Stephen Hawking: His Life And Work
by Kitty Ferguson
Bantam Press
4/5
When Stephen Hawking became Luciasian Professor of Mathematics at Cambridge he was conveniently associated with his predecessor in the post - the irascible and unlikable genius Isaac Newton.
But, as Kitty Ferguson's biography of the time-wrangler makes clear, the lineage follows more comfortably from Albert Einstein who, in addition to his insight and genius, was an instinctive populariser.
The pair both have an approachable other-worldly image, self-deprecation and a way with wit that ensured they sidestepped the brickbats (or indifference) that is the usual fate of intellectuals.
Hawking's image is also his struggle. His disease has slowly eroded his body but kept his mind brilliantly alive.
That his computer voice is, paradoxically, our only route to his humanity means this 70th birthday tribute is an essential unveiling of the man and his motives.
Survivors by Richard Fortey
HarperPress
4/5
If Santa Claus were a scientist, he would be Richard Fortey, the veteran chronicler of the natural world.
Not only are his books gifts that keep on yielding sparkling treasures but they are delivered with such avuncularity that the brutality of extinction feels like a cuddle by the fireside.
His latest work is endlessly fascinating. Survivors sees the naturalist travel the world in search of animals and plants that have found a means to thrive, virtually unchanged, for millions of years.
As he points out, to suggest that these old-timers - ferns, horse shoe crabs, worms - are crude anachronisms is to miss the point. They carry secrets of reinvention that are far superior to those of the sprightly ingenues who claim mastery of the modern biosphere.
Wednesday, 25 January 2012
Spiral Notebook: The future of British film
David Cameron calls for more commercial movie-making. And as if by magic, following this grand utterance, a giant light bulb illuminates above the head of the directors of Hedgehogs At Dawn and Munchbubble The Shoemaker and they down tools and make The Young Wizard and The Young Wizard II: Dance-Off At T'Pithead instead.
No-one knows what will be commercially successful. Indeed, "Nobody knows anything," according to scriptwriter William Goldman.
The King's Speech wasn't singled out as a potential blockbuster and the line of surprise box office British hits stretches further than a queue of redundant Sheffield steelworkers.
If the BFI finds itself buckling and ticking the funding box that says: "Likely mainstream success?" then just about everyone is working on a false prospectus, crossing their fingers like the National Lottery logo with a bad case of Dupuytren's contracture.
Cameron should take heed of that shiny chap who said once: "Some say that to succeed we need to become more like India, China or Brazil. I say that we need to become more like us."
Which is also the view of former culture secretary Lord Smith's new paper on the industry.
His panel called for more to be done to "re-establish the brand of British film".
Lord Smith said he was "not trying to dictate an artistic vision".
"We advocate support for the widest possible range of films from the overtly commercial to the overtly arty and much in between."
Among some enlightened measures was a further move against privacy. Overhyped 3D is one such measure. Much cheaper is an assault on the mobile phone.
The biggest threat to the cinema is that glaring mini-screen and its gabbling owner that have made cinemas a ghastly place to be.
The chains allow customers to sit there, unchallenged doing anything they like (check Facebook, bootleg the action, upload to YouTube).
Until they police their own auditoriums, the multiplexes will be complicit in their own demise.
No-one knows what will be commercially successful. Indeed, "Nobody knows anything," according to scriptwriter William Goldman.
The King's Speech wasn't singled out as a potential blockbuster and the line of surprise box office British hits stretches further than a queue of redundant Sheffield steelworkers.
If the BFI finds itself buckling and ticking the funding box that says: "Likely mainstream success?" then just about everyone is working on a false prospectus, crossing their fingers like the National Lottery logo with a bad case of Dupuytren's contracture.
Cameron should take heed of that shiny chap who said once: "Some say that to succeed we need to become more like India, China or Brazil. I say that we need to become more like us."
Which is also the view of former culture secretary Lord Smith's new paper on the industry.
His panel called for more to be done to "re-establish the brand of British film".
Lord Smith said he was "not trying to dictate an artistic vision".
"We advocate support for the widest possible range of films from the overtly commercial to the overtly arty and much in between."
Among some enlightened measures was a further move against privacy. Overhyped 3D is one such measure. Much cheaper is an assault on the mobile phone.
The biggest threat to the cinema is that glaring mini-screen and its gabbling owner that have made cinemas a ghastly place to be.
The chains allow customers to sit there, unchallenged doing anything they like (check Facebook, bootleg the action, upload to YouTube).
Until they police their own auditoriums, the multiplexes will be complicit in their own demise.
Exhibition: Scott's Last Expedition, Natural History Museum
The scientific advances of Captain Robert Falcon Scott's doomed expedition to Antarctica are often overlooked in the face of the story of tragedy and triumph that is etched into our national psyche.
This neat exhibition, packed with fascinating artefacts from the 1910-1912 voyage, aims to redress the balance - with one commentator suggesting that Scott's greatest legacy was founding Antartica as a continent of science.
But despite the geology, meteorology, biology, glaciology that went on in the background in that Cape Evans hut, the biggest experiment was on the men themselves - they pushed the boundaries of human endurance and found strengths and reserves beyond previous measure.
Amid the science, this is an essentially human story. The rustic skis, the dated outerwear, the tin of Golden Syrup, the letters home are haunting and evocative, overshadowed by the legend of the last push home.
The journey of Scott is not only measured in miles but in years. His voyage from pride of Britain to blundering oaf and onward is essentially, the journey of the 21st century in which heroes became men, a mix of frailty, dignity and virtue.
"We are weak," wrote Scott, "and writing is difficult but for my own sake I do not regret this journey. The end cannot be far. It seems a pity but I do not think I can write any more."
Fail to be moved, I dare you.
Until Sept 2, adults £9, nhm.ac.uk.
© H Ponting photograph, Pennell collection, Canterbury Museum NZ 1975
This neat exhibition, packed with fascinating artefacts from the 1910-1912 voyage, aims to redress the balance - with one commentator suggesting that Scott's greatest legacy was founding Antartica as a continent of science.
But despite the geology, meteorology, biology, glaciology that went on in the background in that Cape Evans hut, the biggest experiment was on the men themselves - they pushed the boundaries of human endurance and found strengths and reserves beyond previous measure.
Amid the science, this is an essentially human story. The rustic skis, the dated outerwear, the tin of Golden Syrup, the letters home are haunting and evocative, overshadowed by the legend of the last push home.
The journey of Scott is not only measured in miles but in years. His voyage from pride of Britain to blundering oaf and onward is essentially, the journey of the 21st century in which heroes became men, a mix of frailty, dignity and virtue.
"We are weak," wrote Scott, "and writing is difficult but for my own sake I do not regret this journey. The end cannot be far. It seems a pity but I do not think I can write any more."
Fail to be moved, I dare you.
Until Sept 2, adults £9, nhm.ac.uk.
© H Ponting photograph, Pennell collection, Canterbury Museum NZ 1975
Film review: Haywire (15)
Guns And Girls magazine has a new cover girl - she's mixed martial artist Gina Carano and she may look awkward in a cocktail dress but she has thighs to die for (or die in) and a punch that ensures you stay punched.
"Is that your idea of relaxing?" asks Channing Tatum's Aaron to Carano's Mallory. "Wine and gun maintenance?"
Not exactly. Gina, you feel, is not one for frippery or indulgence. Besides, guns? Pah. Our gal enjoys the crunch of bone on flesh, the up close and personal kind of violence that requires an investment of time and muscle.
Mallory's angry. And you wouldn't like Mallory when she's angry. Somewhere along the line the hardcore black ops one-woman army has been double-crossed and her comrades are possibly her deadly enemies.
Either way, people want her dead and she has to cross Europe and get back the US to find some answers.
Stephen Soderbergh's revenge thriller is like Mallory: gets in, pulls no punches, gets the job done, gets out. There is a certain European aesthetic (set pieces in Barcelona and Dublin help) that brings to mind the downbeat directness of Ronin.
He takes a route previously travelled by Bourne - the back-to-basic mechanics of staying alive in a hostile world - but the fight sequences are straight from Giant Chicken v Peter Griffin: relentless, bone-crunching, inventive, blood-thirsty and snappy. Jason Statham's quaking.
This is Gina Carano's first movie. She said of herself: "I don't think I look or act like anybody else. I'm slightly awkward. So I always knew that if it was going it happen, somebody was going to have to come find me."
And Soderbergh did. To ease her in, he has called in a strong support cast, to compensate for Gina's limited range. Ewan McGregor, Michael Fassbender, Michael Douglas, Antonio Banderas, Channing Tatum, Bill Paxton, as her patriot dad, all know what its like to face down a buffalo in heels.
"Don't think of her as woman," says one character has he employs an assassin to finish her off. "It would be a mistake to do that."
Move over Jolie. We could be seeing the creation of the first genuine female action superstar. But don't dwell on it. That's not necessary here.
Just sit back and get your face entertained.
"Is that your idea of relaxing?" asks Channing Tatum's Aaron to Carano's Mallory. "Wine and gun maintenance?"
Not exactly. Gina, you feel, is not one for frippery or indulgence. Besides, guns? Pah. Our gal enjoys the crunch of bone on flesh, the up close and personal kind of violence that requires an investment of time and muscle.
Mallory's angry. And you wouldn't like Mallory when she's angry. Somewhere along the line the hardcore black ops one-woman army has been double-crossed and her comrades are possibly her deadly enemies.
Either way, people want her dead and she has to cross Europe and get back the US to find some answers.
Stephen Soderbergh's revenge thriller is like Mallory: gets in, pulls no punches, gets the job done, gets out. There is a certain European aesthetic (set pieces in Barcelona and Dublin help) that brings to mind the downbeat directness of Ronin.
He takes a route previously travelled by Bourne - the back-to-basic mechanics of staying alive in a hostile world - but the fight sequences are straight from Giant Chicken v Peter Griffin: relentless, bone-crunching, inventive, blood-thirsty and snappy. Jason Statham's quaking.
This is Gina Carano's first movie. She said of herself: "I don't think I look or act like anybody else. I'm slightly awkward. So I always knew that if it was going it happen, somebody was going to have to come find me."
And Soderbergh did. To ease her in, he has called in a strong support cast, to compensate for Gina's limited range. Ewan McGregor, Michael Fassbender, Michael Douglas, Antonio Banderas, Channing Tatum, Bill Paxton, as her patriot dad, all know what its like to face down a buffalo in heels.
"Don't think of her as woman," says one character has he employs an assassin to finish her off. "It would be a mistake to do that."
Move over Jolie. We could be seeing the creation of the first genuine female action superstar. But don't dwell on it. That's not necessary here.
Just sit back and get your face entertained.
Spiral Notebook: The history of predictions
The most famous of Arthur C Clarke's Three Laws of Prediction is the last one: "Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic."
Most often the law makes for good entertainment. A knight is handed a Wii controller to thwart an armoured Mii or a Chaucerian peasant prods perplexed at a plasma screen to reach a frothing brew.
The amusement that follows is used to show that, gosh, aren't we just the cleverest.
Of course, we are the self-same clots that will be similarly humiliated by the inheritors of our legacy but that fits in less comfortably with our smug narrative.
The Mayans - who will be all over your internet for the next 12 months - were such an advanced civilisation that they developed a written language, figured out zero and studied the stars with such insight that they calculated a length for a year (365.24 days) that we still use today.
Such was the accuracy of their calculations that they could "predict" the celestial cycles right up to, well, at least 2012. The momentous planetary alignment that occurs on December 21 was foreseen 5,000 years ago.
Because many wrongly assume that history is synonymous with stupidity, the inference is that they must have been (a) aided by aliens or (b) divine.
The miscued logic follows that December 21, 2012, is therefore a Big Day - end of the world, second coming, new age of enlightenment etc.
Perhaps Clarke needs an update: Any ahead-of-its-time technology is indistinguishable from magic (for those who run star-speckled websites with yellow type).
Chips with everything
A family Christmas entailed not only a visit to Alvin And The Chipmunks 3: Chipwrecked at the cinema but, afterwards, the original Alvin And The Chipmunks on DVD (many times, often consecutively).
Now, despite myself, I'm curious about No.2 - the Squeakquel. Where did the Chipettes come from? What was the genesis of Simon's existential crisis? How did evil Ian fall so low? Aaargh.
Most often the law makes for good entertainment. A knight is handed a Wii controller to thwart an armoured Mii or a Chaucerian peasant prods perplexed at a plasma screen to reach a frothing brew.
The amusement that follows is used to show that, gosh, aren't we just the cleverest.
Of course, we are the self-same clots that will be similarly humiliated by the inheritors of our legacy but that fits in less comfortably with our smug narrative.
The Mayans - who will be all over your internet for the next 12 months - were such an advanced civilisation that they developed a written language, figured out zero and studied the stars with such insight that they calculated a length for a year (365.24 days) that we still use today.
Such was the accuracy of their calculations that they could "predict" the celestial cycles right up to, well, at least 2012. The momentous planetary alignment that occurs on December 21 was foreseen 5,000 years ago.
Because many wrongly assume that history is synonymous with stupidity, the inference is that they must have been (a) aided by aliens or (b) divine.
The miscued logic follows that December 21, 2012, is therefore a Big Day - end of the world, second coming, new age of enlightenment etc.
Perhaps Clarke needs an update: Any ahead-of-its-time technology is indistinguishable from magic (for those who run star-speckled websites with yellow type).
Chips with everything
A family Christmas entailed not only a visit to Alvin And The Chipmunks 3: Chipwrecked at the cinema but, afterwards, the original Alvin And The Chipmunks on DVD (many times, often consecutively).
Now, despite myself, I'm curious about No.2 - the Squeakquel. Where did the Chipettes come from? What was the genesis of Simon's existential crisis? How did evil Ian fall so low? Aaargh.
Review: War Horse (12A)
Thundering, unbridled, across the screen, reins and restraint tossed aside, a formidable consortium of talents charges headlong into the challenge of converting this picaresque animal classic into a galloping movie.
Consider these people and their rich heritage of sentimentality: director Steven Spielberg, co-writer Richard Curtis, Disney studio execs.
Throw them in a room with a tear-jerker such as Michael Morpurgo's 1982 horse-buster and you can grow mushrooms in the resulting damp and dark of a cinema floor.
There is also remarkable cinematographer Janusz Kaminiski who plucks the early scenes from Cranford and the war scenes from Spielberg's own formidable back catalogue and washes the whole thing with a Disneyfied light, making every scene as lush and hyper-real as a Carravaggio.
This, then, is the film that comes from craftsmen at the top of their game, a rich confection of home-spun hokum and world-gone-awry madness.
Scenes stand out. The naïve cavalry charge of the British, swords raised, against the machine guns of the Bosch. The shivering terror of Tommies waiting for the whistle, no-man's land, and certain death. The timpani of hooves, the timpani of the guns, the honeyed sunsets of pastoral Devon. Everything is alive and vivid.
At the centre is Joey, a free-spirited thoroughbred who goes from home farm to home front, passed from hand to hand, linked by some spiritual bond to his first owner, the simple Albert Narracott (Jeremy Irvine) who tames the rebel and vows to find him when debts and drink force his family to sign him up to the Army, a route that Albert pledges to follow when he turns 19.
There are flaws in the film. Joey is one minute a canny, all-knowing horse-human, up with the plot and predicting developments (Lassie with a saddle). The next, he is a dumb victim of man's folly and random cruelty.
He is passed from custodian to custodian like the Curse of the Black Spot, apparently bringing woe to everyone he encounters so, aside from Albert, we never know anyone fully or for long.
And despite the blood and cavalry charges and gruelling ransack of the Somme, this is still a children's book and "good people" in the Dickensian high-twee style, appear with perverse regularity.
But that's Spielberg. Unashamed and playing with a straight bat. He is everywhere - from the focus on story, to the beautifully mounted setpieces, to the arch manipulation.
Swift and sure, War Horse captures the brilliant emotional simplicity of ET but with the added lacquer of 30 years of life.
Consider these people and their rich heritage of sentimentality: director Steven Spielberg, co-writer Richard Curtis, Disney studio execs.
Throw them in a room with a tear-jerker such as Michael Morpurgo's 1982 horse-buster and you can grow mushrooms in the resulting damp and dark of a cinema floor.
There is also remarkable cinematographer Janusz Kaminiski who plucks the early scenes from Cranford and the war scenes from Spielberg's own formidable back catalogue and washes the whole thing with a Disneyfied light, making every scene as lush and hyper-real as a Carravaggio.
This, then, is the film that comes from craftsmen at the top of their game, a rich confection of home-spun hokum and world-gone-awry madness.
Scenes stand out. The naïve cavalry charge of the British, swords raised, against the machine guns of the Bosch. The shivering terror of Tommies waiting for the whistle, no-man's land, and certain death. The timpani of hooves, the timpani of the guns, the honeyed sunsets of pastoral Devon. Everything is alive and vivid.
At the centre is Joey, a free-spirited thoroughbred who goes from home farm to home front, passed from hand to hand, linked by some spiritual bond to his first owner, the simple Albert Narracott (Jeremy Irvine) who tames the rebel and vows to find him when debts and drink force his family to sign him up to the Army, a route that Albert pledges to follow when he turns 19.
There are flaws in the film. Joey is one minute a canny, all-knowing horse-human, up with the plot and predicting developments (Lassie with a saddle). The next, he is a dumb victim of man's folly and random cruelty.
He is passed from custodian to custodian like the Curse of the Black Spot, apparently bringing woe to everyone he encounters so, aside from Albert, we never know anyone fully or for long.
And despite the blood and cavalry charges and gruelling ransack of the Somme, this is still a children's book and "good people" in the Dickensian high-twee style, appear with perverse regularity.
But that's Spielberg. Unashamed and playing with a straight bat. He is everywhere - from the focus on story, to the beautifully mounted setpieces, to the arch manipulation.
Swift and sure, War Horse captures the brilliant emotional simplicity of ET but with the added lacquer of 30 years of life.
Film review: Mission Impossible – Ghost Protocol (12A)
The search for sensation goes on, whether at home or abroad, and minuscule screens on smart phones will be a somewhat underwhelming grandstand (when we arrive at that point) for this consummate orgy of outrageous spectacle.
Tom Cruise is attached, frog-like, to the windows of Dubai's Burj Khalifa, so many storeys up that it makes no difference to the likely spatter pattern. Around him, a camera rotates and suddenly we are stuck there too, willing the gizmo glove that keeps him attached to be wi-fi not 3G.
And a snug fit too, for our palms are sweating. This is the biggest screen in Britain (the BFI Imax) and the span between top and bottom of the white sheet is enough to induce vertigo without the further aggravation of a high wind, a time limit and the prospect of world destruction.
Brad Bird, the director, has history in this area although none that you would not expect were his name unfamiliar. The fluid, unending camera swirls, the world as one large WD40 theme park and the gadgets that are part ludicrous but always perfect for the job.
Bird directed The Incredibles. He is one of the chief architects of the Pixar canon and a wise choice to revive the fortunes of this downgraded franchise. And someone's let on to Cruise too about Mission's mixed fortunes so he's buffed up for a box office showdown.
So no baggage from the old days here. Gone are the old crew (there's a cameo by Ving Rhames but he looks sufficiently sofa-thick to make benching a good idea) and we're in with the new.
Simon Pegg puts the brakes on the comedy but still gets to deliver the puckish one-liners rather than the chin-rucking hooks (no action hero he).
Paula Patton is conveniently beautiful enough to seduce tycoon Brij Nath (Anil Kapoor) but also handy in heels for a catfight. And Jeremy Renner is a man of secrets and self-proclaimed (if barely discernible) reticence.
We travel with Ethan Hunt from Russia, to Dubai, to Mumbai (if the dollars desert, then track down the rupee and the rouble) on the trail of some old school baddie who wants to marry nuclear weapons with codes and a delivery system for some warped social experiment.
It matters not about the wonky logistics or bonkers background. The plot is sufficiently occupying to present the requisite number of setpiece impossibilities all safely sidestepped, dismantled or rhino'd by our fantastic four.
Bird has stolen from the tables of Bourne (for the handy action) and Bond (for the sumptuous sets) and, all in all, this rough and tumble is slick, sexy and thoroughly merciless.
A rush from top to bottom.
– From December 2011
Tom Cruise is attached, frog-like, to the windows of Dubai's Burj Khalifa, so many storeys up that it makes no difference to the likely spatter pattern. Around him, a camera rotates and suddenly we are stuck there too, willing the gizmo glove that keeps him attached to be wi-fi not 3G.
And a snug fit too, for our palms are sweating. This is the biggest screen in Britain (the BFI Imax) and the span between top and bottom of the white sheet is enough to induce vertigo without the further aggravation of a high wind, a time limit and the prospect of world destruction.
Brad Bird, the director, has history in this area although none that you would not expect were his name unfamiliar. The fluid, unending camera swirls, the world as one large WD40 theme park and the gadgets that are part ludicrous but always perfect for the job.
Bird directed The Incredibles. He is one of the chief architects of the Pixar canon and a wise choice to revive the fortunes of this downgraded franchise. And someone's let on to Cruise too about Mission's mixed fortunes so he's buffed up for a box office showdown.
So no baggage from the old days here. Gone are the old crew (there's a cameo by Ving Rhames but he looks sufficiently sofa-thick to make benching a good idea) and we're in with the new.
Simon Pegg puts the brakes on the comedy but still gets to deliver the puckish one-liners rather than the chin-rucking hooks (no action hero he).
Paula Patton is conveniently beautiful enough to seduce tycoon Brij Nath (Anil Kapoor) but also handy in heels for a catfight. And Jeremy Renner is a man of secrets and self-proclaimed (if barely discernible) reticence.
We travel with Ethan Hunt from Russia, to Dubai, to Mumbai (if the dollars desert, then track down the rupee and the rouble) on the trail of some old school baddie who wants to marry nuclear weapons with codes and a delivery system for some warped social experiment.
It matters not about the wonky logistics or bonkers background. The plot is sufficiently occupying to present the requisite number of setpiece impossibilities all safely sidestepped, dismantled or rhino'd by our fantastic four.
Bird has stolen from the tables of Bourne (for the handy action) and Bond (for the sumptuous sets) and, all in all, this rough and tumble is slick, sexy and thoroughly merciless.
A rush from top to bottom.
– From December 2011
Spiral Notebook: Putting pen to paper
There are the precious few who still write at Christmas, pen and ink and entreaties for news.
How to respond? It's always a dilemma. A quick gobbet of an update circling the pre-printed sentiments in the card is the best bet, with its implication of a crowded life and an agenda so packed that reams of Basildon Bond would never quite do the job.
Occasionally there is the optimistic (if unexecuted) promise "thanks for your letter, mine to follow".
Some years I opt for Pinteresque brevity, shorn of detail but laden with menace, suggesting my life is dark and brooding and you're better off out of it.
Occasionally I begin a full tale, the A to Z of it all, with its inherent dangers (self-effacement may be taken literally and need to be counterbalanced with full-on bragging; shameful episodes must be given full context by way of an excuse).
Whatever form they take though, these vignettes are underscored, shot through and overwritten with guilt.
Another year passes, another tranche of friendships wilt without the nourishment of contact.
The only saving grace is that my rising stock of misanthropy ensures this diminution gets less onerous by the year.
Return ticket
- There must be a list somewhere, in a drawer or tucked in the Yellow Pages or scrawled in the corner of a City Hall agenda paper.
It is a list of the blackmailers, the screw-turners, the money-grabbers, the opportunists.
Those who don't see a public holiday, a festival, a moment of joy that they cannot dampen with the threat of a strike for some extra dosh to put upon the pile of dosh they wrested from the system last time people want to have a good time in a central location without decent parking facilities.
The list is short. Just three words - London transport workers.
One day, one day, perhaps in 2013 when we've got nothing on... that's when karma will exact its retribution.
How to respond? It's always a dilemma. A quick gobbet of an update circling the pre-printed sentiments in the card is the best bet, with its implication of a crowded life and an agenda so packed that reams of Basildon Bond would never quite do the job.
Occasionally there is the optimistic (if unexecuted) promise "thanks for your letter, mine to follow".
Some years I opt for Pinteresque brevity, shorn of detail but laden with menace, suggesting my life is dark and brooding and you're better off out of it.
Occasionally I begin a full tale, the A to Z of it all, with its inherent dangers (self-effacement may be taken literally and need to be counterbalanced with full-on bragging; shameful episodes must be given full context by way of an excuse).
Whatever form they take though, these vignettes are underscored, shot through and overwritten with guilt.
Another year passes, another tranche of friendships wilt without the nourishment of contact.
The only saving grace is that my rising stock of misanthropy ensures this diminution gets less onerous by the year.
Return ticket
- There must be a list somewhere, in a drawer or tucked in the Yellow Pages or scrawled in the corner of a City Hall agenda paper.
It is a list of the blackmailers, the screw-turners, the money-grabbers, the opportunists.
Those who don't see a public holiday, a festival, a moment of joy that they cannot dampen with the threat of a strike for some extra dosh to put upon the pile of dosh they wrested from the system last time people want to have a good time in a central location without decent parking facilities.
The list is short. Just three words - London transport workers.
One day, one day, perhaps in 2013 when we've got nothing on... that's when karma will exact its retribution.
Stage review: The Ladykillers, Gielgud Theatre
Mousetrap is the inspiration, surely. Not the Agatha Christie whodunnit, but the board game which involves all sorts of convoluted trips, traps and gadgets to snare the prey.
Michael Taylor's stage set for this warm-hearted tribute to a British classic is itself a masterpiece. The dilapidated Kings Cross house is crooked, full of surprises and capable of energetic meltdown when a train goes by.
Rotating, it reveals new opportunities beyond the confines of Mrs Wilberforce's twee fiefdom and when the heist at the centre of this dark caper comes about... well, let's just say Michael Bentine would be pleased.
This is a generous romp from the pen of Graham Linehan who knows how to create inoffensive eccentrics. Director Sean Foley packs the stage with enough trickery to bamboozle Barnum and the cast rise to the potential of script, direction, co-star and stage.
The story sees the redoutable Mrs Wilberforce (played with shy aplomb by the redoutable Marcia Warren) rent out her rooms to friends who claim to be musicians but are, in reality, planning a robbery. When dotty Mrs Wilberforce cottons on, one of their number must live up to the title of the play and the fractures begin to show.
The story, set in the post-war years of bobbies and lodgers, is so well known the script doesn't waste time with exposition. As a result, much of the tension and a large slice of the creepiness is removed in favour of what amounts to a glorious black farce, packed with broad one-liners, slapstick and setpiece sight gags.
Orchestrating the mayhem is the wonderfuly sinuous Peter Capaldi as greasy Professor Marcus, forever teetering on the edge of anarchy but with sufficient self-regard to hold the unravelling strands together.
The characters in the Ealing film had little chance to shine. Here, they each have their moments: James Fleet as the caddish cross-dressing con man Major Courtney (who "lacks confidence as a man"), Ben Miller as east European cut-throat Louis Harvey, Stephen Wight as pill-popping wideboy Harry Robinson and Clive Rowe as simple giant One Round.
Yes, occasionally the stage business is creaky and obvious, and some of the jokes are old groaners but it's all done with a wink and a twinkle. Besides, who can fault a production that throws everything - including a temperamental kitchen sink - at the task of warming hearts.
– From December 2011
Michael Taylor's stage set for this warm-hearted tribute to a British classic is itself a masterpiece. The dilapidated Kings Cross house is crooked, full of surprises and capable of energetic meltdown when a train goes by.
Rotating, it reveals new opportunities beyond the confines of Mrs Wilberforce's twee fiefdom and when the heist at the centre of this dark caper comes about... well, let's just say Michael Bentine would be pleased.
This is a generous romp from the pen of Graham Linehan who knows how to create inoffensive eccentrics. Director Sean Foley packs the stage with enough trickery to bamboozle Barnum and the cast rise to the potential of script, direction, co-star and stage.
The story sees the redoutable Mrs Wilberforce (played with shy aplomb by the redoutable Marcia Warren) rent out her rooms to friends who claim to be musicians but are, in reality, planning a robbery. When dotty Mrs Wilberforce cottons on, one of their number must live up to the title of the play and the fractures begin to show.
The story, set in the post-war years of bobbies and lodgers, is so well known the script doesn't waste time with exposition. As a result, much of the tension and a large slice of the creepiness is removed in favour of what amounts to a glorious black farce, packed with broad one-liners, slapstick and setpiece sight gags.
Orchestrating the mayhem is the wonderfuly sinuous Peter Capaldi as greasy Professor Marcus, forever teetering on the edge of anarchy but with sufficient self-regard to hold the unravelling strands together.
The characters in the Ealing film had little chance to shine. Here, they each have their moments: James Fleet as the caddish cross-dressing con man Major Courtney (who "lacks confidence as a man"), Ben Miller as east European cut-throat Louis Harvey, Stephen Wight as pill-popping wideboy Harry Robinson and Clive Rowe as simple giant One Round.
Yes, occasionally the stage business is creaky and obvious, and some of the jokes are old groaners but it's all done with a wink and a twinkle. Besides, who can fault a production that throws everything - including a temperamental kitchen sink - at the task of warming hearts.
– From December 2011
Stage review: Haunted Child, Royal Court
Who is the Haunted Child in director Jeremy Herrin's neatly-staged production at the Royal Court?
At first, the answer seems obvious - young Thomas (a role shared by Jack Boulter and Jude Campbell) senses ghosts in the house, wets the bed and generally displays the attributes of the side-swiped and unnerved.
But the re-emergence of run-away husband Douglas (Ben Daniels), toothless, ramshackle and semi-coherent with tales of re-birth and enlightenment suggests he could also be the spooked offspring - after all, he claims Thomas is the reincarnation of his dead father so the family tree is somewhat tangled.
Astride this troubled axis, Julie (Sophie Okonedo) attempts to hold the fragments together. The son needs stability and discipline. Fuelled by manic electricity, Douglas believes the opposite. Their lives have become humdrum and their grim passage from dreamers to trudgers is making them sick.
Julie's sensuous seduction appears to unpick his carefully woven explanation but tension lingers over Douglas's final decision - family or philosophy.
On the surface the argument is stacked in Julie's favour. The unease of the boy, the pragmatic urgency of his mother and the sinister demands of the "cult" that adopted Douglas during his meltdown all tend towards the cliche - namely, Dad has the freedom to explore his disappointments while Mum is busy making jam and toast and carting the kid off to school.
In his turn, Douglas is a mix of self-indulgent teenager, blank-eyed cypher of a manipulative cult and just plain mad.
But occasionally the heady lure of his argument and the passion in his eyes coalesce into something close to persuasive - and they are moments of eerie disorientation.
This is mostly Ben Daniel's piece - veering from soapbox fulminator to slick-haired advocate. But Sophie Okonedo has much to do to give Julie more dimensions than a nagging wife and victim. The presence of a child on stage is always disquieting (properly so in this case) but Jack Boulter is an effective catalyst for the woe.
By making Douglas more brittle than enlightened, writer Joe Penhall shies away from a full-on exploration of the central question but this new work is still a gut-wrenching mechanism to examine the potential catastrophes family life.
Until Jan 14. Go to royalcourttheatre.com
– From December 2011
At first, the answer seems obvious - young Thomas (a role shared by Jack Boulter and Jude Campbell) senses ghosts in the house, wets the bed and generally displays the attributes of the side-swiped and unnerved.
But the re-emergence of run-away husband Douglas (Ben Daniels), toothless, ramshackle and semi-coherent with tales of re-birth and enlightenment suggests he could also be the spooked offspring - after all, he claims Thomas is the reincarnation of his dead father so the family tree is somewhat tangled.
Astride this troubled axis, Julie (Sophie Okonedo) attempts to hold the fragments together. The son needs stability and discipline. Fuelled by manic electricity, Douglas believes the opposite. Their lives have become humdrum and their grim passage from dreamers to trudgers is making them sick.
Julie's sensuous seduction appears to unpick his carefully woven explanation but tension lingers over Douglas's final decision - family or philosophy.
On the surface the argument is stacked in Julie's favour. The unease of the boy, the pragmatic urgency of his mother and the sinister demands of the "cult" that adopted Douglas during his meltdown all tend towards the cliche - namely, Dad has the freedom to explore his disappointments while Mum is busy making jam and toast and carting the kid off to school.
In his turn, Douglas is a mix of self-indulgent teenager, blank-eyed cypher of a manipulative cult and just plain mad.
But occasionally the heady lure of his argument and the passion in his eyes coalesce into something close to persuasive - and they are moments of eerie disorientation.
This is mostly Ben Daniel's piece - veering from soapbox fulminator to slick-haired advocate. But Sophie Okonedo has much to do to give Julie more dimensions than a nagging wife and victim. The presence of a child on stage is always disquieting (properly so in this case) but Jack Boulter is an effective catalyst for the woe.
By making Douglas more brittle than enlightened, writer Joe Penhall shies away from a full-on exploration of the central question but this new work is still a gut-wrenching mechanism to examine the potential catastrophes family life.
Until Jan 14. Go to royalcourttheatre.com
– From December 2011
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