I bet that you look good on the dancefloor

Walking into the dimly-lit dance studio, the thought vaguely crossed my mind that I should have had that (very) large glass of wine. Here I was, in London’s east end, at the relatively early hour of 7.30pm, about to dance like nobody was watching- all in the name of a new fitness craze that has so far consumed New York, Chicago, Toronto and Vancouver: Dance Dance Party Party. The rules? No boys, no booze, no judgement, no talking, legwarmers optional (why optional? Legwarmers are great). Now, I should confess that I am not averse to a little bit of jumping around- friends will testify that I even once strained my calf muscle dancing to Party Rock Anthem (a song so current, that I’m wondering why I just so freely admitted this). Normally, however, I am in the presence of friends (namely everyone’s good friend wine) before I throw all inhibitions out the window. So, apprehension was the order of the day as a dance studio packed full of sweaty strangers swam into sight- made all the worse as my friend and I were forced to change in the complete dark. Worrying that your clothes are on back-to-front is not a recommended start. As soon as the music started playing, though, the endorphins started flowing. A bizarre twist on clubbing, here women of all ages swap high heels and short hemlines for trainers and workout gear. The tracks are a glorious throwback to the Eighties, and it is hard not to feel elated when all around you complete strangers are freestyle dancing like crazy to the likes of Joan Jett, some (tragically) with their eyes closed. Boys, DDPP's single-sex rule makes a lot of sense- this is definitely every man's worst nightmare. For those ladies who are more shy, the darkness definitely helps, but I promise this is one exercise class that is a genuine laugh, especially if you drag a friend. I might even go again.... A word of warning, though: best to close your eyes when the lights come on at the end, as the scene is likely to be offensively sweaty.

http://dancedancepartyparty.com/home.html  

Horse Power

Translating a novel told through the eyes of a horse is surely no mean feat. Yet War Horse, the National Theatre’s adaptation of Michael Morpurgo’s First World War tale, exceeds this task by a furlong. These equine puppets are stage triumphs- their skeletal frameworks, complex hinges and lucid skin effortlessly conjuring up the very image of a horse. Visceral and graceful, not a single detail goes unobserved- from trot to canter, grazing and ploughing, these puppets (each manoeuvred by three actors) are breathtakingly real. Even the actors’s neighs and harrumphs are so startlingly accurate that, at times, I foolishly had to remind myself the horse had no heartbeat. This is a play that relies heavily on its staging- sparse but visually artful, Morpurgo’s rapidly shifting story is lyrically accommodated by a page ripped from an artist’s sketchbook that becomes a fragmented 25 metre wide projection above the stage. It is a wonderfully innovative design, altering from moving sketches of a galloping horse to jagged visions of a battlefield torn by shrapnel. Admiring the genius staging often becomes the only relief from a story that is, in parts, a bit sluggish- made worse by the relentless use of that cornerstone of Middle England, the accordion. Whilst such folk songs may capture the jingoistic spirit of an English countryside coming together during war, there is only so much of the accordion one can humanly bear- and I, for one, definitely felt its effect was more grating than it was charming. And don't even get me started on the chronically dodgy German accents, who knew the enemy came from the East end. Inconsistent human acting aside, at least the show is saved by the puppets. These are the real stars, speaking the language of the Great War- its immense waste and futility. Overall, then, War Horse is a powerful production that beautifully dramatises the simple emotional bond that can exist between man and beast. Look out, too, for the puppet goose – in my opinion, pure comedy gold that crowns this theatrical victory. 

When Dexter met Emma

Boy meets girl. Just in the nick of time, they spend one day (and night) together before graduation parts them onto different trajectories- he rocketing into fame and fortune in television as her dreams of writing plummet into an oblivion of greasy quesadillas and congealed chips. Yet on this one summer day, for the next twenty years, their paths will somehow intersect. They’re hardly star-crossed lovers: Dexter is a handsome toff, Emma’s definitely more geek than chic. He can be infuriatingly self-centred, she has an annoying tendency to hide behind self-deprecating humour and bad glasses (at times, it’s hard to believe she’s as beautiful as Dexter sees her). But I think it’s this imperfect mismatch that makes them so true to life- and this book, One Day by David Nicholls, so difficult to put down. Compiled like a photo album, the book is a series of annual snapshots that chart Dexter and Emma’s halting relationship from ambitious youth through to resigned middle age. At times, this device seems a bit like a cop out- the perfect alibi for a patchy plot-and often moments that should be some sort of milestone are suddenly forgotten as the years plough on. For all this frustration, though, Nicholls writes in an unaffected style that is shrewdly observed and very endearing, with just the right amount of cringe. I guarantee that you will laugh. If you are the pathetic type that cried at The Notebook, then you’ll probably shed some tears. Funny, familiar, and just completely addictive- believe the hype, because this really is the perfect holiday read.

Britain’s Hour

What do The Hour and Mad Men have in common?

No, not some terrible joke, but the question that has repeatedly overshadowed critical commentary on BBC Two’s newsroom drama The Hour. Putting the obvious difference aside-  heady New York advertising world versus post-war BBC television programme- it seems to me the only thing the two shows share in common is an almost pathological attention-to-detail. Like its American “counterpart”, The Hour is ostentatiously stylish. Cinched waists, slim lapels, fedora hats: it actually basks in its own image, smugly aware that even if the script is a bit flat, at least it looks polished, shrewdly slick. Even the HB pencils have been specifically manufactured for the show, exact replicas of the BBC standard-issue pencils of the era. Talk about obsessive. What The Hour does with pencils, Mad Men does with ice cubes (yes, ice cubes), each individual cube lovingly hand-cut one square inch smaller than their chunkier modern-day counterparts. It’s exhausting even to contemplate.

Although I disagree with this rife Mad Men comparison, I think it proves that British drama can still compete with bigger-budget US shows such as The Wire and The Sopranos. Given that the BBC works on a relatively tiny scale, it does well. Yes, The Hour’s pilot episode was a little bit patchy, and at times the script seems flat and unconvincing, but the series is only 6 episodes long. Hardly time to slowly develop complex characters or to build up multiple storylines. British drama cannot indulge in such luxuries like American television. Four episodes in and thankfully the murder plot, political intrigue and clichéd love triangle of The Hour have come together into something that actually resembles plot development, even if the whole thing seems to be hurtling towards the finale at an alarming speed (last week, the Shady Villain sat calmly at a Formica canteen table one moment, the next threw himself suddenly, violently, and perplexingly down a stairwell. Even the actor himself looked a bit confused). The acting is brilliant, too- Romola Garai tackling the role of plucky, principled Bel Rowley with ease; Dominic West, suave and almost fawning, here a far cry from his tough cop act in The Wire; and the ever-brilliant Ben Whishaw playing the maniacal, tenacious journalist with bravado. Even Julian Rhind-Tutt, the infallible Mac from Green Wing, does a small but very good turn as the Prime Minister’s sleazy press secretary. The slogan “Original British Drama” that looms large on the screen before each episode has some merit. Its nationalist pride is intentional, and I believe justified. It may not be quite as splendid as American drama, but The Hour is entertaining and gripping- proof that British drama still has what it takes.

Broken Train

Most people in this digital age love photography. They think they’re alright at it, just because with a little help from Photoshop, their amateur photos seem that tiny bit more professional, artily exaggerated in a way they hope looks like pure talent (suffice to say, it often doesn’t). But the real art behind photography lies in the thought behind the image, its message. Five Eleven Ninety Nine, a London-based collective of photographers, have done just this- returning to the root of photography by dissecting what it is trying to say. Currently indulging in a picture game named Broken Train, every day, a member will post an image that reacts to the one that has come before. In the past two weeks, the wagons of this wonderfully bizarre (albeit pretentious) photo train have been a weird assortment, ranging far and wide from expressionist drawings and Tom Jones to today’s disturbingly voyeuristic photo of Osama Bin Laden’s death bed. I’m a bit confused as to quite how that link has been made, too - but the sheer eclectic feel of this photo blog is what makes it so intriguing- and one to watch. Check it out for yourself at http://fiveelevenninetynine.com/broken-train/. 

My kingdom for a horse

Together Sam Mendes and Kevin Spacey are an artistic tour de force. This is not an observation, it is just plain fact. When they first worked together, the result was American Beauty- a film that won them each an Oscar for best director and actor and has gone down as an understated cinematic classic. Now, reunited for a modern-day retelling of Shakespeare’s Richard III, the pair are taking the West End stage by storm. Spacey’s performance in the title role is completely electrifying. From the moment he utters the play’s iconic opening lines, “Now is the winter of our discontent”, he tightly spins the audience into a brilliant Machiavellian web of deceit, greed and corruption. Alternating between cruel seduction, camp sarcasm and violent sadomasochism, Spacey’s usurping king is almost caricature, a despotic Gaddafi-in-the-making. Sure, he maybe shouts a bit too much and a bit too loudly (is his script written in capitals?), but I’m sure the real-life Richard did much the same. After all, he has just nicked the crown from his brother- who can blame him for such mercurial mood swings. The set visually plays with the mind, too. Multiple doors, receding perspectives, and ominously blank chambers create a nightmarish backdrop against which Spacey’s deformed villain grotesquely lurches- leg in braces and paper crown perched pathetically on his head. This is theatre at its very best, a gripping time warp that skilfully works video link, overhead projections and pinstriped suits into Shakespeare’s timeless tale of retribution. Yes, at over three hours long, Mendes’s play does feel noticeably long (when the curtain fell for the interval, I thought it was time to go home) but if you can get your hands on some elusive tickets, then I promise it is worth every bottom-numbing minute.  

www.oldvictheatre.com 

Game of Polo, dahling?

Summer made a joyful comeback at the recent Cartier International Polo. Everywhere we looked, ladies sizzled in bright summer dresses whilst the gentlemen kept their cool in open-necked shirts and vibrant chinos. Yes, half the crowd wouldn’t have looked amiss in a Jack Wills promo, whilst the other half curiously seemed to have arrived straight from The Only Way is Essex, but it did make for some 

quality people-watching. Where else can you spot the novelist Jilly Cooper speeding past on a golf buggy, only to then rub shoulders with Spencer from Made in Chelsea (if possible, even slimier in the flesh than on TV). When I wasn’t spying on the crowd, the polo itself was alright viewing too, I suppose. England was a class act, triumphing over the Brazilian team 8-6 to win the Coronation Cup (cue an obligatory royal cameo from the Duke of Edinburgh, poor show from Kate and Will). Afterwards, Chinawhite provided the party, and although the bar may have been overpriced (seriously, a tenner for a small glass of wine?) Swedish House Mafia ensured the dancing went on well into the night.  

I like what you’re wearing

Working near Oxford circus is bad for my bank balance at the best of times, but with the new store opening of Forever 21, my willpower is being tested to its very limits. The American brand took its own sweet time to reach our shores, but now that it is finally here it seems set to redefine fast fashion. The flagship store on Oxford Street opened just two weeks ago, with plans in the pipeline for another hundred stores that will undoubtedly rival our own homegrown chains. My verdict? Let the battle commence. Fashion forward, but wonderfully affordable, this is a veritable dream for those of us with next to no money. Where else can you buy leopard print trousers for under £15? If that’s not enough, then at the very least you will be spoiled for choice.

The shop is offensively large- the ground floor alone a mind-boggling array of bright colours, ridiculously bold prints and accessories, and that was all before I even discovered the equally busy basement, and then the top floor. So girls, think Topshop trend but at Primark prices, and go now.   

A night at Ronnie's

Lail Arad, the up-and-coming singer-songwriter, played an intimate set at Ronnie Scott’s jazz club last week. It’s easy to see why this girl has already collaborated with the likes of Devendra Banhart– her wonderfully-penned lyrics are fun yet feisty and she uses her voice with relish. She knows how to wrap an audience around her cute little finger, an unconventional chanteuse with a playful London vibe. Try and catch her at The Roundhouse on August 20^th where her father, the renowned Israeli architect Ron Arad pictured with Lail, will be showcasing his interactive Curtain Call exhibition. Billed as Ten Minutes with Lail Arad, it’s definitely not one to be missed.

http://www.roundhouse.org.uk/