Author: mariaansdell

REVIEW: Dear England

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Rating: 4.5 out of 5.

A 2020s companion piece to ‘Jerusalem’? Dear England is a rousing play spotlighting the nuances of national identity, pride and place. 

As it stands, every roundabout I’ve recently passed has had a St George’s flag flying. Patriotism is a divisive subject; but Englishness, in particular, has become entangled with extremist rhetoric and nostalgic fantasies of power. That red cross carries a weight far heavier than sport.

So what is Englishness? It’s a question without an easy answer and James Graham’s Dear England knows that. What it offers instead is openness, curiosity and a willingness to sit with contradiction. 

1966’s World Cup win looms large; half a century later, we’re watching a team changing itself from within. Gareth Southgate is foregrounding mental health, reframing failure and starting conversations around prejudice in the dressing room. It’s also a decade since Brexit, a lingering wound that has worsened xenophobia and further distorted the English flag. Politics and football have always been intertwined, and Dear England makes that relationship explicit. With another World Cup approaching, its timing feels uncanny.

The play is an underdog story rooted in patience rather than bravado. Southgate (performed with rousing conviction by David Sturzaker), challenges the entrenched ‘man up’ culture of sport, aided by psychologist Pippa Grange (played sensitively by Samantha Womack). Time loops are everywhere – most notably in Southgate’s own missed penalty at the 1996 Euros, an act that earned him years of public scorn. It takes someone hurt by the system, the play suggests, to stand up to it and enact meaningful change. 

Before the interval, I found myself thinking that Dear England could be read as a contemporary companion to Jez Butterworth’s Jerusalem. Not least for all the rave reviews, but because the 2009 play interrogates Englishness through folkloric collective culture. Can we ever escape allegories of national greatness – medieval legends, holy grails, lions – when they continue to manifest across society, including on the football pitch? 

When Dear England’s second act begins, the parallel sharpens with Morris dancers and St. George himself charging forward. These symbols of enduring Englishness collide with militaristic language of Waterloo and crusades. It’s all bolstered by a soundtrack that taps directly into the national psyche: Bittersweet Symphony, Introvert, Sweet Caroline, tracks belonging to our matches, pubs, adverts and carry an elevated sense of possibility.

In Jerusalem, Johnny Byron’s run-down caravan is a sacred mainstay in the face of local authority. In Dear England, players speak about the ‘shithole’ towns they come from with steadfast loyalty. This identifying pride of place is central to how Englishness is lived and felt, across the whole socio-economic experience. Graham’s refusal to offer easy answers feels deliberate – continuing a theatrical conversation about Englishness that Jerusalem so forcefully ignited.

Pippa later questions the Lions’ imperiousness. Why do we take penalties so quickly? Why does the squad feel it’s owed a win? It’s an inherited sense of deservingness – the residue of a small country that once invaded the world and still believes, at some level, in its own exceptionalism. The persistent, unbudging stuff of Arthurian legends. 

Towards the end of the play, there’s a sharp tone shift when the Lionesses’ Euro trophy is carried onstage by Natalie Boakye. The audience erupted in cheers. And then the moment passes. Perhaps this fleeting acknowledgement reveals the limits of football’s progress narrative: genuine attempts at equality undercut by the persistent sense that the game, and its myths , still belong to men.

Ending the play here might have offered a sharp sociopolitical charge. Instead, we return to the changing room: ‘You’ll get ’em next time, boys’ kind of thing. We know the hunger remains for a second star on the shirts, a feeling of greatness and a version of Englishness that still promises to make us feel mighty.

REVIEW: The Bodyguard

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Rating: 3 out of 5.

Whitney Houston’s legacy looms large in a vocally stunning but dramatically uneven ‘The Bodyguard’

I love musicals – always have, always will – but there’s a particular kind of heartbreak when a great story doesn’t quite find its footing on stage. Some adaptations sparkle; others stumble under the weight of what came before. The Bodyguard, drawn from the classic 1992 film starring Whitney Houston, sits awkwardly between the two.

As a production, The Bodyguard is vocally phenomenal, but dramatically uneven. You might hope for the same cheesy magic that made the movie iconic, but then comes the question: can anyone ever really play Rachel Marron without playing Whitney Houston? Do we expect our powerhouse leading lady Sidonie Smith, to reimagine her entirely, or to fully commit towards that once-in-a-lifetime voice and presence? Maybe the tension between imitation and originality is the point — a blurred boundary between a real-life superstar, her fictional movie counterpart, and today’s musical theatre powerhouse and her musical theatre character.

Ideally, The Bodyguard should plunge us into a fever of nostalgia — those smokey soul bars and neon-lit dance clubs of the eighties and nineties. Instead, its setting is strangely ambiguous. It seems vaguely 2010s: Rachel Marron in frumpy leather jackets, oversized scarves and skinny jeans. There could be so much more exciting and nuanced fashion for an off-duty superstar in the modern day. Likewise, a blurry projected Instagram screenshot (supposedly a pivotal plot point, as Rachel and Frank are pictured together in public) felt like an afterthought.

Speaking of the projections, at times they hit their mark. An overhead shot of the stalker writing a lovelorn letter to Rachel Marron reminded me of Eminem’s cult music video for ‘Stan’, putting us in the haunted mind of a dangerous fan with parasocial obsessions. It also worked when lyrics were projected above a trio of lovable karaoke-goers, as they sang their hearts out in a humorous warble. But other visuals, like a silhouetted shoot-out or black-and-white clips of Rachel and Frank embracing, missed their tone entirely – neither sincere enough for drama nor self-aware enough for camp.

It’s refreshing that the score is dominated by female voices — Sidonie Smith and Sasha Monique absolutely soar. Huge congrats to Prince Conteh, who played Rachel Marron’s adoring son, Fletcher, with so much spirit. He’s a truly fantastic singer and dancer; I have no doubt he will soar in his future career.

Yet the supporting cast never gets their musical moment. Rachel Marron’s loyal team – composed of Sy Spector (Matt Milburn), Tony Scibelli (Jonathan Alden) and Bill Devaney (John Macaulay) – could have been perfect for a fun ensemble number, à la Mamma Mia’s beloved “dad trio.” They’re clearly fantastic singers; we only hear them right at the end, post–curtain call, in “I Wanna Dance With Somebody.” Characters in a musical who don’t sing feel oddly out of place.

Same goes for the antagonist of The Bodyguard, the menacing stalker, where a musical motif or number could have added real psychological texture. James Lee-Harris portrayed some very chilling moments as the character – with one really terrifying jumpscare feeling entirely appropriate for this Halloween month. I wish we’d learnt more about his motivations; it would have let the character breathe, rather than being a panto-esque villain that appears on stage wealding a knife. Not to make the show a deep-dive into toxic masculine (or dare I say, incel culture), but it would have had more impact if the very current issues of stalking and chronic onlineness were addressed. Hence the desperate need for a rewrite.

Crucially, there’s also no duet between the romantic leads. What is a musical without that? The absence leaves their relationship feeling underdeveloped and lacking chemistry — neither torturous, forbidden love, nor star-crossed sweetness. The only genuine duet comes between the sisters, which could have been rich with emotional contrast – two women in love with the same man, equally talented but unequally celebrated –  yet the script never gives space for the dynamic to evolve. It was a strange choice to cast Adam Garcia, famed for his musical abilities, as someone whose only time at the microphone was with a monotonous karaoke rendition of ‘I Will Always Love You’.

To its credit, the ensemble injects bursts of life into every dance number, and the finale “I Wanna Dance With Somebody” is a triumph. I felt Smith, Garcia and the rest of the cast truly relax into the fun of the piece. It’s joyous, high-spirited and gets everyone on their feet. But it also exposes what the rest of the production lacks: that same sense of verve throughout. Some numbers fell flat, perhaps due to opening-night nerves or the occasional technical hiccup (a haze of fog and some eye-watering club lights didn’t help). Still, The Bodyguard can’t rely solely on Whitney Houston’s legacy to carry it.

What this show proves is what a challenge it is to reimagine an icon – a challenge well worth attacking. A jukebox musical can’t just recycle hits, it needs a narrative pulse strong enough to justify the nostalgia. The audience skewed older, but it would be utterly patronising to suggest they’re less discerning. A strong story, slick production and clear tone appeal to any generation.

It’s always a privilege to see a live musical –  to watch performers pour themselves into song and movement. The New Theatre deserves credit for a wonderfully hosted press night, complete with warm staff and a lively drinks reception. It was the perfect setup for reflecting on what a musical in 2025 can and should be: creative in production design, competent in storytelling, addressing current issues and unafraid to reimagine the familiar.

REVIEW: Deluge

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Rating: 4.5 out of 5.

Holding up a lens to the complication experience of grief, Deluge is an absurd, tender and life-affirming piece that leaves a lasting impression

What’s left when someone leaves? This was the overarching question in Andrea Maciel and Gabriela Flarys’ production Deluge, an experimental piece of multimedia theatre examining the universally confusing experience of loss. Opening with a curdling scream and Flarys dressed in red-stained garms, it was evident that this show would combine alarm and humour in equal measure. 

Having broken up with her jam-making partner, the protagonist was in a state of disorientation as she examines how her loss has manifested. It’s the awkward weight of a ladder clunking on her back, the sound of a piano key played with tinnitus-like repetition, the lingering smell of fruit and jammy splatters on her clothes. The empty house has become a vessel for her bewilderment and grief; imagery of jellyfish emerging from the fridge in her tear-flooded home had childlike wonder to it, until the painful truth rang out, “If I drown, so be it.” 

We fill structural cracks with jam. Inanimate objects like pianos and wind-up dogs take on the companion role in an empty home. Poor communication in dating and the threat of infidelity are realised with notions of fighting Komodo dragons in battle. Throughout the piece, the strength of Flarys’ storytelling lay in the ability to blur gritty reality with the dreamlike absurd – mirroring the very nature of deep emotional pain. 

Woven into the main narrative were tender stories from real-life interviews, gathered by Flarys in the construction of the show. The protagonist affectionately called on these snippets of conversation to try and make sense of her own loss, the most poignant of all being a woman whose ovary tissue was removed, only for a tiny piece of the membrane to grow again. This notion that in absence there’s always going to be a tiny bit of life was a particularly affecting part of the show, which was then immediately undercut by impish comedy and joltier movements – maintaining the unpredictability of both Deluge as a theatrical piece, and loss in our human experience.  

I was astounded at Flarys’ broad-ranging vocal and physical abilities. Using movement to express feelings we often find so difficult to put into words is a beautiful thing – something she does with boundless energy, charm and sincerity. The piece had such a vibrant sense of pace with its combination of clowning, live music, projection and dance; these fragmented vignettes were a perfect way to express how difficult it is to ‘move on’, how busy your own emotional spectrum can be in the wake of loss. 

I’m sure Deluge’s experimental form won’t be for everyone, but I personally can’t wait to see where Maciel and Flarys take this next. Its originality, charm and truthfulness gives it a resonance that lasts way beyond the curtain call. 

REVIEW: Have You Met Stan?

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Rating: 3.5 out of 5.

A promising new piece of musical theatre

The black box studio at the Burton Taylor Theatre was an intimate and atmospheric backdrop to this brand-new musical, making its debut at the Oxford’s Offbeat Festival. Soundtracked by a fantastic live band (Georgia Ayew on drums, Jennie Beard on bass and writer-composer Bart Thiede on keys), the show follows the relationship between Séan from Ireland (Liam McGrath) and Stan from Poland (Cam Gray), as they navigate their way through the complexities of EU migration, religious upbringing and LGBTQI+ identities. 

The pub setting, pints of Guinness and tongue-in-cheek dialogue gave the opening sequence a feel of Jim Cartwright’s touching play Two – a snapshot of an everyday boozer that will inevitably become the site of more hard-hitting conversations. The music was engaging and showed a nice range of satirical tunes about the anxieties and excitements of modern dating, to tender ballads that explored matters of the self and sexuality. The lyrics were on the whole catchy, if at times a little repetitive; I think there’s enormous potential to add more context and depth there. The presence of Irish folk was lovely, but given Have You Met Stan?’s focus on national identities, a future production might also feature traditional Polish music to underline Stan’s storyline – just as the Gaelic libretto does for Séan. 

Musical director Bart Thiede has boldly woven his own upbringing into the piece, being of Polish heritage and growing up in Northern Ireland. The narrative saw Stan address the xenophobic moral panic claims of Polish people ‘taking our jobs’, as well as the lingering Catholic guilt that casts a shadow over his homosexuality. I think the production can take these ideas much further; it would have been fascinating to learn more about the social, political and religious parallels between the two countries, and how these matters are mirrored in Stan and Séan’s relationship. Perhaps a lightheartedly scathing musical number could do the trick – though I’m certainly no composer.  

The ending had solemnity, starkly reminder us that we might know, or ourselves be, ‘Stan’ – a figure that represents the bravery of coming out and potential tragic consequences. Overall, the storyline could have been made a bit clearer: we really wanted to know why the protagonists fell in love with each other at the beginning, and some more focused staging would leave instrumental interludes feeling more confident. But I look forward to seeing where the ensemble takes this story: it has real importance to current conversations around sexuality, migration and suicide. 

REVIEW: Electra Untitled

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Rating: 3.5 out of 5.

Sophocles’ Ancient Greek tragedy ‘Electra’ provides the framework for experimental physical theatre that shines a light on generations of gender violence. 

Oxford’s Offbeat Festival and The Old Fire Station welcomed award-winning, female and queer-led company Vertebra Theatre to the stage with Electra Untitled, their modern adaptation of Sophocles’ Greek tragedy. This ensemble are specialists in research-led experimental and surrealist performance art, and I was intrigued to see how this ancient narrative would be reworked “through the lens of the female gaze”,  as the show notes decreed.  

“Electra is the protagonist and antagonist,” explains a voice-over early on in the performance. As the ancient story goes, Electra and her brother Orestes seek to avenge their father Agamemnon’s murder at the hands of their mother Clytemnestra and stepfather Aegisthus. Being a key player in the death of two family members – Clytemnestra, most significantly – Electra’s traditional position as a ‘mother’s daughter’ is defied as she’s driven by cruelty into maniacal acts of killing (sorry, spoilers). But whether or not you knew the story, this opening line makes clear that the titular figure is an antihero ripe for modern analysis. 

Three pieces of suspended red fabric created an initial atmosphere of unease, matched by the sound of Claire-Monique Martin’s haunting violin playing. The trio of actors, Pelagie-May Green, Depi Gorgogianni and Mayra Stergiou, then pulled themselves inside the material, appearing like writhing effigies to a soundtrack of swarming flies. Electra Untitled’s keynote of violence was clear from the off. 

These long stretches of cloth were central to most of the movement sequences, used to restrict or catapult bodies across the stage, to connect two heads as they giddied about with hysteria, or to be searched with wandering hands in a general state of derangement. The physicalities of the performers must be commended, showcasing abilities to move with both softness and strength, rigidity and fluidity, their bodies appearing angered and silenced. Ultimately though, I felt these dance-like motifs lacked overall gravitas, as the more the fabric was used, the less impactful the bloodied colour and swaddling effects became. Weaving in some additional narrative might have been beneficial to really hone the subject of these visual routines. 

Group singing was an effective homage to Greek chorus, while the use of live video worked to firmly cement the piece in 21st-century cultural conversation. Operated by Stergiou, the camera panning to Gorgogianni’s blood-covered hands was a stirring moment, but the text felt a little lacking in substance here. I wonder whether the show could be developed further in future, with more than one instance of puppetry to mix up the tempo and perhaps less audio reverb; while this was undoubtedly an atmospheric choice, it was sometimes difficult to make out the speech against the booming echo. 

A contemporary retelling, this show was not. I was reminded to free myself into the mindset of surreal physical theatre, rather than spending time intellectualising Electra Untitled’s relation to Sophocles’ original text and cohort of characters. This Ancient Greek tragedy instead provided a conceptual framework to explore broader, timeless themes of gender violence – the ‘Electra’ we see on stage is not a singular person, but an allegory for mental turmoil and trauma. Without detracting from the impressive components of movement and soundscape, some head-on pieces of script that tackled the difficulties of patriarchal suppression and domestic violence might give the piece more resounding impact. 

REVIEW: The Pasadena Roof Orchestra

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Rating: 5 out of 5.

“An uplifting evening of 20th-century swing music that had me wanting to get up and dance” 

An array of velvet dinner jackets and evening gowns in the foyer set the tone for this night of musical nostalgia. The Pasadena Roof Orchestra, a group that’s been performing since the sixties, transported us to yesteryear and the golden era of swing and jazz music. I had an existing penchant for these genres, but this was the first time seeing 1920s and 30s music live — and it wonderfully exceeded my expectations. 

The orchestra’s ten virtuoses, many of whom played a second or third instrument, were led by compère and singer Duncan Galloway, who kept the audience thoroughly entertained with snippets of historic narrative and lighthearted gags. His vocals were smooth and warm, providing that twinkly glamour you’d associate with the era, and even tap-danced his way across the stage during one number. It was delightful to see the entire ensemble enjoying themselves as much as the audience, with admiring glances and flamboyant praising of their fellow musicians. 

Songs such as Lullaby of Broadway and A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square were beautifully meditative, accompanied by soft, romantic pink light. It was easy to imagine glamorous couples dancing in moonlit ballrooms against the sliding harmonies of the saxophone trio. The mood shifted to something of a sultry swagger with Duke Ellington’s Black and Tan Fantasy, where trumpet and trombone mutes afforded that alluring wah-wah sound. 

Comic theatrics kept the music visually engaging too. During the humorously named I’ll Be Glad When You’re Dead, You Rascal You, Duncan directed the lyrical jabs at different musicians, who in turn stood up to belt their trumpet or saxophone. It was a wonderful call-and-response kind of approach, one that personified each instrument as the various masculine rascals the song so defiantly condemned.

From Dominic Sayles on drums to Rory Ingham on trombone, each solo performance was outstanding, but it was Tom Langham’s rendition of Frosted Chocolate on a 1926 banjo that really struck a chord (pun very much intended). His fingers moved with lightning speed to mesmerising effect. Tom claimed how in its day, this would have been the “punk rock” equivalent of banjo playing; nearly a century later, it still feels rousing and somewhat rebellious. 

Whether it was infamous Hollywood hits like Puttin’ On The Ritz or a lesser known but utterly captivating melody, the expert musicianship was uplifting and engaging. While I appreciated the contemplative nature of the auditorium stalls, I couldn’t help but wish there’d been an area designated for dancing. Besides, my aisle featured plenty of foot-tapping and shoulder-wagging throughout the night.

REVIEW: Noises Off

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Rating: 4 out of 5.

This farce-within-a-farce pays homage to the theatre with riotous caricature, expert slapstick and witty wordplay

As I arrived at the Oxford Playhouse, there were at least six coach loads of theatre-goers pouring into the auditorium. Much like the show we were all about to see, this felt like a comic trope in itself. Michael Frayn’s Noises Off is often deemed the quintessential British farce and has been summoning loyal audiences since its premiere in the 1980s. I first saw it — and loved it — as a young teen and was intrigued to view it from an older perspective. Plus, I’d never say no to a night of guaranteed laughter. 

The play-within-a-play format is undeniably genius. Across the three acts, we are voyeurs to the chaotic demise of this regional theatre company’s production of Nothing On from both the front and backstage views, courtesy of Simon Higlett’s revolving set design. We get well-acquainted with their play, watching a worryingly under rehearsed dress run in Act One to the shambolic and weary end-of-tour performance by Act Three. Sandwiched between these is the phenomenally slick Act Two, 25 minutes of non-stop slapstick action that at times felt like a silent film — the actors must of course be “Quiet backstage!” and mime their way through their frustrations. It’s enormously fun to anticipate the script they’ll be performing, and even more so when props aren’t where they should be, door handles fall off, injuries lead to more injuries and the script descends to nonsensical ad-lib. 

It was clear the actors were thoroughly enjoying themselves. How could you not? The very notion of acting ‘bad acting’ is a trope that lands time and time again, whether it’s a character sticking vehemently to their own lines, questioning the director at every stage possible, or a general vein of either melodrama or lacklustre when performing. Everyone did a stellar job in their roles, keeping a tight grip on the pace of the show. Dan Fredenburgh shone as Garry Lejeune for his Basil Fawlty-like physicality, jumping around the stage with tied shoelaces or sliding headfirst down the stairs. Lucy Robinson as Belinda Blair was fantastic as a friends-to-all seasoned actress, performing hilarious exhalations and cover-ups to mark time on an empty stage. Lisa Ambalavanar was a stand-out as Brooke Ashton, playing wooden acting incredibly well. Huge praise to director Linsday Posner, whose outstanding choreography appeared to flow with complete, chaotic spontaneity. 

Noises Off is certainly anachronistic, with many of the joke lines rooted in outdated notions of a young woman running around in her underwear, hierarchical sexual relations between the director and cast, and cringe-inducing Middle Eastern disguises. The older audience members laughed consistently, which was to be expected: I don’t think cult classics are ever really unpacked by their fanbase. I feel it has its place in contemporary theatre as a 1980s period piece. The set is dated to that of a twee sitcom: a tangled telephone wire caused a trip hazard, while a burglar confused the television with a microwave oven — indicative of the clunky aesthetic similarities between appliances of this era. 

Michael Frayn’s wordplay is fantastic and some of the witticisms do get lost to the clumsy trips and trousers falling down. Perhaps this is unavoidable in such a larger-than-life piece that commands your attention at numerous points across the stage. But whether you’re laughing at the words or the gags, to be consistently laughing is a joyful thing.

REVIEW: Red Sky at Sunrise

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Rating: 5 out of 5.

Laurie Lee’s captivating trilogy is soulfully reimagined for the stage with an outstanding orchestral arrangement

I have a great love of Laurie Lee’s writing; no one captures landscape, nostalgia and world exploration quite as evocatively as him. My university dissertation included an analysis of Cider With Rosie, his best-known memoir that paints the English countryside with glowing sentiment. Unsurprisingly, it was to my utter delight when I discovered that a compilation of his works accompanied by a string orchestra would be performed at the Oxford Playhouse. 

Red Sky at Sunrise is Laurie Lee’s celebrated trilogy, skilfully adapted by Deirdre Shields. It documents his life from a childhood spent in the Cotswolds to his military service against Franco’s forces in the Spanish Civil War. While I’m confident that most of the audience were familiar with Lee’s writing or fans of Orchestra of the Swan, this performance wouldn’t have required prior literary or musical knowledge to be enjoyed. In fact, this blend of spoken word and music is exactly the sort of format in which the trilogy ought to be presented. Laurie Lee’s extraordinary prose is captivating, sensuous and filmic; to lift it off the page with actors and musicians felt like a logical conclusion. 

Led by director-violinist David Le Page, the musicians took to their seats while actors Anton Lesser and Charlie Hamblett entered from each side, past a few agricultural props that framed the stage. The company donned neutral tones across linen shirts, dungarees, cardigans and a couple of headscarves; the lighting was golden and warm. None of this felt pastiche, but instead cemented the audience in the humble rusticity of early 20th-century Gloucestershire in the summertime. 

“My place is called Slad,” Anton Lesser commenced, as a black and white photograph of Lee’s childhood village appeared. Lesser and Hamblett expertly relayed extracts from Cider With Rosie, oscillating between Lee’s younger and older self and other key characters with humour and poise. Each scene was perfectly matched by the music. Lee’s earliest memories were echoed in Elgar’s spirited Chanson de Matin. A mischievous account of his school days was played out with lighthearted finger plucking of Britten’s Playful Pizzicato. The audience became pin-drop silent as Danny Boy was recited, a premonition, I felt, to Lee’s later occupation as a soldier. 

Lee then set sail to Spain with his fiddle and a sense of adventure, as he documents in As I Walked Out One Midsummer Morning. We were transported to Europe by classical guitarist Mark Ashford, who played the expressive Latin melodies to mesmerising effect. That sense of opportunity and the unexpected which ties in with early adulthood was vividly captured by Lesser and Hamblett, as Lee experienced a culture far from that of his sleepy Gloucestershire valley. Spanish characters were comic and mysterious, mirrored with a more intricate sounding musical score. 

I was expecting to feel affected by Lee’s phenomenal storyline in the third novel, A Moment of War. But put alongside images of the International Brigades and with music and foot stomping that recalled soldierly rallying, the latter half of the performance felt startlingly aligned with current military conflict. It was a harrowing reminder that nothing’s changed in the manner of gruesome, futile warfare and how desperately the world needs peace. It was a haunting mix, this string music that played against Lee’s account of killing a stranger in a foreign war as he remembered the anger and confusion in his eyes. 

Vaughan Williams’ Greensleeves was a soothing conclusion to the show as Lee returned home to Slad; the flute and harp were particularly beautiful here. The rhythmic kinship between the readers and musicians was immensely effective, as these familiar pieces of music were granted a new kind of narrative power. It was a deceptively simple yet utterly soulful mode of performance that aptly honoured Lee’s talented writing. I’d hope that Red Sky at Sunrise would lead the way for more literature to be translated to the stage in this way. The entire audience gave rapturous applause, speaking of its poignant impact. 

REVIEW: Everything’s Working Out…Poetically

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Rating: 5 out of 5.

An inspiring night of witty wordplay and transportive storytelling by slam poetry powerhouses

As anyone who’s been to the Old Fire Station in Oxford will know, it’s a welcoming venue of committed localists. On a chilly November evening, the atmosphere inside was merry and sociable — the room filled with the kind of cerebral chatter you might expect from an Oxford crowd. An utterly charming set up for someone completely new to the world of slam poetry. 

Poet aficionado and compère Tina Sederholm introduced the evening with effervescence and charm, dressed in a fantastic cherry-red velvet jumpsuit (that fully deserves its own shout out). “Poetry can shine a light on the darkness and chaos,” Tina noted, revealing the theme of the slam: hope. Reflecting on recent weeks (nay, months, years) of harrowing global affairs, it’s nights such as this — witty, silly, transportive — that felt all the more a privilege to attend. 

Tina kicked off her set by holding a mirror up to the very nature of being a performance poet, its associated communities and somewhat pretentious events frequented by the “poetry illuminati”. Her work poignantly combines memoir, humour and realism to interrogate what it means to make art in our modern society, from the very placement of a comma to what one’s lasting cultural legacy might be. Alongside the neat sarcasm and intellectual reckonings, her sunshiney attitude was completely enthralling.   

“Doom… is so now,” announced Danny Chivers, who next took to the mic. Declaring his poetry as profoundly political, he admitted it felt somewhat challenging to apply the theme of hope to the current state of politics. His humility then gave way to dynamic verse injected with clever quips and rhymes; the upbeat pace of his speech matching the frenzied state of our society. I particularly loved his poem imagining Oxford as a place of joy, nature and art, asleep beneath the grubby toxins and everyday anger nurtured in a modern city. Contrary to his opening statement, Danny’s poetry was affecting in its optimism. “The momentum of the future flows through those who dare to bear it”. 

Cheltenham’s poetry slam champion Clare Bold followed, commencing her performance with Teaching Assistant, a striking depiction of our education system’s unsung heroes. Her persuasive, eloquent verse was cut with biting asides that had the audience grinning. In an powerful juxtaposition, Clare then turned to the topic of sexual violence and toxic masculinity with expert emotional handling. I loved her down-to-earth demeanour and phenomenal ability to create a poem out of lines scribbled by the audience, conjured in less than fifteen minutes. 

Having been writing and performing slam poetry since their teenage years, Em Pritchard’s set glowed with their masterful use of language and soft sentimentality. In a comparably few lines, they captured the quiet beauty of human experience in its everyday and extraordinary parts. In a couple of poems, the reference to familiar songs — No Other Way, Halo, Uptown Girl — was powerful, a nod to how our generation romanticises through music and the soundtracking of daily life. I found calming comfort in the line: “So what if I don’t have a plan. The light is warm through the bus window,” a reminder that there is pleasure and peace in the day-to-day, even if we don’t have our futures mapped out. 

Before hearing from headliner Tyrone Lewis, there was a hilarious segment where our poets narrated verse from their teenage years. It was full of longing, melodrama and those fiery feelings belonging to a young person’s political mind. Then we were blessed with verse by poetry vanguard Tyrone, who kindly travelled from London for the show. His poems went hard and fast, his language rapturous across difficult topics of race and familial relationships. Tyrone’s most devastating poem about his mother’s illness was powerful in the absence of certain language: “She will tell you she has her star sign”. Then, as a film editor and self-proclaimed lover of cinema, he showcases his poetic genius with a Fast and Furious sonnet. His eclectic mix of verse, taken largely from his two books Blackish and 2 Black 2 Furious, is permeated with intelligence and I look forward to following his journey of continued artistic success. 

This was one of the most enjoyable, inspiring and hopeful nights of performance art I’ve recently attended. These poets offered warmth, intimacy and stimulation across such a broad range of topics. I can’t wait for more spoken word events from these artists and at the Old Fire Station — if I could give this night more stars than five, I would.

REVIEW: Coppélia

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Rating: 5 out of 5.

Scottish Ballet’s reinterpretation of Coppélia raises questions about the sentience of Artificial Intelligence with dazzling effect. 

Just this week, the release of TikTok’s ‘Bold Glamour’ filter has been subject to its own press investigation. It’s the app’s most advanced technology to date, airbrushing facial features to alarmingly seamless effect. The rate at which Artificial Intelligence (AI) is being used and refined feels meteoric and ripe for creative investigation. 

For many, and myself included, ballet is a traditional artform contained within a grandiose 19th-century framework. It’s therefore exciting territory when one of the most fated classical ballets is rethought with a punchy contemporary lens. Award-winning choreographers Morgann Runacre-Temple and Jessica Wright (known in the industry as Jess and Morgs) are the partnership behind Scottish Ballet’s highly-anticipated Coppélia, having lifted Arthur Saint-Léon’s original story of an eccentric toy-maker into its modern milieu: a cautionary tale about human relationships with AI. 

Having premiered at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival in 2022, there was a tour around Scotland that garnered outstanding reviews. The atmosphere at Sadler’s Wells was electric: from the entrance foyer through to our seats, every conversation was pointed to the imminent performance and high regard of this Scottish ballet institution. 

The curtain raised to a pared-back stage (designed by Bengt Gomér), framed by rows of whitewashed doors and a ribbon of digital text that ominously reads “Welcome to NuLife”. We’re in the heart of Silicon Valley and Dr. Coppélius (Bruno Micchiardi) has crafted a new form of AI in his name: Coppélia. Micchiardi astutely portrays this ego-driven entrepreneur, entering the stage with a telling smugness and swagger. Parallels are drawn to familiar tech autocrats: the black polo neck recalls Steve Jobs while a model rocket in his study speaks of Elon Musk’s intergalactic enterprise. Investigative journalist Swanhilda (Constance Devernay-Laurence) and doting fiancé Franz (Jerome Anthony Barnes) arrive at NuLife to interview Dr Coppélius about this futuristic technology. Devernay-Laurence delivers Swanhilda’s fascination, scepticism and disturbance with flawless precision as the unsettling truths of AI creation are revealed. 

The piece is a masterful blueprint for mixed media performance. Jess and Morgs have artfully translated their acclaimed work in cinema to the stage, whereby physical action is combined with pre-recorded and live film footage. First Artist Rimbaud Patron weaves a Steadicam operator into his choreography; the close-up lens works to heighten Dr. Coppélius’ absurd cult of personality whilst feeding Swanhilda’s sense of unease. It’s most cleverly used to follow the characters offstage into NuLife’s dystopian operating theatre. Here, we see the in-development stage of Coppélia’s physical creation – individual heads, arms and most disturbingly, a tray of tongues. In terms of the music, Léo Delibes’ composition is fast-tracked into the 21st century by Mikael Karlsson and Michael P Atkinson, applying stimulating electronic soundscapes and spoken word (by Jeff James) to the original orchestral score.  

The choreography blurs boundaries between the human and the machine, the real and the digital, injecting surprising interventions into traditional ballet movements. Swanhilda and Franz’s romantic pas de deux would be wiped away by Dr. Coppélius’ humorous bodybuilding and jazz hands, followed by frenzied sequences of AI clones and a cohort of laboratory staff grooving to a viral internet dance. The most compelling scene witnesses Swanhilda and her pink-haired AI double (who’s contained within a drop-down screen) mirror each other. This duet between human and computer culminates with Swanhilda’s assimilation into her digital form, emerging robotic from the screen like a 3D-printed object. The motif is echoed when Swanhilda traps a screaming Dr Coppélius inside the screen – a visual representation of the creation overpowering the creator. 

As if the piece holds a lens to itself, it is precisely the pioneering technology that makes Scottish Ballet’s Coppélia such a triumph. Earthly and digital realms are dynamically intermeshed by experts in dance, sound and video. The piece couldn’t be more timely, showcasing the innovation of modern ballet with the existential concern of modern technology. Scottish Ballet are tastemakers in their field and have an undoubtedly exciting future ahead of them.