London’s Park Lane is a very sophisticated, attractive and wealthy area. Even to just take a stroll down this illustrious avenue one feels as if they ought to own at least a couple of yachts. The whole area consists mainly of hotels (and I’m not talking about Holiday Inns here) and expensive boutiques. I was on my way to one of London’s finest hotels, The Dorchester, to meet a gentleman for whom yachts and boutiques were no strange things.
George Clooney was in town to promote ‘Fantastic Mr. Fox’, an animated adaptation of Roald Dahl’s classic children’s book, at the London film festival. He plays the leading role of Mr. Fox alongside Bill Murray, Meryl Streep and, rather oddly, Jarvis Cocker who makes a cameo as, Petey, an untalented musician.
Clooney had turned up in a fine grey suit and had clearly not had his fashion sense altered by the more casual fox. “I don’t think I share much with Mr. Fox. I’m certainly a lot taller than him” he said peering down at the half metre tall model next to him. I wanted to know why he chose to do the film. “Listen, I just showed up for the pay check. No, for me this was a really fun part to play. I remember reading the script and saying to Wes (Anderson, the movie’s director), I love it and I’m thrilled and happy to be doing it. I don’t know who will see it, it’s for grown-ups but also for kids, you never know how that plays out. He just said to me it doesn’t matter lets just have some fun and make a movie.”
A lot of people seem to be worried about film adaptations of Roald Dahl’s work. Many in the past did not meet with Dahl’s approval so there was a certain amount of pressure involved in making this new film. “This has been an incredibly well known book for a long time to a lot of us, and it was an opportunity to work not only on the story, but also a chance to work with Wes, so I was very excited about the whole process.” Clooney had good reason to be excited by the process. Before shooting began Wes Anderson, in his typically leftfield approach, took the cast out to a farm in England to become their respective animals. “It was a very different process to normal. We were often out in the middle of nowhere, doing sound effects, rolling around fields, playing in barns. We didn’t have a wolf so Bill (Murray) played the wolf and so we filmed it on a cell phone. I believe the animators used that footage later on create the wolf. The whole thing was a lot of fun.”
Whilst Anderson was writing the script for ‘Fantastic Mr. Fox’, he wanted Cary Grant to play the lead. This was clearly problematic and so he chose George Clooney thinking him to be the Cary Grant of today. I suggested this to George “Wow”, he looked surprised at the thought, “I think Cary Grant will be turning in his grave at that suggestion”.

There’s no doubt that Clooney has charm and looks equal to Grant’s and yet he is still unmarried and without children. As Mr. Fox is a strong paternal figure in this film, I wondered whether this had given him any aspirations of having his own children. He paused for quite a while, “Yes it has” He paused again and then smiled “I’m going to adopt some of Brad Pitt’s kids”. Only a few hours after we met, he presented his new girlfriend, Italian actress and supermodel, Elisabetta Canalis, at the film’s premiere.
Clooney has three films showing at this year’s London film festival.

As well as Fantastic Mr. Fox he also stars in ‘Men Who Stare at Goats’ and ‘Up in the Air’. He was very keen to tell me why he enjoyed the film festival so much. “I was here a couple of years ago with Goodnight and Good Luck and there’s a level of pride in film here that is really fun. They truly enjoy it. It’s a great place to bring a movie and see if it will last beyond the opening weekend.”
There wasn’t much time left so finally we spoke about the possibility of doing more animated films in the future and the smaller workload compared to most films. “I have to say in fairness, it’s a little unfair that I’m here. We worked for a few days out on a farm, running around and generally having fun. The rest of the team worked for over a year and a half on this, so in some ways, me being here is a little silly.”
He got up and walked out back into the world of paparazzi and media junkets. Even though Clooney had denied any similarities between himself and Mr. Fox, to me, it appeared that he was every bit as smooth and charming as his character.

Jamie Askew

Simon Amstell

His routine started off with a lament to the amount of sinks in his bathroom and how they daily mock his loneliness, a point he circles back to on a couple of occasions, heightening the idea that what he is telling us is not a one off, bad dating story, but instead a pattern which dictates his romantic happiness, or lack thereof. There are several moments where the audience ‘aww’ him instead of laughing, a new experience for me at a comedy show, but a very pleasant one.

Throughout Amstell’s show, via his nervous stance and slightly hesitant delivery, the audience is entirely on his side. He is a comedian almost impossible to dislike, a comedian our generation has grown up with on Pop World and Buzzcocks. Essentially  we feel we know him, so to see him in such a different and revealing setting is both refreshing and strangely unsettling. I’m sure I’m not the only one in the audience who wanted to run on stage and give him a hug.
His show leads the audience through his romantic failings, on a charming journey of self discovery through repeated mistakes. Amstell talks us through ideal men, falling in love with fantasies, and how not to chat up movie stars (upon meeting Jared Leto, his perfect man, at a full moon party in Thailand, he apparently uttered the immortal words “Your beauty in Requiem for a Dream detracted from the narrative.” Mr Leto walked away.).
An idea which lingers throughout is that life is short and that everybody dies, perhaps not the richest vein of comedy gold, but a surprisingly uplifting one. Amstell convincingly argues that in order to be happy, and get your requisite amount of “rumbly-tumbly” you have to live in the moment. Perhaps it’s time for he and I to take control  of our identical love lives. The worst that can happen is we create some new material for a stand up show. If I get rejected, I’m blaming you Mr. Amstell.

John Cooper Clarke

Hedgehogs are implored to “share the hedge”. Coco the Clown is told to drop the ‘Clown’ from his name because “we know you’re not a quantity surveyor, mate.’ These, along with rude ditties, snatches of knowingly dead-pan limericks and flip, smart plays on well worn phrases intersperse more naff set piece gags that indulge rather than interrogate national and racial stereotypes.  Unfortunately, these lowlier and short episodes, which never get as nasty as Jimmy Carr’s Gypsyphobic digs, detract from this performer’s great talent.

The poems, which sound both belligerent and jocular, are by far the best bit, with classics like ‘Chicken Town, Evidently’ and ‘Hire Car’ delivered all but perfectly, although ‘Twat’, a string of idiosyncratic digs typically delivered like slow venom, is perhaps given over too quickly. Still, this and the rest of his well wearing repertoire remind the audience – although the friendly and familiar bunch knew already – that this man is a wordsmith worthy of regard.

Joe Baines

Nominated for Best Newcomer Award at the Edinburgh Comedy Awards, Jack Whitehall’s Nearly Rebellious debut solo show received rave reviews and completely sold out in August. Now visiting Brighton as part of the Magners Comedy Festival, Whitehall’s show didn’t have a single empty seat left in the Pavilion Theatre.

Jack Whitehall

At just twenty-one years old, the chance to review Jack Whitehall also became the chance to compare my achievements – lowly student – against the comedian Time Out had called “sickeningly young wunderkind”. Reaching success in both stand-up and as presenter of Big Brother’s Big Mouth in the time I have spent completing 6 terms at Sussex. So what if he has been on 8 Out of 10 Cats, Mock the Week, TNT and Would I Lie to You?

I hoped, secretly, that his act would be immature jokes and toilet humour as some of my friends had warned. Instead, I was met with a cleverly structured and hilariously entertaining show. Particularly impressive were Jack’s minute long tirades that he belted out throughout the set, his lung capacity not to be underestimated. It was clear that Whitehall had youth on his side when throwing himself around stage, not something Michael McIntyre or Jimmy Carr have been caught doing lately. The Bacardi Breezer he replaced his pint with was Jack’s only giveaway of his boyish years.

Yes, some of his jokes referenced Facebook – which I fear was a little lost on the older generations – but this show’s comedic story of attempted rebellion was a familiar scenario all ages could appreciate. Even if your own dad isn’t a right-wing bigoted/Tory loving/outspoken/retired toff, and you’re not going through a lager lout/black rapper/Guardian reading liberal phase; this is ridiculously funny and well worth seeing.  

Lindsay  Smith

Clive James starring in The Hypochondriac

“I remember doing Molière at university, but I didn’t particularly enjoy it then.  I came to do this adaptation because the director of the Liverpool playhouse, Gemma Bodinetz, wanted to do something ‘European’ to celebrate Liverpool being the City of Culture, and thought I could bridge the gap. I was very nervous about taking on such a classic, but naive enough to think I might be able to do it. I wanted to be true to the play so I didn’t update it, I left it set within the period and the story is the same. It is in verse, even though the original wasn’t, and it is colloquial, but I didn’t try to make it Scouse or anything, although inevitably those sort of things do come in to it.

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I don’t speak French at all, so I started by reading a direct, prose translation of the play, word for word what it says in English, and I looked at some other adaptations. But eventually you get a sense of the storyline and you just have to put your notes away and begin: The door opens, Argan walks through with pen and paper in hand and begins to speak…
I was pretty closely involved with the play up until the final performance; I worked well with the cast, they’re all very good, experienced actors. Clive James is a wonderful comic actor and a writer himself, so of course he – and others – had suggestions. Some changes were kept, others were left out: there is a very fine line between farce and pantomime, one which you don’t want to cross.”
Luckily, it certainly didn’t. Even though, in truth, toilet humour is not my comedy genre of choice; farting and faeces gags are usually more likely to have me gagging to be sick than gagging with laughter; I was very impressed with the performance of Clive James as hypochondriac Argan, and found myself contributing to my row of seats shaking with the power of the audience’s laughter.  McGough’s was a sensitive and effective modern day version of the play and he is well deserving of praise.

The C**t Monlogues

All six cast members threw themselves into the roles of these misfits with evident relish, each bringing their own comedic talent to add different dynamics to the show. The most surreal monologue, a man who engages in sexual activities with a ghost, had an excellent reception due to Greg Cranness’ sense of character and comic timing. It was nice to see that the cast had been able to inject themselves into their monologues, however there were certain moments where this freedom perhaps should have been reined in, as too much ad-libbing detracted from the character that had been created. A good touch applied to the monologues was the element of audience interaction throughout which helped endear the characters to the audience and make the darkness of the comedy less alienating.

Occasionally it seemed the approach of pushing the boundaries of acceptability was taken a little too far, which in fact reduced the comedy of what was being said. In certain speeches there was the sense that if the tirade of obscenities had stopped just a little earlier, the comic effect would have been much greater.

Overall James Hamilton offered up a cleverly written, well-cast and well-directed show. While a few monologues came across as less polished and a little too obvious in their humour than others containing more depth, what was generally received was a slick ensemble performance; establishing a dark comedy niche which Casual Violence Comedy could fill quite nicely.

A reveler spreads good will

Terry Alderton comperes, and while his physicality and range of vocals and impressions is outstanding, his unfortunate tendency to shout into the mic renders the acoustics irritatingly and unpleasantly loud.

Stephen Grant, the first act of the night, is funny and genuinely likeable, and brings in a bit of positive (albeit hardly revolutionary) social commentary. His comedic character stands in opposition to the slightly tiring trend of comedians thinking that creating a Gervaisesque persona of an unintentional bigot with no social graces is the pinnacle of modern comedy.
Having said this, Andrew Laurence manages the often attempted but rarely succeeded task of being brutal, crude and offensive and still being funny. His fierce self deprecation and general misanthropy had unintentional tinges reminiscent of Bill Hicks –surely a sacred compliment for any comedian. Vitally, to the success of his act, Lawrence is not inventing a persona, he gives the impression he is simply projecting himself, his experiences and his attitudes.
Kevin Bridges has a natural competency and confidence on stage, and his jokes and banter flow as if he’s chatting in the pub. Like Stephen Grant, he has a natural ‘average Joe’ feel which warms the audience and gets them behind him.
The last act of the night, Ivan Brackenbury, drags the lengthy but otherwise enjoyable show to a close. In character as the socially inept DJ of a minor hospital radio station (perhaps not entirely original?), there is a limited amount of appeal in watching someone tugging at their penis through sweatpants like the oddball on the bus. His unvaried formula of a dedication to a patient with a particular disease, followed by a completely inappropriate song, earns a decent smattering of laughs at first, which very quickly dwindles after repetitive shock tactics and eye-rolling bad-taste puns grow old.
A funny night, but hardly one of side-clutching, stomach-aching hilarity. Some of these comedians are definitely worth checking out in future, and may well come into their own with a full length set, but looking at some of the other big name acts at this festival, this is hardly the best of the fest.

Lana Harper

RIchard Herring models the tache

To this end he has taken it upon himself to grow the offensive ‘tasche and has been parading it about for many months risking possible violence from the general public for appearing to be a Nazi crackpot, but generally just appearing to be “a bit of a dick”. The show opens with his musings about why the moustache seems to have taken the blame for Nazism, “was it the toothbrush moustache that was evil? Would I become evil if I grew one?”. The program is full of his thoughts on the subject, but the show rapidly moves onto more substantial material.

Herrings satirical point, that a racist is less racist than the rest of us, because a racist sees the world as only a handful of different skin tones, where as the rest of us feel the need to divide the world into 195 different nationalities, is possibly his finest work.
As Herring himself wrote to the Guardian, defending his show from reviewer Brian Logan “The show examines our attitudes to ethnicity and questions whether the way humans choose to divide themselves is obfuscating their essential similarity. It challenges racism, but also liberal assumptions about cultural identity”

A trait that is common in Herring’s stand-up, is the clear feeling that he doesn’t have to pander to an audience. Just over half way into the show he embarks on a good 10-15 minute, largely jokeless, tirade against any member of the audience who did not vote in the last European election, thereby allowing the BNP to gain 2 seats in the European Parliament.
Using this to point out that fascism is not dead and gone, but “it is, and always has been, inherently ridiculous, and it can be damaged and even destroyed by laughter”. If every photo opportunity Nick Griffin has for the BNP had a backdrop of people wearing a toothbrush moustache (Herring helpfully hands out square inches of Velcro after the show from a bucket marked with a swastika, the Hindu symbol of peace) they will never be taken seriously again.

At points the performance does start to lag, but all in all the show is often hilarious, uncompromisingly thought provoking, and a highly complex take on the attitudes of the society surrounding us, with a bit of silliness thrown in for good measure.

Simon Atkinson

Thirst

Let us not beat around the bush, Park is an oddball filmmaker, a true eccentric in the vein of David Lynch, and although this is at times a powerful film with grand set pieces and stunning visuals, the film more often than not falls flat.

We follow Father Sang-hyeon (Kang Ho-song) on a missionary trip to Europe, where he wants to help in the desperate attempts to cure the deadly EV virus. He is infected with a strain and used as a guinea pig for attempted cures.  So far so realistic, but upon a blood transfusion Sang is cured. Unluckily for him has been given vampire blood, and is now cursed to live on the blood of humans. Much dark humour is derived from this by Park, as Sang attempts to gather his feed through ethical means i.e. not killing, stealing from comatose patients at the local hospital where he works, reading people their last rights and then drinking their blood. Kang So-Song gives a good turn as the morally in limbo Priest/vampire, possessing a chilly melancholy that is unfortunately the only creepy thing about this film.

Horror is defiantly where Park misses the mark, it does not stand up to this year’s other vampire film of note Let the right on in. Lacking both the suspense and tone to create anything near the eerie atmosphere of its Swedish counterpart. As the film progresses the weirdness is turned up, with Sang quitting the order and becoming romantically involved with Tae-joo,  a young  seamstress with a taste for sado masochism and a truly bizarre family to match. all of whom become integral to Park’s increasingly  trying plot, the religious connotations that made the first half interesting are forgotten replaced with dull and tiresome sex scenes.

An interesting premise, but Thirst lacks the things that made films of his like old boy so great, he has left out his philosophical back bone that made for an interesting film. Sure it looks great, has alright acting and good intentions, but it falls flat on its face in the second half, giving in to an absurd story and a heavy handed ending.

Tom Day

I’m torn. On one hand, I’m wondering whether I’m supposed to report that my experience of Camera Obscura was a disappointment; on first impressions, Tracyanne Campbell certainly doesn’t shy away from her dour reputation, and as I walked away from the Komedia last Friday afternoon, I couldn’t help but give in to the sinking feeling that I had somehow offended – or even worse, bored – the frontwoman of a band I happen to be very fond of.

Camera Obscura's Tracyanne Campbell and Carey Lander (photo: Ren Rox)

On the other hand, I’m all the more inclined to confess that I like the Glaswegian five-piece more than ever; Tracyanne was, first and foremost, refreshing and true; her responses were less brutal, more candid; and all the while, her thoughts were propped up by the soft-spoken sweetness of bandmate Carey Lander. As was proved to me later that evening, they’re also pretty impressive live.

Still, as tempted as I was to interrogate Tracyanne about the Glaswegian music scene, I resisted (the thirty-four year-old notoriously despises being posed such questions); and when I inform her of this and she mumbles a deadpan “thank you” and rolls her eyes, I breathe a silent sigh of relief. I wasn’t sure I could cope with the backlash, and I was probably right.

But the hardened facts remain: Camera Obscura, founded by Tracyanne herself in 1996, hail from Glasgow. For that reason alone, the comparions are plentiful; the twee-pop they’ve perfected over the years is likened, repeatedly, to the likes of Belle & Sebastian, and their popularity is drawn in stark contrast with their more successful counterparts (Franz Ferdinand, anyone?) I ask if their failure to follow in their footsteps has been a deliberate move, and I’m told not. “I think I’ve come to terms with the fact that we are – and will perhaps always be – a cult band,” Traceynne says, and by the way she talks of the positives that come along with cult status, it’s clear that she’s not at all dejected by her revelation.

Even so, for a band with such a cult following, I find it remarkable that only now – following their transfer to 4AD, a label both Tracyanne and Carey have long found appealing, and the release of their fourth album – that each of the members has been able to give up the day jobs and commit to Camera Obscura full time. The album, My Maudlin Career, was recorded in Sweden, and when I probe to find out more, in her answer Tracyanne recalls the studio containing “an old desk that Abba used”. She seems genuinely excited, and I’m baffled; but it’s simply testament to her eclectic taste (she later confirms that the last track she downloaded on itunes was one from Whitney Houston’s back catalogue: “We’re really current,” she and Carey jokingly brag, breaking into temporary laughter).

Camera Obscura’s performance at the Komedia that evening showcased several of My Maudlin Career’s tracks, with French Navy garnering an notable eruption of hysteria. My personal highlight, though, had to be a near flawless rendition of Eighties Fan; the very song that attracted me to the band in the first place. How disappointing, then, that most of the crowd saw the song as a golden opportunity to dust down a discarded conversation with their neighbour or grab a pint. It didn’t matter though, because my mind was made up; I liked Camera Obscura before, and now I definitely liked them more than ever, and that was all there was to it.

Eleanor Griggs

Pixar's latest masterpiece

The story of Up follows the adventures of 78-year-old widow Carl Fredricksen who decides to fulfil his dream of moving to Paradise Falls when he is faced with the prospect of life in a retirement home. So in typical Pixar fashion, he accomplishes this by attaching hundreds of balloons to his house and then simply floating away. However once he’s airborne he discovers a stowaway; a young ‘Wilderness Explorer’ named Russell whose happy demeanour contrasts with Carl’s gruff exterior. Once the pair arrive in the tropical haven that is Paradise Falls, they quickly realize they are not alone; an endangered bird and a talking dog named Dug (easily one of the funniest Pixar characters ever created) accompany Carl and Russell as they discover there is a sinister element lurking in the jungle.

Of course with every new Pixar film you would expect some spectacular animated visuals and Up certainly delivers. The task of bringing an immense tropical paradise to life on the screen is one that director Pete Docter accomplishes magnificently. However his greatest achievement is most definitely the films opening fifteen minutes, the montage chronicling Carl’s relationship with his now deceased wife Ellie is as stunning as it is heartbreaking, it alone merits an Oscar nomination for Up.

Up is the first Pixar film to be released in 3D, which at first would seem perfect for enhancing the fantastic imagery an audience would expect, yet it is if anything a distraction. It adds nothing to the overall enjoyment of the film, which would be just as fantastic on a standard screen, it would seem that 3D is still yet to prove its worth in cinemas.

Aside from the annoying 3D aspect, Up is nevertheless a breathtaking piece of cinema, a film that is undoubtedly Pixar’s finest work, that is until Toy Story 3 arrives.
The true genius of Pixar’s films lies not in their beautifully crafted animation, nor with their eccentric main characters, but in their ability to be just as entertaining to an eight year old as they are to an eighty year old. If you thought that the brilliance of WALL-E wouldn’t be matched anytime soon, think again.

Mike Reynolds

John Hegley: Luton's finest

With his mandolin and a few scraps of paper, Hegley’s on-stage guise is warming and funny. He awkwardly accepts the initial clap, and then shuts us all down with a belligerent flap of his arms. It is as though this acerbic persona is the only way he can survive all the attention, and it charms the socks off us.

The format of the show, he explains, will take us through the alphabet with witty little ditties about animals. So he starts us off with A, for Amoeba (“You don’t have any arms or legs. You look like a protoplasmic fried egg… A really really small one”) and ends with Z, for Zebra (“I went everywhere with my zebra. We travelled from March to Febra”).

Audience participation is a must with Hegley, and he effortlessly gets everyone involved. He demands that one bespectacled man sing a solo, where everyone else is singing ensemble. Brave man? Not especially – Hegley’s schoolmaster persona is the audience’s own joke; there is a cheerful solidarity amongst us. We exchange looks to one another which say, “Oh, the cheeky man made us look like fools! But we don’t even care!”

Watching Hegley’s show is a bit like watching The Office. HELLA funny, and then Tim gets rejected once again and it all comes crashing down. You start off chuckling at Hegley’s smart-casual, awkward uncle look. Then you laugh at his little recital about amoeba. You cry with laughter at his micky-taking antics with the crowd. Then you may just cry. His highly original perspective on everydayness is funny, but also moving. The finale, ‘What we gonna do with granddad’s glasses?’, encompasses what Hegley’s all about: playfulness, wit, language and a healthy sense of melancholy.

Cai Draper

Jon Richardson on cutting form at Brighton Dome

Beginning with his theory on how Bill Gates must be very well-endowed to have a company made up of the words “micro” and “soft”, Richardson provides us with an hour and a quarter of thoroughly impressive material, loosely based around his endearing search to find perfection. Strongly reminding me of Lee Mack (partly due to the accent, but also the wonderful willingness to self-criticise), the Swindon-based comedian takes us through arguments with his Nan about Woolworths’ demise, the pains of single life, and why snooker is the perfect game for people with OCD – “it’s basically taking a messy table and clearing it up”. The highlight comes with a hilarious recounting of an exchange with a London cabbie, in which the Northerner’s attempt at a Cockney accent slowly develops into a nonsensical two-way conversation of improvised Cockney rhyming slang.

If there is a negative, it’s Richardson’s Lee Evans-esque habit of overusing the guarantees-a-laugh high-pitched silly voice (that’s its professional name by the way), but that hardly clouds a thoroughly enjoyable evening for the near-capacity crowd. Not a bad turnaround for a guy who, 75 minutes earlier, had appeared to me solely an incompetent, soon-to-be-fired announcer.

Thomas Butcher

Dan Gordon’s adaptation opens by hurling the audience straight into Charlie Babbitt’s chaotic lifestyle of ducking and diving between clients and loan companies, climaxing with the call about his father’s passing. Oliver Chris’ portrayal of Charlie, whilst  initially a slavish imitation of Tom Cruise’s performance in the film version of Rain Man, reflected a more individual understanding of the character as the play went on. The last character to enter the stage was an unexpectedly cast Neil Morrissey as Raymond. Bravely, he didn’t try to emulate Dustin Hoffman’s portrayal of the character in the same way as Chris did, instead sensitively depicting a man struggling to live in a society with such an interfering condition.

However, this play is not without its faults. What the production misses is the closeness or ‘connection’ that Charlie develops for Raymond. The film allows for this change to occur over several episodes of frustration, despair and eventual acceptance. On stage this transition happens too hastily. Its saving grace is the good direction; Robin Herford’s scenes were uncluttered, well thought out and sensitive to the story. A strong chemistry between Morrissey and Chris ensured that you believed the struggle that they’ve both endured and could empathise with Charlie’s wish to be permanently reunited with his brother.

For me, the most pervasive issue of the play, perhaps because I had the film so fresh in my mind, was how the play was deliberately more comical – the audience being often encouraged to laugh at Raymond’s unusual behaviour – this elicits patronizing sympathy from the audience, something the film seems to consciously avoid. Surely Charlie is the one we should pity, an emotionless git who tries to pawn his brother off to get a fortune he doesn’t deserve? Besides these problems though, this play is a brave and triumphant adaptation of a cult classic, encapsulating the turbulent but rewarding journey that these two brothers go through after the death of their father.

Alana  Marmion-Warr

The play follows the story of James Wormold, an English vacuum cleaner salesman living in pre-revolutionary Havana. One night in a bar, he is asked by a British agent to join the secret service and spy on the Cuban government. He begrudgingly agrees after his annual wage is revealed to him. However, not wanting to get mixed up with a life of espionage, he invents some agents he has employed and a series of secret weapons of mass destruction based in his sketches of vacuum cleaner parts. What follows are his attempts to conceal his lies from the British government, with not such hilarious consequences.

The theatrical poster: Alec Guinness-Genuine Class

Initially, the starkest problem with the play was that it completely failed to transport its audience to the place in which it was set. The set was gloomy, dark and the stage was relatively empty. Personally I associate none of the feelings these effects created with the Caribbean. At times the play did succeed in giving the feeling of seediness that Havana was so famous for in the 1950s but these moments were rare. In fact, the only time the play felt it really was in the place it was meant to be was at the end when the dark, gloomy stage leant itself perfectly to the atmosphere of London.

As the play developed it became clear that the plot, which is apparently the only remnant of Green’s novel, was dealt with clumsily and the actors struggled to play the multiple parts required of them. To add insult to my already gaping wound the accents were poor and although this was clearly meant to be a comic device, the bad characterisation just acted as distraction.

I am very fond of the theatre and I believe it to be a dying medium. Unfortunately two hours of dodgy accents, hammy acting and the failure of my cheek muscles to raise even a solitary smile mean that it is no surprise that people don’t want to pay the best part of £20 to watch something that may be bad. But I know for a fact there are a lot of very good actors, directors and writers out there waiting to be seen.

Jamie Askew

There was an intimacy between David and much of the audience; however, like entering a clique, one either left initiated, or not. David is brutally open about himself: like a character from a Wes Anderson film, he was able to articulate himself with an exactitude that was frightening. Because of this, one cannot help but have a moral reaction to David and the show – he gives and we take, with an alarming immediacy. Excellent?! I wandered the streets and felt bad for disagreeing.

The outspoken David Hoyle in perplexing form

I pondered David’s continuous allusions to the avant garde: he describes the première of Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring, with Nijinsky’s choreography, Picasso’s backdrops and the riot that then followed, in order to highlight the contrasting passivity of today’s youth. – making the point that it should be some 20 year-old up there, and not some old guy pushing the boundaries. I couldn’t help feeling that, like the emasculation of surrealism and the dilution of DaDa into the mainstream, something had been lost; both in this performance, and also more generally in art and its reception by modern audiences.

Was it excellent? David farted on stage, people laughed, David sang a song from Cabaret badly (I liked this moment), and people applauded and whooped, all at the right moments, too. Where, however, were the riots?

It wasn’t good, but was it meant to be? I watched a girl’s face as David thrashed around on the stage to music – she looked on uncomfortably, seemingly disbelieving that she’d paid for this. “Giving you your money’s worth!”: these words would ring intermittently throughout the act, and as I thought of that girl, I realised that she hadn’t understood. Getting your money’s worth? Of course not, but is that not the point? Excellent? No, please, anything but that…

Thomas Holmes

In his new show, however, Ince is tackling science. I turned up at Komedia expecting to see a straightforward stand up act. Instead I was provided with a far more eclectic evening. Whilst Ince did indulge the audience with his usual ‘nice guy’ comedy, he also introduced a line up of guests, all with their own fifteen minute act. First we were treated to the music of Gavin Osborn, who sang a number of charming songs all about the benefits of science. We were also given a sideways glimpse into Darwin’s personal life through the eyes of up and coming female comedian Josie Long. Whilst those two certainly entertained, quite frankly neither were as exciting as Ince himself.

Ince on edge

The real treat of the evening, though, came when physicist  gave the audience an explanation of the big bang theory using a gherkin. How? Well he electrocuted it. This apparently was a demonstration of how by using the light given off by a distant object, one can tell whether it is moving towards them or away from them. Later in the show Richard Wiseman demonstrated the power of the mind and the illusions that it can create with a series of psychological tricks. He even allowed the audience a glimpse in to how someone like Derren Brown operates. Both of these acts were the stand out highlights of the evening.

There were moments when proceedings became a little strange. A couple of middle aged women played a  strange musical instrument called a theremin and sang a song about Laika, the first dog in space, however this entertained nonetheless.

My only concern was that people may have paid their money and turned up expecting a straightforward stand up gig, such as the drunken group in front of me who were ejected half way through. Then again maybe they should have done their research before they arrived, as I should have done.

Nevertheless it was a very enjoyable evening, a sort of Royal Variety performance with brains and an agenda to promote the sciences.   I see that the Guardian’s ‘Bad Science’ columnist, Ben Goldacre, will be making appearances  on later tour dates; something which will be worth a glance. You will learn a lot, and laugh at the same time. Bargain!

James  McLaren

Science Po University in Paris has similarly expelled Mr Kofmel after learning of the allegations against him. He is currently believed to be Switzerland.

Mr Kofmel was absent for the hearing which was chaired by pro-Vice Chancellor, Joanne Wright, in July. He had attempted to withdraw from the University via email a week before the hearing. A statement released by the committee explains, in light of his actions, the decision to allow him “to withdraw of his own volition” would itself “bring the University’s own processes into disrepute.”

In an emailed response to his dismissal, Mr Kofmel lambasted the University as a “cesspool of mediocrity”, accusing it of double standards and for staining his reputation. He claimed to wear his expulsion from “the society of non-entities such as yourselves” as a badge of honour, despite his attempts to withdraw from Sussex preceding the hearing.

Fraudster Kofmel captured on CCTV.

Kofmel is the founding member of the controversial Sussex Centre for the Individual and Society (SCIS), which he ran from his house bordering the University grounds. Several high profile academics have publicly distanced themselves from the centre. One contributor to his latest book, Tuula Vaarakaillo, said: “If only I knew about these issues I would have withdrawn my contribution to the volume.” The centre is not affiliated with the University and the University is “actively seeking correction” of any impressions to the contrary given on Kofmel’s website, a spokesman told The Badger. It is thought proceeds from his property scams helped fund the book’s publication.

Over 100 people have joined a group for the victims of Mr Kofmel’s frauds, “For and on Behalf of the Victims of Erich Kofmel”. They have lost thousands of pounds between them.

The group has accused the University of reacting too late in expelling Mr Kofmel, and for acting merely in response to a BBC documentary which airs on Monday 12th October. In an open letter to the Registrar, they wrote: “Whilst we are pleased that the University have taken finally taken (sic) decisive action, their failure to take timely action in this matter has in no small part contributed to continuation of the frauds [perpetrated by Mr Kofmel].”

The University has said that the decision to dismiss Mr Kofmel was taken following national HE guidelines. The guidelines advise institutions not to instigate proceedings against students while they are being investigated by the police. A statement issued by the committee following Mr Kofmel’s disciplinary hearing said it had judged it right to begin proceedings at this time. “The University judged that the prospects of legal action against Mr Kofmel being completed in the foreseeable future had diminished and it was now right to consider the disciplinary case”, it said.

At the beginning of the year, a spokesman for Sussex police told the Times Higher Education (THE), “We are not actively pursuing this case at this time as it is not believed the man is in this country. However, we are staying in close contact with colleagues in Switzerland and Germany who are also keen to speak to him.” (THE, 05/03/09).

Nonetheless, members of the “Victims of Erich Kofmel” group have suggested that the University’s reaction has been unnecessarily delayed. Kofmel has been out of the country since 2008 when he left for the Science Po University in Paris where he was to spend his sabbatical year. Their accusations that the University’s actions were prompted by the BBC documentary have been unanswered by the University at this stage, according to the group.

In April the University came under fire again for allegedly reporting to The Argus that: “It would not expel Mr Kofmel unless allegations against him were proved” (The Argus, 06/04/09). The University later refuted this, saying the reporter was mistaken.

Brian Gee of the “Victims of Erich Kofmel” group has labelled the University’s efforts “shambolic”. Science Po University in Paris expelled Kofmel with immediate effect after learning of the criminal proceedings against him.

Basel police have confirmed that they have begun investigations on further property frauds committed by Mr. Kofmel.

In a statement released by the University, Ms Wright said: “We have conducted these matters entirely in accordance with the proper procedures for considering student disciplinary cases, since we have a duty of care to all of our students. The reputation of the University is a matter which concerns the whole University community, and actions which blemish the good name of the University are damaging to us all.”

At the time of printing, Mr Kofmel declined to comment to The Badger.

The insects, which can transport potentially harmful microbes, were found living in shelving and behind the oven in the kitchen area.

Robin Wooller, who was first to notice the tiny flatmates, told The Badger: “At first we thought they were earwigs so we sprayed the shelf with insect repellent [and] thousands fell on to the worktop. It was horrible.” Robin, who is studying history, says that he is just “glad that it’s getting sorted.”

Fellow flatmate, Chloe Poppleton, reported the issue to the maintenance department, who called in a pest control team to deal with the problem. They have begun a month-long process of extermination that involves covering the kitchen with highly adhesive strips to trap the roaches.

The University said in a statement: “It is testament to our cleaning services that these incidents are incredibly few and far between.” And they reminded students that they are “responsible for clearing up after themselves.”

A University of Sussex spokesperson also confirmed that the University is still committed to the demolition of East Slope, after the new North Field development has been completed.

Some anxiety then accompanied my anticipation of the evening.  Would it be sadder to dress up in Rocky Horror costume, and go alone, or dress normally but be surrounded by groups in fancy dress, therefore betraying my virginal status?  A quick internet search proved to be alarming.  Apparently it was fine, as a first timer, to dress normally but I was likely to be asked if I was virgin and then subjected to some kind of initiation ritual.  Eeek.  Further perusal of websites informed me that I had to bring toast, rice and newspaper to the event, to throw on stage as part of the audience’s participation in the show.  Confused and overwhelmed,   I arrived  a few hours later at the Theatre Royal, normally attired but wearing red lipstick and uncomfortable high heels, with a small packet of rice in my bag, just in case.

Since having never seen the Rocky Horror Show this review is being written from the perspective of a first time goer, perhaps a disadvantage for a show that revolves  around an audience’s familiarity with the script.  So forgive me if the things that I remark upon seem wildly self evident to Rocky Horror veterans.

The pace of the show seemed initially slow at first;  although the excited audience eagerly shouted out ‘asshole’  and ‘slut’ whenever Brad and Janet appeared,  and the narrator proved to be none another than Christopher Biggins in predictably fine form, I was left initially underwhelmed.  Even the advent of the Time Warp failed to get things going, with only a few members of the audience jumping up to sing along.

This all changed, however, with the entrance of Dr Frank N. Furter. Played with brilliantly salacious glee by David Bedella, he utterly dominated  and enlivened the performance, embodying all that was gloriously smutty and extrovert  about the show.  Favourite moments of mine included the glove gag with Magenta, and the (very rude) bed scene with Brad and Janet.

I suspect that quite a few of the audience were virgins, as the level of audience participation never quite reached the pitch of frenzy that I’d been told to expect.  There was also no mention of toast or newspaper, and the rice remained in my bag (where it spilt, incidentally).  Nevertheless  by the close of the show  virtually everyone  was up on their feet, (I even managed a passable time warp dance) and the cast received a standing ovation  from hundreds of faux Frank N. Furters, Rockys and Magentas in the audience.  All in all I thoroughly enjoyed myself.  After all, who wouldn’t want to watch a glisteningly muscled young man prance about in skimpy leopard  print underwear?