1
2
3
4
Annual Returns Returning this year seemed like a new beginning – The place the same, the faces grown familiar; Time, seeming to have outrun its calendar, Had laid bare the bed and now stood waiting… To be filled! – each ounce of daylight Between now and the equinox was ours – The steady, rolling, high-above-the-level hours Extended, seemingly far beyond natural sight. But what is sight if not natural, and so dim? For as those hours advance, what nature can unravel The sorry distance we ourselves will travel Towards our common suitor, hungry and grim? Rik Baker
1
Matins Two tower blocks splinter sunlight From scales of glass; Early risers, the faithful stand firm To make the dawn salute. “How lucky to rise with the sun in your eyes.” The frost-asphyxiated trees freeze Under a witch’s curse, The grass on our little lawn lies stiff and crisp, Only the rising smoke, smouldering incense at the morning shrine, Escapes like dreams from the sleeping street. I survey the scene And earnestly frame the pastel pigments That shimmer, change, fade and are gone. Matins is done, the day begun. Jeremy Fisher
2
Winter Thaw the youth of yesteryear, berry bilious on branch. A lonesome chirp of happy lark in frost, defiant. Cruel nature catches in the throat as we blow smoke and hide hands in coats. Remembered past underneath the capital W of Winter, you will not want for less. Your famine is our hearts and your ecstasy our mind, the snow begins to slay the days we thought to leave behind. Tadg O’ Connor
3
Alexandre Bethencourt 4
Puppetry Cannot find an I, Will not haunt a We, But can implies ability And will resolution and desire. To spy on the quay a Them Admits to this spot an Us. It could be anything: Molecules of water In the frantic North Sea. Some one, or two, or three Must occupy these words, Pull their strings, tug their cords. Daniel Boon
5
Time’s child αιων παῑς εστι παίζων περρεύων. παιδος ή βασιληίη Time is a child playing at draughts; the kingdom belongs to the child. Fragment 52 Diels Kranz: Die Fragmente der Vorsokratiker (Herakleitos). Now that I see how this world goes, I am forever in an instant and not, As would seem, a thing apart – I am nothing when it knows it Can now do something by suffering The dying hour of a moment’s regret. That night, when we two first drew apart From sidelong cocktail smiles in bars – I regret Nothing, I am nothing – I was not Then conscious of the all-altering eyes of suffering Prying into our affairs – not that it ever goes For some, just that when for others it does, it Leaves behind no trace of what it was – not For nothing then, did fate throw the die that, when it Fell, landed on a six for us … I regret Nothing. However we use time’s child he goes On playing draughts as though there were nothing apart From comedy in the whole kingdom of human suffering,
6
And what he least remembers is not worth the regret That an age of prudence would exact through suffering Of the slings and arrows with which fortune would raze it… And I regret nothing from that night, apart From sometimes when the wind is up and I cannot not Recall those winter nights I walked her home…and so it goes That when we are well in fortune we mar what makes it Good by putting on the habit of a former time – and indeed it goes Past present – present past, the future looks like suffering Of past made present – a future-past then, not This always-planned-for conjunction of a lifetime’s regret. I am nothing if not regret when the past and present stand apart. And yet for all the anchorites down the ages, all suffering The same, each in his ivory tower – his cave of care apart From the folly and the beauty of a world which goes On in spite of nothing – that I do not regret – There is within it all something after all, and it Is by this and this only that we begin or fail to exist, not By the shade of a man who goes at night through darkened rooms, not By the thing which stands apart and knows and is content with it, But by the suffering of a moment’s momentary regret. Rik Baker
7
Blitz An underground tapestry of roots Spreads under London. Kensington Gardens sprout broccoli, Whilst all across the city Sweet-peas and forget-me-nots Decorate compost heaps. Knitted between bus-stops and council-flats A patchwork of allotments grow. And in every windowsill Jam-jars of darling-yellow daffodils. Eleanor Winter
8
‘Bellflowers’, Karya Imirzalioglu 9
Ultraviolent The stripes on your back where he kissed you with his hand, Always to remind you that you’re the bigger man. You, got a little blue, and black in your eye, Just need to wash it out. Try not to depend On the little bitter ends Of an argument that twists from green into red. Tie your laces tight, Coz the darkness ain’t so bright And it’ll pin you there, So just take care, And run. Don’t get bogged down with memories, It’s true, the more we live the more we see, But we also breathe, So take it in, Rising, And run. The stripes on your back where he kissed you with his hand, Always to remind you that you’re the bigger man. You, got a little blue, and black in your eye, Just need to wash it out. Richard Hales
10
Blue is the colour It is a hard task to pen a study Without a model – what colour inhabits vacancy? What harmonies or discords, or even single notes Breed out of silence? It is a hard task. Blue is the colour, perhaps. The arpeggios in the hydrangea, The counterpoint of the helicopter And the wave-cry, thunder And lightning in the winter, perhaps From these music will grow. In an artist’s studio, surrounded By canvasses, each canvas sings In chorus. The cold spines Of books, the silent withering Of summer leaves between cover And cover, foxing and fading, And the words, repeated over And over, fading with them— Yes, a hard task To pen my words Without colour Without song Why need I Kindle This strain This sliver of light across the page This brief Candle. Daniel Boon 11
The Moth A shrill yellow light slides up the wall And then back down again As the gritty bulb hanging low Swings playfully Teasing the moth Which relentlessly follows Fluttering erratically with enthusiasm The door slams And somewhere in the distance A pair of angry heels Scratch the cobblestones Like it means something The sky weeps for the stone’s injury Hoping its tears will soothe The incisions made by the kinetic stilettos Which still clop and echo in the lingering mist Just like the moth lingers around the light Believing it to be the sun The world and everything The grooves in the cobbles Fill gently with rainwater And shiver slightly From the intensity of the night And the intensity of the dark sky Conscious of the onlooking stars Frowning down like Lyssa Upon trivial human behaviour Somewhat jealous That even though we’re all burning out At least people 12
Aren’t ten thousand One hundred thousand One million miles away The light bulb flickers a few times Then the yellow light dies away And the moth falls down And dies with it Isaac Worthington
13
Louisa Brimacombe-Wiard
14
Alexandre Bethencourt
15
Bristol I saw two blokes at four am one night cycling up Stokes Croft on their fixed gear bikes no hands no helmets no brakes no lights peddling furiously one shouts to the other: we can do what we like! ‌ do what we like Emma Ward
16
a man touching a woman’s face Walking along, head in the gas, looking at the traffic, smelling the trash, glancing through the glass of a restaurant window I see a man touching a woman’s face. My head is in the clouds and I am looking down at everything. Dylan Marsh
17
Things I Want to Do I want to hold your hand I want to throw myself down the stairs I want to cry in front of people Sometimes I wish I could play the cello I want to lose consciousness and have to be looked after in a hospital by three female nurses between the ages of 35 and 50 I want to die suddenly, without warning I want to delete my Facebook account I want to delete everybody’s Facebook accounts I want to kiss everybody on the mouth I want to coldly and calculatedly murder all things, simultaneously I want to ride a bicycle on a very flat and even surface quite quickly I wish that I could paint I long to change the world and I long to grow a beard Other things I want to do include getting a single in the top ten and writing a sitcom for BBC2 I want to be interviewed in the Metro I want to do this with you I want to absorb you, like the tissue that absorbs the tears that I get when sometimes I forget to be the kindest man alive I want to buy a CD Dylan Marsh
18
Merl Zhu
19
‘Au Bal’ –Edouard Manet She tosses her hair over her shoulder, he looks, and she averts her gaze. Coyly, she flits her eyelashes over her conquests, Feeling their eyes hunger at her face. Her heart swells with confidence and her chin tilts a little higher – Disdain. Her dress catches the light and she is illumed in silver. Her peach-like skin blends into her array and her radiance is breathed into the perfumed yet sweaty dampness of the vapours in the air. A curl caresses her forehead and, as she turns, it trembles to leave its resting-place – so carefully was it stationed. His shadowy form has traced her from afar. Blending with the swaying satin of her dress, not daring to touch, he has lingered out of reach. When the crowds are dense, at moments of confusion, his quivering hand hovers around her waist – why will she not see him! But then the lady’s tresses are tossed over her shoulder. He looks. She averts her gaze. Then smiles. Elizabeth White
20
The Fury He fed them poison, And rewired their hearts, To pump hate through those fragile, Mouldable bodies. They were like clay, moulded by one mind, And once formed, became sculptors themselves. Each uniform became an artist, Moulding new bodies, Clothing them in moss-hued fabric, With blood wrapped around one arm. His voice became many, And they became a chorus of hate. They became blind and deaf, unable to feel, Desensitised entirely, So that the sound of a crying child Could be soothed by the sound of a pressure wave That ripples from a gun after being fired. They were machines, Crafted by the ideas of a master engineer, And his team of thousands. Kayla Feldman
21
KantĹ? Spreading out onto the dark sky like a carpet of light Underneath there is the sound of cheers They all sound like mysterious spells Creating a different dimension in the everyday life Guide us to a space where they move your heart Celebration and prayer. Usui Ellen
22
starry night Anywhere we are, we are connected, you and me Our feelings are connected, you and me Although our sensations are not connected We are connected underneath this night sky We are connected somewhere in this world Connected under this starry night Look! There’s a shooting star! I wonder if you are looking at the same sky. Usui Ellen
23
Merl Zhu 24
25
Come on Dreadful You don’t wanna do this. It’s not something you hear too often… Either coz you’ve gummed your ears with resolution Or no-one has quite stood back and taken stock enough to say, “Shit that’s a bad idea.” But you don’t stop bad ideas; they keep tumbling like rocks and rope falling off the mountain. So flatten out under the nearest piece of safety and wait till the storm blows over (Hold tight to me) And snatches you into its eyes and you stare back, Till your eyelashes ache and you know you’ve found that one bad idea that makes you laugh, That makes you wake, That means the gasp dies in your throat, That tries to shock you back into motion after taking it so slow to get there. Bad ideas come on dreadful, they infect you with happiness and gut you clean through with bliss. You’re riddled with ecstasy And, Though it’s plain to see, You know this is a bad idea worth sticking around for.
26
You wanna see it through and hope it doesn’t fall flat. This fat man is gonna pop, And you wanna swim through the poppies and horror because this isn’t how they paint it. You won’t stop. It’s vicious and tight, Screaming broken up little nights spent waiting for the explosion to whisk you, Whipped up, Up into the air and back to your stormy bad idea. Richard Hales
27
16 Holloway Road The Holloway station sentry guard Naps in a grubby sleeping bag. Between gum and stubs the streetlight winks Back a ten pence piece. I stoop before thinking better. Remnants of chalk smudge under my boots From a street-art installation of stars, The pastel galaxy drifts off the pavement And clings to trouser cuffs, Carried through the city in dust. I peel out from the evening commute And static in a trail of suits, Retrieve my keys. The lights in number 16 are off. Hidden up six floors of chessboard tiles This flat is a destitute intern’s rite of passage. Past the ‘you don’t have to be mad to live here’ mat; An eccentric aunt and one eyed cat A menagerie of wigs and hats Masquerading as a two bed flat, Wall to ceiling mirrored clocks Hallway blocked by rhinestoned Mitsubishi scooter And in a cupboard full of shoes, I squat. My aunt is a magician And last-minute guest-bedroom administrator, The MC of a lounge of sequins, screws and dormant glue guns. Part mechanic, part milliner, part hostess To an eclectic spectre of glittered guests, Who wander in, drink champagne as I brush my teeth. Wendy Cann
28
Usui Ellen
29
When Showgirls Undress “they want to take you away from me, they made you like this and now they want to take away your Las Vegas showgirl, take away your cowboy sweetheart songs, take you all away from me—” —Daphne Gottlieb She had backed away from her, then, like one of them was a fire hazard. Jeanie had kind of assumed she would be the fire hazard, a Vegas showgirl who was always on low-burn, simmering, the kind of lazy that allows for short-lived lives. She glowed like a car cigarette lighter, low, warm light leaking from under her nails after all the second-hand stardom she’d inhaled. She was cheap glitter and the spark of metal in a microwave oven and the dust an old car could cough up, and the whole thing gave the impression of matchstick limbs about to set fires. She had set real fires too, of course she had, usually by accident. And yet when she had backed away from Amelia, half angry and half helpless, it was Amelia who burned, the mother-hungry child of a radioactive disaster, emitting homely warm rays that would surely kill Jeanie, render her disease-ridden, incapacitated. Some kind of broken not buried in blood and bones but visible, showgirl-style. Amelia was a bright girl, unlike Jeanie, who hadn’t even finished high school, dropped out before the hot tar of that godforsaken town could stick to the soles of her bare feet. Jeanie was bright in the way she knew how to tumble into a second-story window long after midnight. Amelia was other kinds of bright too: flashing neon bright, warning sign bright. She probably would have tempted Jeanie into perdition, to prove a point or something, who knows, Jeanie didn’t know girls like Amelia. Jeanie didn’t need the stress of a teenager clinging to her; she was only around to teach the advanced modern dance class and then she’d be gone again. So she was around for the night Amelia’s parents didn’t return home from work, and the time she showed up on her doorstep drunk, and when Jeanie let her borrow a bootleg copy of Nine to Five—so what? Nothing out of line had ever happened. Amelia had some dramas to attend to, and Jeanie had her own issues, and never would she allow any overlap.
30
She hadn’t anticipated Amelia’s persistence. She hadn’t anticipated the sudden fall and clatter of those still-growing bones from the second-story window. (This is how she winds up back in the town she fled after three days’ intoxication.) She’s angry on Amelia’s behalf at all the high schoolers who show up claiming to have known her. Amelia would have despised it. But she probably would have been angry at Jeanie too, who stands at the back of the church, a ‘dance ‘til you drop dead’ shirt under her blazer and a flask tucked in her bra that, admittedly, she keeps returning to. God, yes, Jeanie thinks as the forty-five percent rum burns all the way down to where she’s feeling the grief most; Amelia would hate her even more. Amelia’s mother and father are on separate sides, like some fucked up reversal of their wedding, coming to a close. Jeanie’s the best man in the back who lost the rings last minute. She fucked this up. No. It’s nothing like a wedding. Of course it’s not. She’s distracting herself from the mundane, the implausible, the godforsaken parallel universe wreckage of events wherein the heady, reckless thirty-year-old survives a safe and sacrificial sixteen-year-old. Jeanie has never been to a funeral. She’s known death, known the hard fast spin of car meets gravel meets crash meets gone. But she’d always avoided funerals; this is a first. Is it supposed to feel like fucking confession? Confession (shot through with guilt): Amelia was a religion that Jeanie didn’t believe in and so now she’s dead. Nothing left: no witness, no postcards, no scripture. It’s the worst break-up she’s ever experienced. Summer Violet
31
‘Albert Camus’, Karya Imirzalioglu
32
Scabs As a child I was told by adults Never to pick at my wounds Not to press at blue bruises Or to pick at gritty-knee scabs Leave them alone, let it heal But as I’ve grown a little taller I have noticed how my mother Turns up the radio to a record That reminds her of a last kiss In a dirty bed in the afternoon All sweat and morning breath I’ve seen my father’s lips move In mime to a film script, having Seen it a thousand times before When he rolled on film by hand For a job between better jobs His bed at the old couple’s B&B Waiting for him around the corner I’ve watched someone I love Trace their fingertips over a scar Raised and white on their skin Just on the inside of their wrist And see their eyes flicker shut Before they look back at me The taste of metal in their mouth Thirteen-year old self in their eyes Praying to God I won’t see them Adults tell you not to pick at wounds, Not to dig at scars, they’ll get deeper But what about the ones I can’t see? Laurah Furner
33
Alexandre Bethencourt
34
Beauty and the Beast Stage Musicals Society (SMS) Riley Smith Hall, 4th - 7th December 2013 Directed by Josh Hughes Musical Director - Katy Richardson Executive Producer - Olly McCauley Creative Producer - Oliver Ball Technical Producer - Charles Huke Voice Coaching by Maria Craster & James Pegg Choreography by Samantha Hopkins & Callum Holt
SMS have delivered another beautifully crafted production with Beauty and the Beast. Popularised by Disney in the early ’90s, it is difficult for a new production to compete with the well-known film our generation has grown up with. Josh Hughes’ production was wonderfully true to the story yet managed to incorporate devised elements that kept the performance fresh – a combination that any new production should strive to achieve. There were strong vocal performances here from all the principal characters. In particular, Dave Pegna’s solo in the second act was a wonderfully tender and emotive moment. Throughout, he displayed an excellent balance of animalistic anger and human tenderness to create the complex character of The Beast. Also, Rachael Aldridge’s rendition of ‘Tale as Old as Time’ was simply magical; her interpretation of the character of Mrs Potts as a cockney worked wonderfully
35
and avoided overt caricature. Lumière (Sam Ashley) and Cogsworth (Oliver Ball) were perfectly compatible, and as a result their relationship produced highly entertaining scenes. Yet it was Will Gamester as Gaston who undoubtedly stole the show. His scenes were well-received by the audience and after a while we began to see why the three silly girls were pining after him! The best musical number was by far ‘Gaston’. It was visually spectacular and the enthusiasm of the chorus, combined with such inventive choreography, was delightful to watch. It was also refreshing to see same-sex couples dancing together on the stage not just in this number but throughout the performance. However, it was somewhat disappointing that the vocals from the chorus were lost especially because of the energy one could see they were putting in. In spite of this, those harmonies that could be heard blended well together. The set was simplistic yet innovative and mapped the castle in such a way that it aided rather than detracted from the action, so that The Riley Smith stage was utilised to the best of its potential. Katy Richardson led the orchestra and her performance of the complex music was of a very high standard, with the result that the production shone not only visually but aurally too. It was such a shame, then, that
36
at the climactic moment of the story, when The Beast transforms into the Prince, an over-use of the smoke machine prevented the audience from witnessing it! The characters onstage did well to carry on regardless, however this did let down a production that up until this point had been almost faultless. It is no wonder this production was a sell-out success as once again SMS have showcased the talents of Leeds students in all aspects of musical theatre. We eagerly await their next production as it is always a wonder to see how it progresses from the last. Kelly Smith
----------------------------------------Don’t Let Go Manic Chord Theatre The Carriageworks, 17th & 18th January 2014
Written and devised by David Cartwright, Alex Monk and Sam Berrill Produced by Emma Cook Company Co-Producer - Hattie Callery. Designed by Laura Price Associate Designer - Helen Russell Brown Lighting by Helen Russell Brown Sound Design by Stuart Mellor
Building on the phenomenal success of After What Comes Before at the Edinburgh Fringe last year, Manic Chord returned to open this year with a bang. A laugh-a-minute like its predecessor it is not – not yet, anyway. After its first outing at the Carriageworks,
the show will now be put to bed until May, when it will be reworked and rehearsed in preparation for this year’s Fringe. I for one am excited to see how the show progresses over the next few months. During the interim, the company will return to the mad-scientist-mayhem of After What Comes Before, with dates at CAST in Doncaster on 5th March, The Bike Shed Theatre in Exeter on 17th March, and the Unity Theatre in Liverpool on 3rd April. The show is among the best new pieces of theatre I have had the privilege to witness in the last year and I would strongly recommend seeing it at one of these venues. Despite being more minimalist mood-piece than comedy crowd-pleaser, Don’t Let Go has all the hallmarks of the company’s inimitable style. Yet although the playfulness and willingness to experiment are still in evidence throughout, the play breaks new ground only hinted at in After What Comes Before. Moments of outrageous comedy (such as the image of Al Monk appearing as Julia dressed in a parrot suit – which was cut from the second night’s performance) serve here to highlight all the more the poignancy of the play’s central motif: childhood persists into adulthood, where it meets with the intransigent realities and daily grinds of ordinary working life. There are two central images in the play which enact this motif,
37
and which remain in the mind of audience long after the show has ended. The red balloon – a papier-mâché puppet – was manoeuvred with surprising dexterity as by all three cast members, and points to Manic Chord’s self-acknowledged film source – Albert Lamorisse’s 1956 French short Le Ballon Rouge, in which a young boy, Pascal, discovers a sentient red balloon that becomes his companion until its destruction at the hands of some local bullies. But the opposing image of coffee spoons is an inspired addition. In the world of the play, each character, including the disgruntled and dreamy protagonist Leonard (Sam Berrill), owns a coffee spoon which they carry about with them. Not having a spoon, as one of David Cartwright’s characters informs us through his insistent lingering on the word – reminiscent of Beckett’s Krapp and his emphasis on the word ‘spool’ – is a sorry state of affairs to be in. Speaking to Sam Berrill after the show, he told me that the idea behind the spoons was to find a physical image for the point at which a child loses the innocence, awe and sense of wonderment at its surroundings and begins to focus on achieving the prescribed goals that the adult world demands of it. To my mind, the coffee spoons in the play act as a kind of objective correlative which perform the theatrical expression of Heidegger’s ‘inauthentic modes of existence’ that the characters in the play are forced to undergo, and it is perhaps particularly telling that Leonard often seems to have forgotten he is in
possession of ‘a spoon as well as a balloon’. In the world of the play, which is dominated by the intractable images of the factories scrawled on Laura Price’s set, a spoon is given to a child at the age of eight as a kind of initiation into that world of work – a warning that play time is over. Clearly though, for Manic Chord themselves as much as for Leonard, the fun is just beginning. A key change from Le Ballon Rouge is the fact that Leonard is not a boy as Pascal is, but a grown man with a job in a factory. In the light of the streetlamp that Julia’s mother (Cartwright) tells us has come back on after fifteen years’ darkness, Leonard’s balloon becomes not just Lamorisse’s image of the incorruptible innocence and beauty of childhood, but an escape into childhood from the suffocating demands of adult life. There is evidently a lot of purchase in this theme, and Manic Chord are exhaustive in their attempts to bring it out both comedically – as in the scene where Leonard entertains Julia (Monk) by putting the balloon on his head and parroting the boss – and tragically when the balloon is almost destroyed by gale-force winds and stuka-diving crows (ingeniously constructed from broken umbrellas!) In Don’t Let Go, it is the world and nature that are cruel as well as humans. But these things are also absurd, and despite its big themes, there is an unmistakable wry comment throughout the play on the business of life as performance,
38
and on performance as a way of life.
Rik Baker ----------------------------------------The Elixir of Love Opera Society Riley Smith Hall 5th – 8th February 2014
Directed by Sally Stephens Musical Director - Ashley Jacobs Co-Musical Director - Harry Style Produced by Looby Garner Set Design by Sally Stephens & Backstage Society Lighting by Backstage Society
In the wet, cold, dark month of February, and approaching the romance of Valentine’s Day, Opera Society’s production of The Elixir of Love was a welcome induction of love and opera into the cold stalls of the Riley Smith Hall. Despite being composed and adapted in six weeks, L’elisir d’amore is a fast-paced libretto that demands more of its performers than its rapid penmanship implies. Soaring arias, solos, duets and impressive choral numbers constitute an aural assault with the suspension of the beautiful, pure notes from both the female lead, Sarah Calvert, and the male principals, Calum Macgregor, Kyle Harrison-Pope and Sam McCagherty, keeping the tone of this comic opera light and sparkling. Opera Society’s adapted version of this popular Italian opera is accessible
Alexandre Bethencourt
39
and pertinent to its primary audience. The opera is translated into English and deposits the cast in a twenty-first century Classics Department in Leeds where the male protagonist longs to win the heart of the flirty yet bookish Adina. Nemorino has to battle against Adina’s indifference to his love, her supposed preference for another suitor, Belcore, and in the end he resorts to winning the ‘Elixir of Love’, a potion supplied to him by Dulcamara, a swindler. The translation from Italian into English was a welcome addition and the audience were able to laugh along with the jokes and understand the dynamics between characters. It is often the case with professional opera, performed on a contemporary stage instead of a cinema or television screen which uses subtitles, that the audience, who does not know the sung language, has to work hard to decipher the precise nature of the plot and relationships. Opera Society cleverly negotiated this trap of an already difficult genre and the production was all the more enjoyable for it. However, the minimal set and contemporary costumes did little to enhance the production and it might have allowed the singers to more fully inhabit their roles had the rhetoric of the opera matched their staging and costumes. Whilst Adina’s costume belied her role as a student, the text of the opera identified her as a woman of power and money – not a feeling many students can relate to! The difficulties of acting when sustaining and concentrating
40
on complicated phrasing were evident at times and occasionally the nuanced expression of the music was lost. However, this does not undermine the challenge of performing such a large-scale undertaking and the collective efforts of the cast and crew. Voices are not usually considered mature enough to perform opera until the musician is in their late twenties to early thirties. Therefore, it is an admirable feat for the cast to have even attempted it and, whilst occasionally the principals were overwhelmed by the vocal power of the chorus, this was understandable and did little to detract from the narrative arc: for the majority of the production the principals still dominated the stage. In the second act, the pace quickened and the plot developed quickly. Through Nemorino’s increased attractiveness to women – thanks to his ‘elixir’ or, in reality, an alcoholloosened tongue, combined with a sudden influx of wealth and appealing career as an army private – he eventually wins out and is able to seduce Adina. She buys his freedom from the Army, where he was sentenced to inevitable death, and the two joyfully unite with Nemorino proclaiming that it is the ‘Elixir of Love’ which has won his beloved. The orchestra and chorus were the shining stars of the entire performance. Their energy left the audience feeling
that we too had been transported to the heat of Italy. In particular, Josh Elnore’s camp portrayal had the audience in stitches and provided much of the comic relief. Yet even more admirable is the astonishing vocal abilities of the entire chorus which meant that when combined with the formidable orchestra, waves of ecstatic sound cascaded through the auditorium. By providing a richness of sound, they elevated the performance and it was a pure delight to listen to. As the listening, watching and performing of opera do not usually fall among the hobbies of the typical student, Opera Society is bold for holding bi-annual shows showcasing the lushness of this musical and theatrical genre. Performing The Elixir of Love appeared to be a labour of love, but one worth undertaking to demonstrate that behind the thickly-woven accusations of cultural elitism lies a pastime that can be relevant, affordable and enjoyable yesterday, today and everyday. Elizabeth White
----------------------------------------Lapse
Backbreak Theatre Alec Clegg Studio, Stage @ Leeds 29th - 30th January Written by George Howard Devised by Backbreak Theatre Produced by Ellie Taylor
Lapse, the story of four school friends who reunite as post-graduates
41
on a break away from work, is at its best when it’s a comedy. The jokes are sharp, well-delivered and wonderfully dry, and the whole piece plays out like an episode of Channel 4’s Fresh Meat, only with better writing and actors that actually look the playing age. It’s by rights a comedy-drama (or a “dramedy” for the wankers of the world) but to explain its magnetism to comedy you need go no further than the curriculum vitae of the members of Backbreak Theatre. Both writer George Howard and co-actor Sam Newton are members of the acclaimed Leeds Tealights, whose brand of sketch comedy I had the pleasure of seeing last November. Although their show was very much a work in progress, of all the Tealights it was Howard’s brand of humour I was drawn to most, and in Lapse it was really given space to breathe and to grow. Drawing I expect on the material of comics like Gervais and Merchant, Mitchell and Webb or the more youthful stylings of Joe Thomas and Simon Bird, the script relies on a certain delivery in order to get the laughs. In fact, on the few occasions that lines intended as gags did fall flat, it was down to mistimed delivery. This isn’t to say that this script is overreliant on the actors, proficient as they may have been, because that is far from the case. The words are clever and their attention to character is meticulous. While tightly wound and satisfying, the plot is a lit-
tle derivative and the theatricality is anything but adventurous, but I question whether Backbreak Theatre would even consider these to be criticisms of a piece that George Howard has clearly crafted as a no-nonsense drama. It’s not trying to be 448 Psychosis. It’s trying to explore some characters and tell a story that’s beyond relevant to its intended audience. And it does this excellently, with the help of a compelling cast led by Howard himself as Tom, alongside fellow Tealight Newton as Jimmy, whose character is immersed in lad culture. Initially, I found his performance a little tricky to keep track of, because of its very specific physicality compared to the other characters, with very clearly choreographed movements and so on, but after a while this became its charm, and I warmed to Newton’s performance. Nevertheless, in terms of sheer realism and characterisation, it was Victoria Burgess as Gabs who stole the show for me. I have never met Victoria and thus have no idea whether she behaves anything like her character in real life, but in the Alec Clegg, I fully believed she was Gabs as she delivered a beautifully subtle portrayal of a character for whom subtlety was completely alien. Holly Heasman-Durham and Ben Parsons complete the cast as Lara and Squiff, the latter of which is a quiet character who when outspoken shares the sarcastic brand of humour spearheaded by Howard’s Tom and the former of which, Heasman-Durham’s character,
42
was the one that I felt really shone in the more dramatic scenes later in the play. Backbreak Theatre really has done a wonderful job here in creating a comedy-drama with the utmost verisimilitude and for that I commend them. Howard in particular is one to watch in terms of comedy writing, and I’d be fantastically curious to see Burgess’ character acting tested on another role. Dylan Marsh
Interview with Claire Trévien. Claire Trévian, born in Brittany , is an Anglo-Breton poet, editor of Sabotage Reviews and a cultural historian of eighteenth century France. Her publications include the pamphlet Low-Tide Lottery (Salt Publishing, 2011) and a free e-chapbook, Patterns Of Decay (Silkworms Ink, 2011). The Shipwrecked House (Penned in the Margins, 2013) is her first collection and was longlisted for the Guardian First Book Award 2013. Claire talked to Scribe about the sea, satire and poetry criticism today. How did you come to write poetry? Good question! I think I always did, I was a bookworm as a kid and wrote all sorts of things, not just poems. Focusing on poetry was a progressive thing for me, creeping up in my teenage years and solidifying around the ages of seventeen/eighteen. You describe yourself as an Anglo-Breton poet. What does this mean to you? I find labelling myself quite difficult. Anglo-Breton is the most precise term, but if I had a choice I’d simply say I was Celtic, as that is the culture I identify with the most. Essentially, I need both Brittany and the UK to feel myself, if I go too long without setting foot in the other I don’t feel whole. That’s pretty much the story of my family, Anglo-Breton exchanges have been going on for a couple of generations now… The Shipwrecked House is a collection awash by the cold sea of northern shores. The last verse of ‘Shipwrecked House I’ ends invoking Portuguese saudade - I’m Portuguese myself and I found it particularly striking. What is it that attracts you to the sea? What’s your own relationship with the sea? I’m glad you found it striking! I grew up by the sea, my father is a sailor, [so] my relationship with it is both affectionate and wary. It informs so many things in Brittany, from the literature, to songs, to pretty much 43
every corporate logo. So I would say that I am attracted to the ways in which seascapes shape a history, a culture, a person. ‘Introduction to my Love’ is a prose poem in the style of an academic abstract. You are a cultural historian and a notable feature of the collection is the immensely broad range of cultural references, mixing high and low culture: from Cyrano de Bergerac, Pablo Neruda, Roland Barthes and Arthur Rimbaud to #GBBO tweets and Buffy. What is the influence of your own career as a cultural historian on your poetry? My academic research focuses on, essentially, 18th century pop culture (i.e satirical etchings), and the ways in which these use a broad range of influences (both high and low) to make their points. So there are parallels I think, in my interests! The aspect of research that I enjoy the most is when I latch on to something obscure and fascinating and follow it down the rabbit hole – it’s a very similar trance-like state to how I get when writing poetry. Both very funny prose poems, ‘Introduction to my Love’ and ‘Death of the Author’, I thought could be read as a satire of some aspects of the academic world. Is there an element of satire in some of your poems? And, is prose poetry better suited to this? Thank you! And you’re certainly right that they are satirizing aspects of academic life. I’m not sure I’d say prose poetry is better suited to satire – it was the right form for these particular poems though. I’ve heard that The Shipwrecked House will be turned into a show produced by Penned in the Margins. Can you elaborate on this project? It’s still very early stages, but my hope is that the possibilities of the stage enable me to perform pieces I can’t read at normal poetry events, […] because they’re too experimental, and also to play with soundscapes as an accompaniment. I want to create something cohesive and moving: 44
an amplification of the surreal and dark nature of many of my poems. As the poetry editor of Sabotage Reviews, what is your view of poetry criticism today? It’s fashionable to lament the lack of poetry criticism in the community, and it’s true that we need more of it, it’s our mirror. The problem really is that most reviewers are poets themselves, it’s very rare to come across someone who isn’t, and that causes problems obviously because it creates greater reluctance to be honest lest it scuppers your own career. On the positive side, this also discourages hatchet jobs and forces reviewers to be incredibly careful with their analysis, which can only be a good thing whether the review is negative/positive/mixed. Finally, what would be your advice to young writers trying to write poetry? Obviously, read a lot. Everyone says it, but it is absolutely crucial. You’ll develop your taste and work out where you want to fit in. It’s also a good idea to be investing in the community you want to be a part of: attend readings, buy books, blog about those readings and books, and subscribe to magazines. I recommend Poetry London, Interpreter’s House, Fuselit, and Magma to anyone starting out, but also online magazines such as Poems in Which. Rodolfo Barradas
45
46
47
48