks-up-thebackside they are - so I don’t think I would really change all that much this time round. As ever, indebted to my tremendous team, I bid you welcome, and hope you enjoy what you see. Much Love,

GEOGRAPHY pp. 1-28 - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - T h e A r t

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pp.36-38--------------------------Interview: Kim Moore

Bottled Fears So I’m sitting on a bench in this Birmingham park oasis smoking and reading Jack London And all of a sudden this small red UFO scans overhead meets land’s quick concrete kiss and swallows its stop of three hard bottle top pops. All movement ends in death in the cessation of movement which is life scans Jack. Could this small moment of stifled movement and plastic kerplink mean death? I start to think As the terrible law of the terror by war slides in, and this stomach sinking pack of thick hunting fears crowds in. It’s sunny and people are chatting and chewing their bitesize lunch talk tasting sweet gossip sips of shock; reclining, cosmopolitan ancients in designer tops.

Yet instinctâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s quick fear lobe can hear their chatter, bottled, stop and now my mindâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s black primal pulse of waxing pupil sees them scatter, manic, screaming, green lawn creaming under scraping, clawing sharp stiletto panic. I see that likely but just possibly not red bottle top beeping, pulsing, frantic white hot bottle top heavy burst of something not quite liquid spilling unscrewed plastic murderous terror thirst. Boldly I get nearer to investigate: brave in the face of the Law of Litter and Fang. BANG A Tesco local truck mistimes its speed bump with a thump. Beth Calverley

Revolution Do not give to dogs what is sacred, Do not throw your pearls to pigs, Matthew delivered the revelation, Full clips canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t silence the stones and the sticks. The muted uprooted and cast off their chains, The scared-to-breathe now dared to dream, Over them swept waves of realisation; The people want to bring down the regime. The cry of few became the roar of many, The hurt of one a pain to all, Masses drawn to achieve recognition Began to march, to walk, to war. Though the road is miles and wild, Know at the end lies restitution, Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, For they will be the ones to lead the revolution. Charlie Jones

We Got Beef, Josh Cockroft

First Light Now It’s 4 a.m. in Leeds while I am observing from the window of my room the summer sky lighting up so slowly and early in this season while in wintertime the dark permeates the days and the tender cold stars do the same – now outside a lukewarm purple starts to colour the sky and as usual I can’t resist the beauty of the sunrise so I stand up – slip my boots on – cheap boots bought last year or something – take the books I’ve taken from the library, the copy of the first “Howl, and Other Poems” – City Lights published – along with my notebook, big and beautiful blue sleeve big brown pages where I wrote my thoughts, drawing, where I have and keep the proof of deserving Heaven – and I leave behind me the silent Buddhist peace and the scent of incense that my room has just in those hours of the day, which is: the holy and magic night that unites everything outside time in peaceful or screaming or heart-wrenching or animal or tender or blessed thoughts in this endless world of ours. I set forth and rush down the stairs and off I am following the sun, eastbound, not knowing where to go or how to go and up to where – for this is travelling – till I find myself on the ridge of the hill at the end of Wood Lane and there I stay still motionless for the universe starts cracking and crashing and exploding like an enormous crashed glass broke apart in an infinite number of golden-illuminated pieces that fall down leaving the ecstatic night as a tenderness in the heart. In front of me the opposite hill’s ridge and behind it the sun hasn’t risen yet ‘cause there isn’t enough tension but its light and its colours are disclosing it as enormous saxophones introducing the king of kings – and in the meantime I see behind a tree too big, comfortable, in red and white fabric armchairs, even if by now the white has become grey for they had been battle-scarred cause of the recent rains, and my eyes are filled with magnificence for I had been designated a throne for contemplating the eternal spatial cycle and so I – am the king. Now I sit down and everything burst in a single second when the sun rose spreading its semen in the everywhere of sky and earth in that astral orgasm and I read the Sunflower Sutra and start thinking to pages of my sketchbook and other sad thoughts as well – visions of a black man in Barcelona singing in front of a white dock dressed up in blue and his big eyes were covered by big blue round glasses too and the rest also blue, total blue, singing then with golden yellow trumpets blowing flows of vibing thoughts and brown-laced bongos and his smile was the whitest biggest thing I have ever seen and the most joyful ever driven to me in a city with old Estrellas on the floor and crazy dancing tender little girls in small alley-pubs dancing madly, mad for the same music the blue man was preaching in human sentiment and there I realised that the angelic feeling I had was driven by my being in that instant with the purest sensation of awareness of it, not knowing anything but what I was feeling 5

for the only thing that matters is the now is THIS very moment, the seeking for the spasm, break, torsion, the strain and release, not important what I’ve done – good and bad and for this – saint – live now and feel free no regrets don’t feel sorry, let your soul and thoughts slip through the weaving of your being and absorb and meditate – we’re a zoo of angelic spirits for the universe to see. So I left my throne and walked back home while the sun was up and had another vision also recorded in my blue book, an old man whom I asked ‘bout the moment he realized the war was over and in his grey old eyes pointing far distances sayin’, “I came out of my shift and everyone was shouting, the war is over! The war is over!” just like an angel freed in flight and cryin’, but O old man I’m so young and this is past O old man I’m so young and this is now. Levati Giancarlo

Catherine Fleming

Home Wool wound around a clotheshorse Mute rainbow colours that smile their wide balaclava grin A notch in the wood of a worn, grooved chopping board Like a freckle in the lined palm of my hand Orange tiles, invitingly cold Rusty red, cool earth for a tribe. Green carpet and pink walls, and frames and frames And frames, with armfuls of moments, salvaged From being forgotten. A triplet of creaking stairs And the clink of a loose tile at the bottom that utters its affirmation. A country mapped out on the coffee table, A slipped hand and an afternoon of bad moods, Coffee deposits its smell at the computer, The scent of habitual rejuvenation before solitaire and the routine check-in with Radio 4. Pigeons in the chimney, muttering their conversation, Grumbling out the dialect Of home. Catherine Fleming

Piss yellow, hair long I First it tickles, then it hurts like the sunrise deep down in belly empty full the warm is rolling haystacks of sweet surrender unnoticed burning creeps into skin blistering and you awake in dreams half-sleeping nightmares itching scratching eyeballs bloody raw frantically the body churns, wriggles and is still II So naked your body was that I saw every bone cracking circuits through your bloody cry with hardened muscles and teeth lying side by side and each thought played vibrations on your tongue as if it were the only one. So naked my body was but you saw only flesh, its softness bound in skin, my lips were the unkissed frog, curses hidden still within. III She is crouching danger deep her ribs protruding like the cat expanding with the angry yowl and her talons wet with the crying manâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s blood where he saw her mouth open and her eyeballs hisss s s s s See how she crouches; piss yellow, hair long siren, harpy, banshee, hag. Hester Dart

Fade Like a constellation in the dawn Like the world reflected in a puddle, after a summer storm Like the sense that we were born with, like the tails of rain on glass Like the words to your old lullaby, or the face your father wore when you were young Like aeroplane trails, and the shadings of the sky from blush to bruise Like a scent – fresh paint, or soap on skin Like the revelations of a dream Like frost pictures Like innocence Like home I’m gone. I’m gone.

I’m gone Isobel Bruning

Josh Cockcroft

Pine I saw your outline in the shade Between Wonderland-wavering pines I looked up between the branches And closed my eyes, for the cold Relief of their shadow was on me. The roots of my veins fell heavy Against the pulsing sun in my wrist And pine needles raked my chest Like those sparing rays of light That crept amongst the curtained eaves. Since summer came I have been hard to sleep And hard to wake but by a lake of lilies Between shelves and seats of Meadowsweet I walked to where a path of pine trees lay And there where on heartwood clung decay I saw your outline in the shade. Laurah Furner

Shutter Speed The delirious despair of hanging out under your thumb. In my experience it was the most addictive substance – drinking in your cool shade, clinging close, out of the bloody southern sun. I knew it wouldn’t last long. You used to get bored so easily. I would too if I got what I wanted all the time. Girls were so easy for you. Like flies, you’d let us crawl all over you, right up until it started to itch, and then you’d bat us off with a flick of your tail. Never mind... But this I’d like to know – it was happiness we were sharing though – wasn’t it? Didn’t you keep the memories? I can’t believe the sprays of our strange conversations under dusty avenues – shuttered shattered green – I can’t believe they don’t still skip across your dreamsight sometimes too. Or our first words in the dark corner of the pounding bass, and you told me you were too scared to kiss me – I suppose that doesn’t flicker in the strobes when you’re high and dancing with another girl, another country. It’s funny to think that, whilst I recall every note and cadence of your voice as you told me about – I don’t know what, but you were talking to me about something in the corridor and I was looking at your hair and listening to your rapid speech firing at my face, so eager to please – your brain might not have marked it in on the map of places, people, emotions you have been. There’s only so much space. But, perhaps, in later life, after your blaze burned out, nudging sour sniffing colleagues at the photocopier with off-hand tales of bygone recklessness, your mind presented you with the profile of my laughing face when it was too funny to cry over the spurting rip in my foot in the park. Whilst I wasn’t sober enough to store that memory… I have only the waking up wrapped in your hot arms, and the crusty throbbing as I unstuck myself from the sheets we were sniggering-bundled in, to head shamefully for the blue-light discovery of my foolishness in the bathroom. Maybe when you think of Italy and wonder why you left, nothing in particular comes, until, for a moment, you were returned to my bed, when I was in the shower – the moment when it struck you suddenly how small and crushing my apartment was – and your mind tumbles down a smoother slope of recollection – the agonising itch that didn’t go away, even when you were halfway running down the shrinking streets, and certain you had served your time here. Eleanor Parkes

Josh Cockroft

Cake All we ever did was cake So much So deeply Deep in my cake you cake Always And for cake Deep in my cake You live And breathe My best cake My everything I caked you I know Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m so cake So cake So cake Please cake me Because Despite all that has passed I cake you still. Chris Doyle

I never go anywhere with you I never go anywhere with you We drink and sleep and talk together While around us swell and fall away like waves Beaches, trains, benches between bars In poorly lit cities They grow around you like hair or dresses But do not change you â&#x20AC;&#x201C; You hold a look delicately between The corners of your eyes and of your mouth Transfixing, utterly, me â&#x20AC;&#x201C; I never go anywhere with you Robert Cohen

Bicycle Bicycle If you have never seen How after two or four drinks At a certain speed Streetlights make gorgeous toffee constellations – Stained glass ribbons – On wet tarmac roads From an enthusiastically pedalled bicycle It is simple enough to rectify. Nothing exists more quickly Than these bright moments in between. Pure movement, simply and only going, Flashed patterns at a pure moment, Uncorrupted by duration The fire – its life and its dying are one. Similarly, Those who can see paradise in this life – Which is the only life – Are those who go fast enough To catch it in the corner of their eye. Robert Cohen

Carousel, Catherine Fleming

A Pathetic Fallacy One and one And two and two G to H And Q to U, Round and round, foot over foot, Faster, round the spinning tower Breathing It All Inhaling lines of learners’ dust deeply. Skins gathered in the crack, Settled in the arse and breasts of pages. Suck in the fuel But you must know – There are eyes in the Is, noses in the nos. Exhale A dragon! The trees were daylight fireworks Spitting ember berries, There were glowing cones, From Bacchanalian thrones, That lit the grey with gold. I could scratch the sky’s pale cheek, Rub the old paint with my sleeve, To unsheathe the underneath, glorious flecks of yellow leaf. I could push words up against a tree and pin them there, And smile behind my hair, At the meaning I wanted all and everyone to understand, With me, They smiled too.

- It’s been a while A while (what is a while?) - I ruined it, didn’t I? But a fine line’s not worth my time, Or any sophist’s smile. Autumn had flashed her fiery eyes at me – Follow! And hurried away In swaddling swathes of orange hair, Bubbles of laughing cries Burst happily as I tried To catch them in my palms. I sparked with possibility, Growing, ‘Glowing’, hot and urgent; A great hearth in my chest, Happy and proud, Smugly snug, Would melt the frost that gathered on the window frames, And sassily flash Across icicles that dripped from pointed noses Of those who wouldn’t dare to knock. A glorious blaze! For a moment – Now I shiver. Bitterly cold, and twisted out of form, Hanging drips drop from black petrified wrists, And I hover – Creeping, prowling... Outside with the mirrors, Torn and too afraid of what they’ll say – Not to me – But when I go away. Eleanor Parkes 20

The Virgin Purity does not come encased in the inner walls of soft flesh. It is confined in the rawness of prepubescent bumps and deformities that come in the shape of uneven breast sizes and unshaven legs. Innocence doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t always ask the questions of When, What, and Why. It accepts and adapts to any truth in vain because it realises it is universally known that those who are dumb are happy, and those who are happy are accepted, and those who are accepted get laid. I was born bare of the impurities of the toxic pollution that hurls from the mouth of those around me, but what I lack from being barren, I make up in rushes of dopamine. Taking your drugs, even the ones I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t need, I lay myself on your bed, unfiltered, undressed, and crucified. holy.

Unshaven, unwashed, and dry. Cleanliness is next to Godliness, yet I am

I am eager. I am Christ. Anita Ramirez

Pippa Feldberg-Collins

Ampersand We are an ampersand, you and I. We compound, supporting each other â&#x20AC;&#x201C; one beautiful line swirling and curling. But when our intentions tangle upon the tail, it is unclear which route is best. And so we part. & Kieran Launder

Writer’s Block When your head runs cold But your thoughts run hot And you’re asking yourself ‘What special words’ve I got?’ You’re peddling the hours As if the dark were bright And you’re draining the energy From the bulb of one light You can see your breath It doesn’t make a sound It’s crumbling and crooked It’s pulling you down And you’re chasing that verse With your paper and ink But doubts just pile up Till the weight of them sinks And your hands, they start shaking The paper, it rips Your heart, it starts thumping The meaning, it slips You want it to be pretty You want it to be clean To read it and laugh With your voice all agleam But the filth and the dirt Of the roads and the hours Soil that’s adored – Words have lost all their powers You need them now quick And you need them now fast But what ever you have Is locked away, iron-cast

But whenever you feel like Your thoughtsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re in a rut Donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t turn the light off And do not give it up. Florence Sutton-Manders

Tracks, Christopher Pearson

nothing of its content, characters or history and didn’t know what to expect in any way, shape, or form. I wasn’t even aware of whether it would be a comedy or tragedy, and ultimately it turned out to be neither. Or in some ways both. Because of my lack of foreknowledge, when the interval of the play came, I almost expected that it would be the end, due to the sheer length of its first act. To be brutally honest, I paced around the outside of the theatre in its fifteen minute interval feeling unsure of whether I could be bothered watching another act (as much as I had thoroughly enjoyed the first). However, within the first few minutes of Act Two this mind-set was forgotten, due partially to the script but also hugely due to how captivating I found everybody on stage. The central cast, and the only four actually specified in the play script are the protagonist - Katurian, his brother Michal, and the two police officers by whom they are interrogated, Ariel and Tupolski, and here there was not a weak link to be found, despite the roles being unspeakably challenging, particularly that of Michal, a disabled character. Characters with disabilities are notoriously hard to portray for actors who do not themselves have a disability. It is difficult to be both representative and respectful; to deliver comedy without ridiculing the disability, but I feel as if Joe Featonby did all of these things beautifully, and better than I ever could have expected. While at times he could have done with a little more variation in tone vocally, Featonby’s performance overall was sensitive and charming and I would have called it a standout performance if not for the equally outstanding talent that surrounded it. The two cops, Ariel and Tupolski, made

--------------------------------------------The Pillowman Open Theatre By Martin McDonagh Directed by Madeleine Gray Produced by Jenny Wemyss and Sasha Tadman I entered the Banham Theatre to see The Pillowman in the same frame of mind that I would like to enter every play in. I knew 27

a fantastic double act, as played here by Ashton Gould and Robin Leitch. The pair clearly know their way around a joke, and delivered the comedy wonderfully. Leitch is a much more experienced actor than Gould but this was never apparent as both performances were truly electric, with Gould rising to Leitch’s bar, which already set very high. Finally in terms of the main cast we have the lead character of Katurian, played with ease by the now reputable Nick Bechman. Bechman, without sounding as if I am trying to flatter, is in my view an extremely special kind of actor, and one with a strong future ahead of him. The final three cast members were characters of director Madeleine Gray’s own invention: three storytellers who occasionally pop into the action to help tell Katurian’s stories. All three worked wonderfully together; each with a different personality but each part of one unit. If I have any criticism of the storytellers, played by Josephine Bacon, Libby Lawton and Jodie Rhiannon Chun, it’s that they didn’t appear more often! I was willing for them to reappear, but then again I suppose that the rest of the action was so demanding that there was seldom time to spend with the trio. It was a tough act to make interesting, especially considering the strength of the other actors, but they achieved it brilliantly, and it was a stroke of genius on the part of Gray, whose skilful direction was evident throughout. I have spent plenty of time here talking about the actors, but without Gray I suspect that they would not have been nearly as nuanced and realistic. The Pillowman was a fantastic play, and one I would very happily have watched again the following evening. In fact, I

would even go as far as to say that this was the best thing I’ve seen in Leeds since I arrived in September 2013. And I don’t say that lightly. Dylan Marsh --------------------------------------------Pains of Youth Theatre Group By Ferdinand Bruckner Directed by Graeme Du Plessis and Emily Clarke Produced by Chris Holmes Described as ‘an exploration of how painful being young can be’, Emily Clarke and Graeme Du Plessis took on a challenging and difficult task in putting on Bruckner’s Pains of Youth to an audience of predominantly students. Whilst this may sound ironic (what better audience to watch a play about students than students themselves?), I think this very fact makes it all the more challenging, as these are the people who will be in the best position to judge how convincing the production is in conveying meaning and depth through the characters. It is so easy to fall into the trap of melodrama, especially when the characters are as emotionally charged and complex as they are in this play. However, Du Plessis and Clarke tackled these challenges with sensitivity and a clear grasp and understanding of the issues Bruckner highlights in the play, resulting in an exceptionally poignant and striking performance. This was achieved primarily due to the way the performance didn’t at any point shy away from presenting the rawness of emotion upon stage, which is something often avoided out of fear of failure or worry in regard to being unable to do 28

something justice. Rather than avoid the complexity of emotion that Bruckner’s characters exhibit, Clarke and Du Plessis instead placed emphasis on this, resulting in characters that were clearly highly developed and intelligently interpreted on stage. Of course, this couldn’t have been done without the team of strong actors who were able to realistically and beautifully portray Bruckner’s characters. The chemistry between the characters was almost tangible, extending from the stage to the small auditorium; never has the phrase ‘sexual tension’ been so accurate! I found myself practically sitting on the edge of my seat at certain points, such as during the sexually loaded exchanges between Lucy and Freder, played by Hannah Brooks and Rob Newton. Brooks managed to beautifully convey Lucy’s vulnerability, which perfectly juxtaposed Newton’s portrayal of the manipulative and depraved Freder. What struck me as particularly powerful was the effortless nature of their exchanges. This comment extends to the rest of the cast. The actors moved about the stage so effortlessly and with such poise and grace that I had to keep reminding myself that I wasn’t actually in 1920s Vienna, but in fact the Banham theatre. Here Chris Holmes must be praised, alongside Clarke and Du Plessis, for the way the production was executed in terms of staging; despite the space being small and often restrictive, the set was perfect in that it wonderfully reflected the intense, and at times, claustrophobic world the characters inhabit. The only aspect of production that seemed a little sporadic was the use of lighting; there were times when the lighting suddenly changed for what seemed to be no apparent reason, resulting in a slight discordance.

Whilst the acting was consistently strong across the cast, special mention has to be given to Sophia Papadopoulos and Rosy Byrne, who stole the show with their portrayal of Marie and Desiree. Their relationship was so believable and emotionally charged that it is difficult to imagine their characters being played by anyone other than them. The way the playful flirtatious nature of Marie and Desiree’s relationship suddenly snaps and changes into one loaded with unbalance and uncertainty was beautifully conveyed by Papadopoulos and Byrne, whose presence on stage can only be described as mesmerising. Papadopoulos’s portrayal of Marie’s descent into mental instability and suffering was done with sensitivity and intelligence, despite the fact it could easily have descended into the realm of melodrama, especially given the height of emotion she exhibits on stage. Her performance was entirely aided by Byrne, whose understanding of the nuances of Desiree’s character was apparent in every aspect of her acting; every glance and movement was revelatory of her character’s wild and manipulative personality. The dark and gritty nature of the piece means that it could easily have fallen into the trap of a stereotypical teenage drama, but the entire cast and crew of Pains of Youth must be highly commended for managing to steer entirely clear of this, instead creating a poignant and entirely relevant piece of theatre. Malak El-Gonemy ---------------------------------------------

King Lear Theatre Group By William Shakespeare Directed by Alice Rafter Produced by Catherine de Mello Lily Pinto (Technical Manager) Philip Dyson (Production Assistant)

Neither, for that matter, was the setting itself. The Director’s Note hints at an attempt to foreground the Hobbesian state of nature in the play - ‘a survivalof-the-fittest, look-out-for-number-one mentality’ - in keeping with Rafter’s belief that there is no clear divide between the ‘good’ and the ‘evil’ characters. Contrary to this, however, the characterisation seemed entrenched in the age-old factions of the ‘evil’ Goneril, Regan and Cornwall on the one hand, and the ‘good’ Edgar, Kent and Albany on the other, with Lear and Edmund the only characters developed along more ambivalent ethical lines. Nor am I convinced with the gender casting of the production as a whole: by all means cast gender blind (we all know Shakespeare didn’t write in enough female parts for the contemporary stage), but deliberately setting out to cast a female Gloucester rather begs the question of how this will affect the character’s dynamic with Lear, and of what difference it will make when it is a matriarchy rather than a father’s will that is undermined by the bastard Edmund. These are questions which were not addressed thoroughly enough by this production. Despite this, however, Rafter’s decision to double the roles of Fool and Cordelia, as some scholars believe they would have been originally (erroneously as it turns out), was doubly successful: not only did it decision give full range to Becky Downing’s talents as a comic actor, but it also served to strengthen the bond between Lear and Cordelia, which can prove difficult to realize later in the play, when it has been so abruptly ruptured at it’s outset. Rafter also resisted the temptation to provide an explanation for the Fool’s disappearence, placing just the right amount of emphasis on the Fool’s potential jealousy of Poor

A student production of King Lear at Leeds was always going to be an ambitious project, not least for the simple fact that it is nigh-on impossible to find an actor with a playing age old enough to stretch to Lear’s ‘fourscore and upward’. Add to this the sheer bulk of the play, the textual discrepancies between the Folio and Quarto editions, and the bleakness it so often fosters in an audience, and staging a student Lear begins to seem positively cavalier. Let’s not get too over-reverent here though: directors should feel they can do whatever they like in order to make Shakespeare relevant and living for their audience. And Rafter has made some well advised cuts, dispensing with the international politics of the play in order to focus on the internecine conflicts at home, keeping Quarto additions intact when they serve to develop key relationships such as Lear’s with the Fool, and exploring the humour of a dramatic universe that can often seem staid, barren, and sterile. Rather than attempting to make Lear look old, Alice Rafter opted to keep her Lear young. Whilst this is a perfectly reasonable production conceit, and whilst Dave Reeson’s command of Shakespeare is impressive, I nonetheless couldn’t help feeling that this Lear’s youth hadn’t been justified or explained within the postapocalyptic setting of Rafter’s production. 30

Tom, and allowing Downing to simply fade out of the action until she returned, spiritlike, as Cordelia. Whilst the rivalry of Goneril and Regan in the play does not inhabit the world of pantomime, the dynamic between Gloucester and Poor Tom at Dover does. As Jan Kott famously pointed out, the action of Gloucester’s attempted suicide only makes sense if it is enacted on a level stage. Instead, Rafter had Gheorghe Williams’ Egar raise Jess Williams’ Gloucester onto a stage block, negating the potential for Edgar’s words to create the scene for the audience’s imagination. For the most part, this production suffered from a lack of a firm grasp of its material and of the nature of Shakespeare in performance generally. Reeson, Harrison, Downing carried the show but, aside from some assured performances from Michaela Wilkinson as Kent and Luci Adms as Oswald, many of the characters felt underdeveloped and, with the exception of Rafter’s stage combat choreography, the action marred by a lack of directorial forethought. There’s a reason people talk of performing King Lear in terms of mountaineering; unfortunately, this production only makes it to the foothills.

archetype of Chinese society, waiting for a bus that never comes. Craig’s adaptation of the translated play was a diverse mixture of stereotypes, symbolism and abstract physicality. The end result felt like a slideshow of pictures, broken up by the occasional burst of movement and sound, which skillfully showed the passing of time over the 10-year span of the play. The set was simple and striking, consisting almost entirely of a barrier and bus stop sign, which were playfully used by the actors and never seemed redundant. The cast of eight was extremely varied in skill and experience, with some stand out performances. A special mention must go to Kate Barkley whose characterization of ‘Glasses’ was hilarious and engaging throughout. Barkley’s subtle physical idiosyncrasies were perfectly in tune with her costume and appearance, creating perhaps the most likeable and memorable character. Lauren Elcock also gave an enjoyable and convincing performance as the old woman, a character requiring a great deal of stamina and self-discipline, and Jason Brasier’s onstage energy brought relief to moments which needed it. Though some of the cast were less confident performers and some of the characters less integral to the plot, each actor held their own and the attention to background acting meant there was always something to watch, if we were to glance away from the main action happening downstage. Craig decided to include elements of physical theatre in the production, which were sometimes a little cliché, but fit in well with the nature of the play. There was also an interesting decision to include direct address. I’m sure this element would have been effective, had it not been for the idiot hecklers who decided to grace us with their back-row presence that

Rik Baker --------------------------------------------Bus Stop Open Theatre By Gao Xingjian Directed by Lily Craig Produced by Tash McLintock Directed by Lily Craig, who stumbled across the play on her year abroad in Shanghai, ‘Bus Stop’ by Gao Xingjian tells the story of eight characters, each an 31

night. The unintentional call and response that occurred, though uncomfortable, was a credit to the actors who seemed entirely unperturbed and managed to draw attention back to the stage immediately, saving us all from the embarrassment of bad theatre etiquette. The biggest change Craig made was to the character ‘Silent Man’ who was not silent, but spoke in Chinese, a constant reminder of the play’s origin. Craig also used this character as a puppeteer or facilitator, always with an air of mystery, which made his closing of the play, in English, an unexpected and enjoyable twist. Though I’m sure it will not have been everyone’s cup of tea, ‘Bus Stop’ was a highly interesting and memorable piece of theatre, with some skillful acting and bold directorial decisions.

off their characters’ obvious differences to make each stronger and more entertaining. Harrison certainly knew how to play an audience, with every entrance, exit and raise of an eyebrow sending the crowd into fits of laughter. One audience member aptly likened Lucy Troy’s characterisation of Bertha to Shakespeare’s Caliban. The beautiful actor lunged onstage with a level of vigor that made her unlikely part thoroughly convincing. Though she looked about to corpse at any moment and though some of her fight sequences were less than convincing, I was both shocked and thrilled by her stage presence. Ben Perry played the part of Agent John Parker with effortless, natural humor, though some of his lines were lost, while Tom Claxton proved himself to be an expert comic actor through his perfect physicality of the snooty, camp and wimpy hotel manager, Lionel Milford. Angus Montgomery played the title character and Lade’s increasing exasperation only increased our enjoyment and laughter. Though there was much evidence of the cast ‘playing for laughs’ and some jokes could have been left to tell themselves, Haywood’s production converted to farce a girl who loves nothing more than a depressing drama, which is no mean feat! ‘Let’s Get Lade’ was a polished and brilliantly directed play, with every detail accounted for.

Molly Sharpe --------------------------------------------Let’s Get Lade By Thomas Amo Adapted and directed by Luke Haywood Produced by Jocelyn Cheek and Beca Roberts Directed by Luke Haywood, TG’s ‘Let’s Get Lade’ was the perfect antidote to all the sophisticated, psychological theatre on campus this term. Lade was anything but deep. It’s unashamed base humor and farcical treatment of some rather serious issues appeared to be just what a crowd of stressed students needed from a night’s entertainment, as we were taken on a wild ride of sexual desire, confusion, assassins and The Beatles. Every aspect of set and props and costume transformed me to a 1960s New York, all except the plastic champagne flutes but that’s a nit pick. Though the show got off to a slightly slow start; Ollie Harrison and Nick Dawkins formed the center of attraction, playing

Molly Sharpe --------------------------------------------War Songs PCI Choreographed by Chantelle Brooks and Chloe Shipley Composed by Serin Rayner Produced by Amy Finney and Chloe Marks 32

After nine weeks of intensive rehearsal between a group of theatre performers, one would expect tensions to be running high. However, War Songs proved that an incredible audience experience can be achieved through collaborative direction even during this short period of time. War Songs, the first verbatim musical which this reviewer has ever experienced, was especially potent due to the hundred-year commemoration of those who gave their lives in World War I, occurring this year, and further resonated with a modern audience in terms of the anxieties of war which we are currently experiencing. When first entering the theatre space, there was a sense of ambiguity looming over the audience. The set, comprising most prominently of a camouflage netting, was particularly effective when used in conjunction with the lighting, designed by Matt Harrrup. The lighting from above was fractured and incomplete, much like the many narratives presented to us during the course of the production, and this was further exemplified by the number of discordant choral numbers throughout the musical. The moments in which the entire ensemble were used to create a vibrant wall of sound were particularly successful in depicting a palpable apprehension across the audience as to which of these narratives would be resolved, and which would be left to fester in our imaginations. In terms of lighting, the most striking moments occurred in the scene in which Oliver Belfield presented an account of a photographerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s life in warfare, whereby moments of singular importance were â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;capturedâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; during the performance through a singular flash of white light. In moments such as these, the audience became a participant in capturing the smallest of moments in a long chronology

of human combat. Another notable scene was that in which Piers Cottee (physical director) represented the mental torment of soldiers in war, the use of shadow and flashing light depicting quite vividly the trauma suffered by the survivors of war. The distress depicted by Cottee was highly uncomfortable for the audience, and as such presented us with a side to warfare which is not commonly touched upon in most productions which attempt to recreate the realities of war. It is important to remember that War Songs does not strive to depict one particular era of warfare, but rather focuses upon the relentless decision of humankind to fight against each other decade after decade, and this is represented not only through the gruelling physicality of the performance, but also through the costume itself, designed by Genevieve Brown, Holly Bowman and Natalie Rawel. Each performer was dressed in the same regulation costume; white shirt, green trousers, black boots, braces. But this uniform was manipulated in a simple but effective manner depending on the scene at hand. As an audience member, this appeared to show the way in which our society and culture has changed over the years, and yet our outlook on war appears to stay the same. War continues to be an ostensible solution to international affairs, just as it was centuries ago, no matter how our society might change on the surface. Thus, War Songs, effectively deals with the way in which war is both part of our past and our present. The choreographed dance scenes included in the production were applause-worthy in terms of their ability to turn the cast into a sizeable army, capable of changing the small theatre space into a huge arena for the training of prospective soldiers through physical action and impressive vocal 33

energy. A table turned from a coffin into a trench at a moment’s notice is indicative of the innovative and resourceful work of Chantelle Brooks and Chloe Shipley, whose efforts provided the audience with choreography which fitted exceptionally well with the physical theatre aspect of the musical. There were moments which appeared to applaud the sensational traits of war, which were then struck down by incredibly raw and painful moments of reunion or loss which appeared to affect the audience deeply. The comedic moments such as the depiction of Neville Chamberlain, Margaret Thatcher and Tony Blair were instantly contrasted by the dilemma of women involved in warfare, creating a juxtaposition of the grand speech of politicians against the frank speech of those who sacrifice themselves for the honour and safety of their country. In our current state, each of us attempts to disassociate ourselves with the reality of the warfare which surrounds us. But it’s the final image which this production presented which continues to resonate with me. In the final moments of the musical, a bugle sounds, and a shower of poppies fall like spots of blood into a spotlight upon the stage floor. After this, a single white poppy falls, a symbol of both the victims and worthless victories of war - and the spotlight fades. The curtain call never comes. The message stands.

widely published and her pamphlet If We could Speak Like Wolves (Smith|Doorstep 2012) was a Book of the Year 2012 in The Independent. In October, Kim was the Poet In Resident at the Ilkley Literature Festival and her first collection The Art of Falling will be published by Seren in April 2015. You’ve just undertaken a residency at ILF. I must ask, what’s it like being Poet in Residence at a literature festival? Being Poet in Residence was an amazing experience! It was incredibly busy but I felt really lucky to get the job. But thinking about what it was really like - well first of all it was terrifying. The residency at ILF is very open to interpretation and is basically shaped by the Poet. That meant I could (pretty much) do what I liked. That meant I had to come up with ideas, which was really scary at first because I always worry that I won’t have any! As it was, I probably had too many for my own good. After the initial terror, and once I’d got my timetable and started planning my workshops I quickly learnt to speed up with my planning. Once the festival started, it was really good fun. I led poetry workshops in schools and with adult groups at the festival. I read with a brass band and with Matthew Sweeney and Michael Laskey. I also took a group of poets running and then did a workshop with them. Writing any poems about it? And who was your highlight? While I was preparing for the festival, I started writing poems about running. Although I didn’t add much to these during the festival, I did get some work done on them and I’ve carried on with them. I also started a couple of other things, but it often takes me a while to process what has happened. Maybe I’ll start writing poems

Laurah Furner --------------------------------------------INTERVIEW: Kim Moore, Poet in Residence, Ilkley Literature Festival Kim Moore lives in Cumbria, is a poet, a trumpet teacher and writes about it all. In 2011 she received an Eric Gregory Award and the Geoffrey Dearmer Prize. Her poetry has been 34

next year by Seren – how’s the process of putting a collection together? How do you decide what to include and to leave out? When I was first putting the collection together, I got together my best poems, including poems from the pamphlet. Then I did a kind of mind map with all the themes that were appearing and then wrote the poems in next to the themes that were emerging. This helped me see patterns - when I did this, I didn’t know for example, that I was writing lots of poems about falling, and it was this that helped me decide on a title. After that, I spread the poems out on the floor and tried to order them. I sent an early version of the collection out to some trusted friends and got their feedback and then worked through the whole thing again. I knew there were weaker poems in that version, and I kept writing and gradually replacing those poems with stronger ones. Now I’m at the stage of more detailed editing. Amy Wack, my editor at Seren, sent me a ‘working proof’ with annotations and things to think about, and tonight I finished working through that so have emailed her the new version. Most of the things were quite small questions and queries about punctuation but one thing it has really made me think about is my tendency to write very long sentences. Amy wanted me to look at this and after first resisting, I now think she is right so I have finally, inserted some full stops into my poems! Your poems are full of episodes of the everyday – a picnic, the pub, the train, teaching the trumpet. What is it about these moments that catch you? It’s normally something very specific that I know as soon as it happens will be a poem. Often it’s something funny or ridiculous

about Ilkley in a year! My highlight was John Hegley I think, which I didn’t expect! But he was such a good performer and it was like having a masterclass in not only how to perform your work, but how to handle an audience, how to make them laugh, but stay in control of the reading. He was very funny and his timing is great. I also really enjoyed reading with the brass band and judging the open mic on the last night of the festival. You were a student in Leeds, at the Music College. Do you still keep in touch with the poetry scene in the city? When I was in Leeds, I wasn’t actually writing poetry, or at least, I was writing poetry but not showing anybody. I was studying music and I hadn’t even thought about showing anybody my poetry - it was just something I did for myself. Now I do have strong links to the poetry scene in Leeds - mainly through a friend of mine, David Tait, who used to (I think) edit Scribe, or at least write for the magazine. He put me in touch with Leeds Writers Circle, a great group of people who I’ve ran workshops for. I read for Headingley Literature Festival a couple of years back and regularly read at the Heart Cafe - so yes, I’m often in and around Leeds for various things. You really like wolves and they are a frequent motif in your work – what attracts you to them? I don’t really know what the wolves mean - I don’t like to think about it in case they disappear! Most of the time, they wander into the poems and then wander out again. I think I will leave that one to the reader to work out... Your first collection is to be published

that happens. I wrote my trumpet teacher’s curse after a little girl really did stuff a pompom down her cornet. As soon as that happened I knew I could write the poem - although in fact I’ve been wanting to write that poem for six years really, which was when another child was sick in their instrument. There are things in my head that I know I will write a poem about, but I just don’t know what my way in to them will be... You didn’t publish until, am I right in saying, your mid-20s? What encouraged you to start publishing? I didn’t show anybody my work until I was probably about 26 or 27. So I wasn’t really writing properly till then. There were lots of people and groups and tutors that encouraged me to start publishing. The poetry world is full of encouragement in fact, and if you encourage and support other people, you get back what you put in ten times. I joined a local writing group and they were the first people who encouraged me. My friend Jennifer Copley encouraged me to send work out first of all. I went on a residential poetry course at Ty Newydd which changed my life- the tutors were Sarah Kennedy and the late Nigel Jenkins they were both really encouraging. Lots of Scribe readers are young poets themselves. Any advice? Read twice as much as you write. Read contemporary poetry as well as more traditional stuff. Subscribe to poetry magazines before you submit to them. Be generous to other poets. If you read a poem by someone you like write to them and tell them.... Rodolfo Barradas 36

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