2013-05-19T07:44:32-04:00 Charlotte Skeoch http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/author/index.php?author=charlotte-skeoch Copyright 2008, HuffingtonPost.com, Inc. HuffingtonPost Blogger Feed for Charlotte Skeoch Good old fashioned elbow grease. tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.3067152 2013-04-12T04:42:41-04:00 2013-04-15T09:42:41-04:00

Charlotte Skeoch http://www.huffingtonpost.com/charlotte-skeoch/ The slew of formulaic dance films Hollywood pumps out as tirelessly as the Duracell bunny somewhat skews perceptions of the dancing world. On film, rehearsal space is readily available, charitably given, or in a parking lot if you're a rebel. Abs are oiled and perfect at 9am, an injury is basically code for a group bonding opportunity and teachers are akin to insanely beautiful social workers. Nobody is plagued by wandering patellas, torn up feet, in-grown toenails or egomaniacal teachers with a penchant for soft-core abuse, as is often the challenging reality. So it is with open arms I welcome Bess Kargman's documentary, First Position, a film that shows ballet's bruises, battles and endless battement tendus with heart-wrenching honesty.
First Position follows six young dancers through the rigorous training and competition stages of the Youth America Grand Prix, an international ballet competition for dancers aged 9-19, culminating in medals, scholarships to dance schools and even contracts with ballet companies worldwide. Kargman captures a diverse range of backgrounds frequently absent from dance documentaries, which are often only interested in anorexic white girls with pushy stage mothers and an obsession with the pink and fluffy. Teachers come in all shapes and sizes, from the mad-cap fag-puffers, slapping 12-year-old's bellies into tight, taut, tucked away shape, to the mother hen females gently coaxing their young protégées out of their comfort zones. Parents are sometimes overbearing, controlling calorie-Nazis, but they also come in the bewildered-but-proud variety, rounding out First Position into so much more than the usual shock tactic material. Kargman's subjects are chosen with thought: ballet's usual narrow racial lens is widened to include a beautiful, thoughtful male dancer from Colombia and a gift sent from documentary heaven in the form of a striking dancer adopted by an American family from Sierra Leone. Both stories introduce oft-neglected discussion about the inherent racism in ballet; 'flesh-coloured' garments are tirelessly dyed and preconceptions endlessly battled in a world where African dancers must fight to prove they possess the ability to be graceful. That's not to say we aren't denied the satisfaction of a pastel-pink wearing, cheerleading purveyor of ditziness, unfolding a leg somewhere behind her ear and pouting while claiming to not understand why it's sexy... ah, America.
The competition element of the documentary does lend a frustratingly low-brow tone, as though Werner Herzog has somehow been duped into making a featurette for the Xtra Factor, but there's no denying that the will-they, won't-they final stages are sensationally thrilling, even if you have zero interest in the quality of the dancer's jetés. It does raise some questions about the nature of competitive dance: some of the young talent approach their art form like a technical exercise, eschewing artistry, emotion and subtlety for results-driven acrobatics - a subject which Kargman never pursues. Perhaps that's just another documentary for another day.
First Position could, in fact, have been expanded upon almost endlessly. Kargman's subjects were so rich in intrigue many deserved a whole film to themselves, and many stories felt rushed or left you yearning for more. But perhaps, like the best dancers, that's just the mark of a fantastic film.
First Position is a special treat for anyone who knows their en dedans from their en dehors, but is served with enough heart and suspense to appease those who couldn't tell a pirouette if it smacked them in the face. A beautifully executed documentary.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.2602314 2013-02-01T18:12:53-05:00 2013-04-03T05:12:01-04:00

Charlotte Skeoch http://www.huffingtonpost.com/charlotte-skeoch/
This years Oscar nominees feature candidature from both houses, Pixar armed with a flame-haired Scottish princess, and Disney with a galumphing arcade game villain with a heart, Wreck-It Ralph. This muscle-bound embodiment of retro pastiche could well be Disney's animated trump card.

Directed by Rich Moore, famous for naughty-but-nice TV giants The Simpsons and Futurama, Wreck-It Ralph smashes through arcade game screens, fantasising about a world beyond the pixels. If the secret lives of game characters seems like ultra-geek fan fiction to you, fear not- this is not just a marathon of dork fodder (although the guys who looked like they could fix a motherboard certainly honked a bit harder than the rest of us). The premise is immaculately executed and refreshingly original: Ralph (John C. Reilly) is sick of being the bad guy. Nobody likes him, he sleeps in an actual dump, his heroic counterpart Fix-It Felix Jr. (Jack McBrayer) is a sniffy little jobsworth who you'll be desperate for Ralph to thwack right in his toothy Hollywood smile, and his bad guy support group (comprised of the most motley comedic crew in cinematic history- think zombies crying on pacman's shoulder) are very little help at all. In pursuit of love and glory, Ralph leaves his game - out of the lead at the back to Game Central Station (the plug), in case you're ever stuck in a similar conundrum - to try his hand at bad-ass Heroes Duty, full of lobotomized action men and the kind of pixellated boobs that make the Second Life gaming geeks leave their first life wives and children. Our story really kicks off, though, once Ralph tumbles into 'Sugar Rush', which resembles Harajuku Barbie's sweet shop. Ralph meets Vennellope von Schweetz (Sarah Silverman), a hard-nut goofball kid with big racing dreams. Let the adventures of the sentimental oddballs commence... Accompanied by Fix-It Felix Jr. and the buxom bad-ass blonde from Heroes Duty (Jane Lynch), this fractious bunch endeavor to overthrow the alarmingly camp King Candy (Alan Tudyk) and return order to the arcade.

Wreck-It Ralph peddles the perfect brand of retro nostalgia. Bursting at the seams with references to the golden age of gaming, it cleverly navigates the balance between childish, yelping nostalgia and an appealing sense of technological progression - Moore ensures there are no rose-tinted glasses. For those who leave Pixar's more sentimental efforts with tooth ache, Wreck-It Ralph, despite its sugar-laden appearance, will be a breath of fresh air, niftily avoiding emotional manipulation. For the same reason, the film lacks potency: without the emotional punch, investing in Ralph and Co.'s future feels a little like voting Lib Dem. I left feeling that Wreck-It Ralph may have worked better as a long running TV series: the characters have solid longevity, the concept is endlessly fruitful, and the demographic is wider than Nicky Minaj's rear... What it lacks in immediate impact.

The cast are a revelation. Sarah Silverman sounds like her vocal chords are in fact a four-year-old murdering a violin, as per the norm, but for Pennelope Von-E-numbers it's a perfect fit. Jack McBrayer fuels Fix It Felix Jr. with Disney prince saccharine charm, and Alan Tudyk is incredibly vocally transformative- which is more than can be said for Jane Lynch, who is Jane Lynch through and through (but 100% fabulous nonetheless, as Jane Lynch can only be). Yet this animation's best feature is, luckily, its animation. From stilted robot-esque retro favourites, to slick dystopian bugs, the kinetic precision is phenomenal, and fuels much of the comic potential for the more 'retro' audience (read, aging gamers).

Wreck-It Ralph is Disney's best animation effort to date, spilling over with knowing references and stellar performances, strung together with an infallible concept. Yet, with such consummate materials, Moore built a dinghy when he could have built a yacht. I smell a sequel, though - and maybe even an Oscar. Not a bad debut, Ralph.

★★★★☆]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.2501975 2013-01-18T08:37:30-05:00 2013-03-20T05:12:01-04:00

Charlotte Skeoch http://www.huffingtonpost.com/charlotte-skeoch/ Cynical Ballads tour together. A lack of Essex-boy charm, illustrative props and ebullient gesturing may have rendered Wright's first foray in print, Mondeo Man, a little dry by comparison.

Happily, these jaunty, thought-provoking modern ballads mature and improve with space and time; like a good, smelly, Essex-reared, Jamie Oliver-approved cheese. In print, Wright's colloquialisms, cheeky half-rhymes and poignant sentiments are more enjoyable with time to revel in them, rather than flying by the seat of your pants past hidden linguistic gems.

Wright's comic capabilities certainly aren't in question, with giggles ranging from the school-boy humour of Jeremy, Who Drew Penises on Everything (silliness on the Spike Milligan scale), to jabs at popular culture - it's not often that "the atom bomb in Gaza" is rhymed with "here's me with Lady Gaga", nor is it commonplace for published poets to refer to their "Twitterati", but Wright takes every grotty facet of modern British life and imbues it with poeticism that is accessible, riotously enjoyable and intelligently lyrical. Sweet sentiments like "I'm modern and I wear my heart on my feed" marry a pop culture mentality and poetic sentimentality in bemusing harmony.

Yet, while reveling in cynical silliness is all good fun stuff, Jeremy's phallomania, or extended reflections on "The tits that crashed a thousand cars" in Bloody Hell, It's Barbara!, can only do so much to sooth the poetic soul. Wright's quietly emotive poems are an altogether more lasting, affective experience. The Ballad of Chris & Ann's Fish Bar remains a firm favourite; poignantly musing on an excruciating divorce, Wright frames heartbreak in parochial, drab, intimate terms, demonstrating tender insight and well-measured balladry.

Perhaps it is in Wright's sonnets and assorted, briefer poems that his hidden tenderness really shines. In these thoughtful asides, Wright reveals a romantic lyricism and reverence for language that is woefully pushed aside in moments of jaunty cynicism. Thaxted, For Radio or A Shed of One's Own benefit from fond accounts of contemporary British culture, untarnished by a chippie mentality that becomes too brash on occasion.

This is not the poetry of Lords and Ladies, it's not elitist, obtuse or grandiose. Mondeo Man is the exact opposite: the 1%, hunting-shooting-fishing types and Cameron and his cronies are all laid into with some serious force. This is poetry to entertain the everyman enthusiast and win over the cynics. If any contemporary collection is going to convince the disbeliever that poetry can be a riot of cheek, giggles, boobs, tears and facebook - while keeping it's artistic integrity firmly intact - Mondeo Man is it.

★★★★★]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.2050057 2012-10-31T12:48:51-04:00 2012-12-31T05:12:01-05:00

Charlotte Skeoch http://www.huffingtonpost.com/charlotte-skeoch/
Yet despite Alex's convivial demeanour, he carries a burden greater than most: his beautiful, cheeky chappy son, Harrison, was born with Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy, in Alex's own words 'a stinker of a disease'. Duchenne Muscular Distrophy inhibits the ability to produce dystrophin, resulting in a slow deterioration of every muscle in the body. One in 3,500 boys are born with Duchenne. By roughly 12 years old, those affected are usually reliant on a wheelchair, and will tragically only live until their late teens or early twenties. At the moment, there is no cure. These are ugly truths, that nobody would want to hear, but Alex and his wife Donna are those kinds of incredibly inspiring people who fight back. They set up Harrison's Fund with one goal: to raise as much money as possible for the world's best researchers, looking to find a cure for Duchenne. This month, they are teaming up with Fashion For Good to raise money for Harrison's Fund. I caught up with Alex to talk fashion, fundraisers, finding that elusive work/life balance.

When was Harrison's Fund founded? Was there a particular catalyst for feeling like you wanted to do more for Duchenne Muscular Distrophy than just at home?

Harrison was diagnosed with Duchenne on January 25th 2011, a day we will never forget. Hearing those words, 'no cure', and 'prepare yourself for the fact that you will bury your son' flips your whole world upside down. We probably spent 6 months coming to terms with it, crying a fair bit and trying to just get our heads into what i now describe as 'the new normal' for everyday life. We spent hours searching the internet to look at what we could do to help and gain knowledge of the Duchenne world and were not impressed generally with what we found in the UK. There was a real lack of hope being portrayed by organisations which we felt was wrong and just didn't sit well with us, we just believed there was and is a better way. The decision to start a charity came in August 2011, a life changing moment, we were at the coast in Dorset, our whole extended family around us, discussing our idea of getting into the not for profit sector, and the message from them was clear, "do it, we are behind you and will stand with you wherever it takes you" We now felt like we were doing something, we were not going to stand around and watch our son waste away before our eyes, we were going to effect profound change. We launched on Jan 1st 2012 at 00:00:01 whilst celebrating a New Year.

What have been your greatest challenges and rewards so far?

To be honest nothing bad has happened, the worst is probably Andy Murray the tennis player saying no to being our patron, he lives a mile away from us and his management said he was too busy. Getting celebs to get behind us is very challenging, Duchenne is not high profile yet but still affects so many families every year. I'm looking today at a full page advert from Scottish Power promoting the fact that as a company they have raised over £1 million for Cancer Research UK. They deserve congratulations for this because as we know, cancer affects 1 in 3 families in the UK and is probably the most "high profile" disease in the UK if I can put it that way without causing too much offence.
But, and I speak here as somebody who has lost many of my family to breast cancer, what about those smaller charities for whom '£1million raised so far' would be a game-changer in terms of paying for research into finding a cure for a "less high profile" disease.
Harrison's Fund is a UK registered charity committed to funding research to find a cure for Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy, the world's most common genetic killer of children, yet 99% of people will never have heard of it. Currently there is no cure, there are no 'winning the battle' stories, it is 100% fatal for sufferers by their late teens or early twenties.
The greatest reward has been the progress we are making on the research with the help if all the other charities in the Duchenne Alliance. www.duchennealliance.org It is an amazing group, 40 charities, globally working together for a common goal. It has never happened in history, it is a first and i am so proud to be a part of an organisation that will one day change the world, just a little bit.


How much does Harrison know about the work you do for him and other children with Duchenne?

Harrison is aware of the 'My fund' as he likes to put it and understands that it is to try and help his 'poorly muscles' but does not yet understand quite how hard we are working to help children like him. I hope one day, when he is older and we have made Duchenne part of history, to sit down with him and take him through the journey. I hope it makes him proud to be a part of it. My greatest fear is that 'if' i am not successful in changing Duchenne, Harrison, at the end, will look up at me and ask, 'Daddy... could you have done more?'

How on Earth do you juggle working in the voluntary sector with work and home life?

To be honest I'm not sure i do Juggle them particularly well, i would definitely be a failed clown! What I try to do is work hard on each in turn whilst maintaining the other two. Not always ideal but the best i can come up with at the moment...I hope to go full time on the charity at some point but this really is dependent on securing some kind of philanthropic support/sponsorship from a company or individual that believes in me.

What are your ultimate goals for your work with Harrison's Fund?

My ultimate goals are split in two really, the race time for me is 10 years, 10 years to affect profound change and take Duchenne from a 100% fatal condition as it is now to a 'chronic manageable condition'. This will give us the time to allow science to catch up and take in part two which is finding the cure so that no family will lose a son or daughter to Duchenne.

Do you meet many other children and families dealing with Duchenne? What's the best advice you've been given?

When we first received Harrison's diagnosis we took to the internet, to forums, advice pages, charity websites. For me all i wanted to do was to speak to another family with a son of similar age to Harrison. We were really lucky to be contacted through an online forum by a family who live nearby with a son the same age as Harrison. It is invaluable meeting other families with Duchenne and similar challenges in their lives as it is only them who truly understand what we face daily. I now get regularly contacted by families who are newly diagnosed and meeting familes together with my own has become a huge part of our lives.

What lead you to fashion as a potential fundraiser?

We are working with a partner on the fashion show, who have organised everything. The team at www.fashionforgood.co.uk support a number of local charities as well and are an incredibly inspirational group. The event takes place over two days on the 9th -10th of November, with a red carpet event on the friday evening, celebs, VIP's and OK Magazine are heading down for the catwalk show and boutiques from London and Surrey. The Saturday event is completely free entry so really shouldn't be missed!

How do you mastermind these things?! Does it get very stressful?

It is certainly stressful, but it kind of becomes normal, when you are as passionate about your cause as i am, it no longer becomes work, it becomes everything that you are and believe in. Charities are built on their volunteer network, a fact it took me a while to appreciate. Without the volunteers nothing would get done or at least it would but far too slowly. We set up comitees and steering groups for any given project and let them run with it whilst still keeping a handle on the 'brand' aspects of the charity.

And last but certainly not least- will Harrison be making an appearance on the catwalk?

I think Harrison would make a pretty good catwalk model, he is certainly fearless and can throw one hell of a killer smile but unfortunately he will be heading to his bed as always around 7pm. I'm sure he is going to want to get involved more as he gets older so we will certainly include him more as the opportunities arise.

If you want to find out more about Duchenne Muscular Dystophy, Alex and Donna's mission, their fashion show or how to donate to Harrison's Fund, you can visit www.harrisonsfund.com]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1961079 2012-10-12T09:35:36-04:00 2012-12-12T05:12:01-05:00

Charlotte Skeoch http://www.huffingtonpost.com/charlotte-skeoch/ Violet Kid; acutely observed kinetic humour from Alexander Ekman's Tuplet sandwiched in the middle;the company left us with a poignant taste in our mouths with Crystal Pite's heart-wrenchingly bleak Grace Engine.

Shechter's painfully personal brand of poltically-driven dance is never an easy watch, but Violet Kid is undeniably compelling. Beginning with Shechter's philosophical musings on performance, he injects just enough humourous self-deprecation to water down the inevitable pretention that accompanies this sort of naval gazing. Once the dancers begin, the magic happens- lurching and twitching around the stage in an amoebic bunch, they splinter off into angry factions, individuals thrash out of the regimented group like little party poppers of torment, and majorities bully and intimidate with testosterone-fuelled movement. It is bizarre to watch- with risk of there being a zero cross over between Schechter fans and Harry Potter readers, the dancers look exactly like insects under the controlling torture of the cruciactus curse. And if you know your Potter, you know that's not pleasant. For a difficult watch, Violet Kid was eeked out a little too much- some heavy editing would have kept this explosive piece punchy.

Ekman's 18-minute offering, on the other hand, left me itching for more as the curtain came down. Riffing off a soundtrack comprised of the dancer's own voices, the odd sounds and songs will be instantly recognisable to any dancer who has ever kept an internal soundtrack to their every movement in rehearsal. Luckily, dancers or not, the whole theatre was tickled by Ekman's wry observations on the conventions of modern dance. It was like a love letter to music- a medium to which dance owes so much- as black and white images of lindyhoppers, jazz musicians and pianists flashed in the background. Spoken stage directions and choreographic thoughts were delightfully tongue in cheek, and made the whole experience accessible, watchable and thoroughly enjoyable- aspects that are sadly absent from the majority of contemporary dance. At 27, Ekman is an exciting young talent to keep an eye on.

Canadian choreographer Crystal Pite rounded off the evening with Grace Engine, which felt like a return to more classical contemporary dance. Her choreography stretched these incredible dancers to show off their technical abilities- and they truly are incredible, versatile, compelling firecrackers on stage, finding nuances and feeling in every muscle twitch. The stage was lit by a row of urban strip lighting, the dancers donned suits; if Graham Greene could be encapsulated in a dance, Grace Engine would be it. The dancers felt very much like a single entity, with a notion of unity entirely different to Shechter's opening- a pleasant way to round off the programme. However Pite's intentions were never as clear as in Shechter and Ekman's pieces, and Grace Engine ended up feeling like a delicately beautiful blur by comparison- while the others ran, Grace Engine dawdled, and suffered for it. However, despite a few grumbles, it would be tough to argue that an evening like this isn't contemporary dance at its best- varied, challenging, rib-tickling, emotionally introspective and physically giving... it's no wonder this is the company everyone wants to dance for.

★★★★★]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1918599 2012-09-27T07:40:36-04:00 2012-11-27T05:12:01-05:00

Charlotte Skeoch http://www.huffingtonpost.com/charlotte-skeoch/
Cedar Lake will be presenting a mixed bill at Sadler's Wells, but perhaps the biggest pull of the program is Hofesh Shechter's Violet Kid, set to an original score by Shechter himself- a dark foreboding piece about striving for harmony in an often terrifying world. The enfant terrible of contemporary dance is in high demand, but he did find a minute to chat about his recent experiences with Cedar Lake, telling me that Cedar Lake Contemporary Ballet had a 'fresh, ambitious drive about them and a young feel', an energy which he says was great fun to be a part of.

Commenting on the theatrical nature of his work, Shechter explained that his inspiration was drawn from many and varied places, such as 'film, conversations with people, observing human emotions and inner conflicts', making his work convey so much more than just movement.

The man at the epicenter of this American tour de force is, strangely enough, a Frenchman. Benoit Swan Pouffer possesses credentials many a dancer dreams of- Paris born and trained, his career blossomed under Alvin Ailey's wing. He joined Cedar Lake in 2003, and has earned a reputation for bringing together the best new voices in dance, and possessing a formidable sixth sense in the audition room. Here, he shares his thoughts on Cedar Lake's first trip across the pond, European choreography, and how to pick the best dancer from the crop... listen closely, theatre bods!

This is Cedar Lake's first trip across the pond to the UK. European theatregoers often have a reputation as being more open-minded to experimentation- have you found this to be the case, and how do you think a British audience will react to Cedar Lake's work?

It is my hope that Cedar Lake's work can be challenging to and appreciated by our audiences in both Europe and the U.S. With our premiere in the UK, I am particularly interested to see how British audiences respond to the work of familiar choreographers when viewed through the lens and with the energy of an American company. Cedar Lake is a "melting pot" - the different backgrounds of our performers and choreographers create a particular dynamic that, I believe, has international appeal.

What components are important to you when picking material for a triple bill? How do get the balance just right?

I try to present the audience with a complete experience. A journey. A program needs highs and lows, brightness and darkness. I study and evaluate our repertory and work to put together a program that shows the diversity of contemporary dance as demonstrated by our different choreographers, but also showcases the diversity of our company and presents the dancers in a variety of ways. We love when we hear, "He/she is completely different in this piece from the last."

You have gained notoriety for having a sort of sixth sense about a dancer's potential- do you think it's possible for you to quantify what special thing you are looking for?

Once I've gotten past the more obvious points of determining the level of a dancers training, experience and technique, I get down to what, for me, is equally if not even more important. The dancers unique personality and character - what does a dancer have that is unique and a compliment to the Company. Cedar Lake is a Company of very diverse types. I look for dancers that possess a strong sense and awareness of self - dancers who are able to bring that personally uniqueness to their dancing.

While most companies stick to one specific school of thought, both in their training and performance, Cedar Lake's dancers must have to be incredibly adaptable to the varying techniques thrown at them. How does the company physically prepare for these many challenges?

We do start everyday with a ballet class because we believe in ballet technique as an excellent foundation for our work as dancers. However, ballet is just one of many tools we have to use in order to capture the choreographer's vision. The flexibility to work within different styles and genres comes with practice and, at Cedar Lake, happens through the work. One day we are dancing Shechter, and tomorrow Preljocaj and then Strømgren. This variety promotes adaptability. And besides our traditional daily classes our dancers take yoga, hip-hop, and are constantly trying other movement techniques. They are chameleons for sure, and that's something I look for as well.

Although the company is American, you more often than not look to Europe for choreographers. What is it about the European approach to choreography that appeals to you?

The choice of choreographers has been very organic and personal for me. Everything I've chosen reflects my own taste and goal of challenging my dancers. I am from Europe and it felt natural to start there, as I have many connections. I don't think that it will stop there. My eyes are open and I think Cedar Lake will begin to expand in different directions as well.

You have incredible funding, and a billionaire Heiress within your ranks - in what ways does this comparative lack of financial restriction grant you more creative freedom?

Cedar Lake is very fortunate to have the great support of its founder. And yes, it grants us extraordinary opportunities and artistic freedoms in both commissioning new works for the company and maintaining a high level of production and performance. However some think this is an unlimited source. It is not. We are a not-for-profit organization and work within an annual budget. We also fundraise to augment this budget, particularly for our educational program Cedar Lake 360º. We are extremely careful and judicious in our choices and work to make the most artistically of what we have.

Cedar Lake Contemporary Ballet make their UK debut at Sadler's Wells in London, 11 - 13 October.
Tickets and information at www.sadlerswells.com]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1895943 2012-09-19T05:27:20-04:00 2012-11-19T05:12:02-05:00

Charlotte Skeoch http://www.huffingtonpost.com/charlotte-skeoch/
To most, London Fashion Week equals avoidance of all mainstream clubs lest you wish to be brutally compared to those blessed with giraffe legs, cheekbones that could cut glass, and hair that rightfully belongs to angels, or unicorns. It may mean that you flick through Grazia before you haemorrhage money in Topshop, in an attempt to foresee the fashion gospel of next season. Perhaps you merely cower in a corner until it's all over and the world returns to worrying about more important things, like Kate Middleton's nipples and why Cheryl Cole deserves our undying empathy this week.

But, film fans, the fashion pack may have more to do with the world of cinema than you first think. Long has the tradition stood, that when film makes a bold fashion statement, the darlings at Dior, vamps at Versace, or the princesses over at Prada get scribbling away, taking the trend from celluloid to the backs of the average Joe, or Josephina if you will.

Let us cast an eye to the golden age of cinema, when black and white didn't make you kick the box in confused frustration, and smoking was still allowed to be sexy and cool without bearing a caption of morbidity and a jolly image of flailing sperm: to the age when Audrey Hepburn was Queen of the Screen. Aside from the endless LBD's (that's a little black dress, boys), French rolls and white gloves that still inspire classic looks today, Hepburn as Sabrina inspired a neckline to be named after her- boat-neck style, knotted at both sides... forever more the 'Sabrina neckline'. All hail the power of the cinema.


Skipping forward a few decades in our fashion Tardis and Diane Keaton as Annie Hall teaches women the world over that borrowing your boyfriend's wardrobe isn't just for stonking hangovers the morning after- her wide flares, ties, oversized collars and boyfriend-shape coats are still popping up on high streets near you to this day.


But what of recent times, I hear you cry? You need only look as far as the Spring/Summer Gucci and Ralph Lauren collections for cold hard evidence of some serious film pilfering- yup, Gatsby's exploded all over the catwalk, and all it took was a trailer. We mustn't forget, of course, that the 1920s flapper look was peddled by 2011's best picture Oscar winner, The Artist, too, so it's no wonder the fashion darlings are foaming at the mouth for a sequins and cloche hats. Even the high street's got involved too- Zara's flapper dress wouldn't be at all out of place in Berenice Bejo's dressing room. But it was the added art deco fashion pointer supplied by Baz Luhrmann's lusciously embellished trailer that sealed the catwalk deal.


The Spring/Summer collections also revealed that the fashion world has been falling in love with Marilyn Monroe all over again- coinciding, perhaps not all too coincidentally, with the release of multiple award-nominee My Week With Marilyn. 50s dress shapes and pastel colours were de rigeur at the Louis Vuitton Spring/Summer show- surely a trend that every Mad Men-obsessed wannabe Christina Hendricks will be taking to their hearts and homes.


Not so recent, but still just as important to my cinematic embezzlement case, is Lizbeth Salander of Girl With the Dragon Tattoo fame, whose biker boots and aggro-goth styling filtered through the mountains of catwalk, like fashion Fiji water, eventually finding a home this year at H&M, who stocked an entire line devoted solely to getting the rapist-torturing-private-investigator look... certainly more exciting than out last Nordic fashion obsession, the Sarah Lund jumper. Sexy.


There's no denying fashionistas have been conducting a rather illicit affair with the world of film- so I suppose, after the last chink of LFW glasses sounds, blistered feet are slipped out of towering Louboutins and the ponies go home to feed (maybe), the real question is: what will be the next obsession? After much thought and consideration- and a good deal of make believe involving me being trés chummy with Tom Ford (the ultimate film/fashion chameleon)- I'd put my money on Brian de Palma's Passion being the next filmic inspiration for shrouding fashiony frames. So, go forth! Power dress! Channel the kinky boardroom look a la McAdams and Rapace! If I'm right, you'll best putting your best fashion foot forwards. And if I'm wrong? Well, at least I didn't choose The Hobbit.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1892368 2012-09-18T01:55:55-04:00 2012-11-17T05:12:01-05:00

Charlotte Skeoch http://www.huffingtonpost.com/charlotte-skeoch/
Where better, then, for Coney Island's golden couple, Mat Fraser and Julie Atlas Muz to visit this Summer? These darlings of burlesque peddle a brand of cabaret that couldn't function outside of an 18 rating: married earlier this year in an outlandish ceremony held by the Mayor of Coney Island, their natural closeness lends an almost rudely familiar intimacy to proceedings- the audience are, in more ways than just the obvious, real emotional and sexual voyeurs when watching the 'Freak and the Showgirl'.

Boasting accolades many and varied between them- she was Miss Exotic World, he played drums behind Coldplay at the Paralympic Closing Ceremony to name but two of their diverse achievements- their current show, Apocastrip Wow!, has very little to do with the end of the world until the very last minute- the title is, in fact, a complete misnomer. Instead, the best part of the content takes on a vaguely political stance, as the two performers challenge the roles of 'the freak' and 'the showgirl' in theatre through time. Fraser was born with phocomelia of both arms, as a result of many women at the time being prescribed thalidomide for morning sickness: 'at least it cured the morning sickness', he jokes, causing a British, utterly stiffer upper-lipped audience to titter with a strange mixture of unease and relief.

It's a stunning expose on the human attitude to disability, and credit to Mat Fraser's attitude to life that he is the one willing to stand on stage in sparkly hot-pants (actually, most of the time no pants at all) and challenge our preconceptions. Muz, too, challenges the stereotype of the cabaret showgirl- one which is certainly more rife in London than New York- by stripping (sometimes literally) the nice-girl, 50s housewife image from the burlesque scene, instead performing the kind of acts that nice girls (or even bad girls) in the 50s would balk at. And my, does she do it well- a veritable firecracker on the stage, Muz stalks, stomps and thrusts about in a positive tour de force of self-assured sexuality.

The real stars of the show, however, were Mat Fraser's vocal chords. A silky belter of a voice crooned through big numbers- 'Born Free' was a favourite- yet these moments of astoundingly luxuriant vocal acrobatics sometimes seemed at odds with the smutty, silly aspects of Apocastrip Wow!.

One did feel, at times, like a goose being brutally prepared for cabaret foie gras- we were rammed so full of ribaldry, shock, social politics and singing labia (dressed as Bob Marley, no less), I felt a little distended with smutty revelations. But, I can't say they didn't warn me- the 10.30 start, the claims of being '50 shades sexier than 50 Shades of Grey', the inflammatory press pictures- what did I expect?!

Apocastrip Wow! is a real marmite show- it brings the phrase 'come on then if you think you're hard enough' to mind. Yet, it is rare to find a piece of theatre that truly challenges you in such a brazen manner... Muz and Fraser are like a sexy Tarantino in a pile of sentimental Spielbergs. They're not kidding when they say you've never seen anything like it- and for that, I'll take my hat off to them. Even if it's the only thing I've got on.
★★★★]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1849862 2012-09-02T01:43:25-04:00 2012-11-01T05:12:01-04:00

Charlotte Skeoch http://www.huffingtonpost.com/charlotte-skeoch/
Try as you might to convince me that watching horror films is an activity for sane human beings, I shall not be moved. Settling down to an evening of shuddering, mild heart palpitations, guaranteed nightmares, cold sweats and staving off reflex terror-weeing is tantamount to voluntarily signing yourself up for an evening of having your toenails soldered off by Louie Spence in a damp cupboard with Paris Hilton's greatest hits on loop. It's warped, it's wrong, it's everything the human race should have evolved a zealous, unrelenting aversion to.

As a film blogger, however, expressing a dislike for the horror genre is the equivalent of lifting up my t-shirt to reveal an android motherboard. Horror, to my mind, is quite clearly the poor man's thriller, but something tells me that according to the film community, such views are punishable by excommunication. For little old me, it's like being a God among men, dear readers, a Liberal Democrat among Tories- so patently right, yet so painfully silent.

So I went looking for some famous names to back me up- everyone loves a famous name- it's like the real-life version of referencing, adding clout to your claim. I stumbled across Stephen King giving his two pence on the horror genre. Now, obviously, Mr King has got some serious vested interest, and has the imagination of a dictator (but luckily the humanity of an average Joe). Mr King's two pence on horror, anyway, was that 'if pro football has become the voyeur's version of combat, then the horror film has become the modern version of the public lynching.'. Hear that, horror lovers? Even Mr King reckons you have the mind of a LYNCHER. He did, admittedly, go on to endorse this organised-lynching mentality, claiming he 'liked to keep the gators fed'. Well when the rest of the world was in line for the inner-gators I must have popped to the loo or something, because my gators are definitely not hungry enough to drag me to any ritual orgy of torment.

I tried, I really tried to like horror. I watched The Exorcist... for a bet. Crucially, I made the terrible mistake of watching the exorcist in a wooden bed. A wooden bed exactly like the fateful bed of the devil-riddled, fanged, spitting animal of anathema spinning her head round 360 degrees on my television. It ended in tears, and many sleepless nights. I tried the remake of The Hills Have Eyes, but about 20 minutes in, I'd had enough dismembering and rape for a decade, and refused to look at the screen (although I'm not sure if actually, the sounds are a lot worse). It was mindless, it was cruel and I was having the exact opposite of fun. To this day, I'd still rather jump into bed from about 2 meters away in case Mischa Barton tries to grab my ankles and tell me about her dead Mother while spewing bile on my toes or something. Sixth Sense should not be shown to delicate children, and I was off the richter scale for delicacy- a gun-hating, flower-loving, hug-giving hippy before I even knew what they were, or that I might have to be a bit smelly to fully be inaugurated in their gang. Have a hug, not a horror is my campaign poster.

So there - I've said it. I hate horror. But next time you're snuggling up to plague your minds with fairgrounds of brutish sadism, bear in mind Mr King's wise words... and as a final thought, Mr King believes that 'good liberals' do not feel the same pull toward horror. So if you, like me are a sane person/ good liberal, give yourself a pat on the back. I'll expect my letter of film community dismissal in the post.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1821164 2012-08-23T19:00:00-04:00 2012-10-23T05:12:11-04:00

Charlotte Skeoch http://www.huffingtonpost.com/charlotte-skeoch/ Daily Mail website and bitch or coo as you feel appropriate. No, she hasn't lost her mind and 'pulled a Britney'; no it's not the first step in a long battle for gender reassignment; and no she's not signed up to have her feminine wiles spat on by Lars von Trier. Hathaway is rocking the Grade-away-from-a-Kojak look for the upcoming movie musical, Les Miserables. Once associated with aging luvvies, Susan Boyle and overexcited theatre school kids at house parties, Les Miserables now wields a power so great, Anne Hathaway will shear off her tresses for it. So I think it's safe to assume that, in light of recent events (and a string of disgustingly successful, if not always tasteful musical remakes), that Hollywood and Broadway are officially an item. They spawned Zeta-Jones in fishnets, they spawned Tom Cruise in a diamond-encrusted codpiece, they even granted Madonna a moment of classy dignity.

However, the tide seems to be turning: having given it's all to Hollywood, Broadway has had enough of playing second fiddle to Hollywood's flashy career, and is demanding some material of it's own: Dirty Dancing made it's inevitable way to the boards, followed by Legally Blonde, Shrek and Ghost- all to great success, lest we forget. So what other movie gems need some sequins and feathers? It's high time we had a top ten- it's a step in the right direction at least.



Labyrinth
It's already camper than a row of pink tents, sing-a-long-tastic, and bursting at the seams with life lessons... If you could barter Bowie into the bargain as musical director, and the geniuses over at Jim Henson's gaff for design, you'd be cooking with gas. No throwing babies on stage, mind- unless you can pull a Bruno and find a desperate enough pushy stage mum...
Show stopper: Magic Dance
Model on: Avenue Q



Slumdog Millionaire
Slumdog's instantly recognisable soundtrack, colourful palette, and huge ensemble numbers give off more than a whiff of old school 'grand spectacle' theatre. Add to the mix the undeniable theatricality of Bollywood, and this is a musical just waiting to be made. Not to mention that Danny Boyle has definitely just earned his theatrical stripes and then some with his eye-popping opening ceremony (Cameron Mackintosh, you're being a bit slow on the uptake mate. Call me).
Show stopper: Jai Ho!
Model On: Anyone remember Bombay Dreams? Well that- but supersize. And good.



Back to the Future
If you don't love Back to the Future, you're probably the kind of idiot who thinks Adam Sandler is your favourite actor and Avatar has a riveting plot (He isn't, it doesn't). Just close your eyes and imagine a little red gilet running around a West End stage while humming Johnny b Goode and tell me you don't get mildly aroused. It will sell out before it opens, and I will be first through the door.
Show stopper: The Power of Love. Or Johnny B Goode. Or an insane musical mash up of the two (getting overexcited).
Model On: Jersey Boys. But totally more rad.



Moulin Rouge
It's almost ridiculous that this hasn't been done yet. If Moulin Rouge acquired any more sequins or feathers it would look like the love child of Elton John and a peacock, and would most certainly be dangerous to look at with the naked eye: perfect Broadway material.
Show Stopper: Tango de Roxanne
Model on: A hybrid between Phantom of the Opera and Matthew Bourne's Play Without Words.



Titanic
Because everyone loves a weepie. Plus, Celine Dion ditties are so wasted in the cinema- those gems of grade-A cheese were meant to be sung in a spotlight with eyes closed and right hand extended into the oh-so-poignant distance. Oh, and James Cameron's not obscenely rich enough yet.
Show stopper: My Heart Will Go On
Model on: Carousel- forbidden love, big dresses, weepy songs.



Ferris Bueller's Day Off
Ferris Bueller's escapades are chock-full of staged giggles, fun, young love and Americana- all the things you'll find makes Grease utterly irresistible to anyone under 40. Ferris standing a-top a float, surrounded by scantily clad ladies, belting out Twist and Shout is screaming for stage adaptation. Bueller?! Buuuuueller?! Get on stage!!
Show Stopper: Twist and Shout
Model on: Raging teenage hormones and Grease.



Strictly Ballroom
Another Luhrman, I'm afraid- I think Baz may secretly hanker after a career treading the boards if his directorial style is anything to go by. Not only does Strictly Ballroom boast a story line that revolves around dance- thus solving musical theatre's never-ending problem of how to winch in spontaneous, flashy, choreographed movement- it also boasts a cast full of comedy characters, a duckling-to-swan transformation (everyone loves one of those) and men with fake tans and their torsos out- soooo West End.
Show Stopper: A Latin extravaganza to a meaty Marc Anthony number.
Model on: Dirty Dancing.



School of Rock
It has ACDC, it has Stevie Nicks, it has The Who, it has Led Zeppellin, it has... oh, no... it probably wouldn't have Jack Black, unless Hollywood runs out of scripts heavily reliant on a slightly mental tubby dude... but still! The ingredients are there for a seriously rock n roll jukebox musical. With a hefty child cast, most of Italia Conti would have to clear their diaries, but it's a MUCH better gig than, say, Annie- all squealing screechy songs and being a beaten, downtrodden orphan. Give me some drumsticks and The Clash any day.
Show Stopper: Geeky head teacher belting out Stevie Nicks' Edge of 17.
Model on: We Will Rock You meets Matilda.



High Fidelity
Nick Hornby's novels are always saturated with good tunes, forcing the reader to constantly recreate said ditties in their head. Hollywood must have noticed how damn annoying this is and picked up Hornby's bitterly honest novel High Fidelity and committed its sweet story and excellent music to celluloid. The stage is merely a natural progression. Focusing heavily on music favoured by emotional indie boys and old-school pop lovers, High Fidelity would also own the market in Indie musicals... although that particular sub-category may not exist for very good reasons.
Show Stopper: A Town Called Malice- definitely the film's best feel-good track.
Model on: Blood Brothers goes pop.



Almost Famous
Another rock and roll call- David Bowie, Lynyrd Skynyrd, The Who, Rod Stewart and The Beach Boys all feature in Cameron Crowe's coming-of-age tale. Groupies, teen love, music, dance and sex would all make for the sort of provocative, sexy musical theatre that we haven't seen since Hair stumbled off the West End. Plus, with over 50 songs featured in the film, you'd have no shortage of choice.
Show Stopper: Would have to be a 'Stillwater' original.
Model on: Hair.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1759591 2012-08-09T08:43:50-04:00 2012-10-09T05:12:04-04:00

Charlotte Skeoch http://www.huffingtonpost.com/charlotte-skeoch/ It's an interesting time, therefore, to be a Disney/Pixar princess. In recent years, Disney has offered some test alternatives: Tangled's Rapunzel still looked like a Playboy bunny that had hopped too far from the mansion, but she had guts and gumption and hit people over the head with frying pans. 2009's The Princess and the Frog heralded the arrival of the first black Disney princess; a character that was certainly more in tune with the contemporary woman: working two jobs to realise her dream to be a chef in her own kitchen. But 2012 gives us a gutsy heroine that blows these previous efforts out of the water: Brave's Merida.
Brave tells the tale of a bonnie wee Scottish lassie, born to a hulking, roaring great mass of ginger and tartan, Fergus (Billy Connelly), and proud, restrained Elinor (Emma Thompson), who definitely should have been a news reader in Edinburgh in pearls and a twin set, gently cooing ochs and ayes in another life (Thompson obviously never got the memo that we were in the ancient highlands). Merida (Kelly MacDonald) is as frustrated with her lot as a Glaswegian in a whiskey drought. Huffy, distracted, unwilling to sew, sit up straight, play the harp or wear dresses, she relishes time to herself, when she can ride out in to the wild on a disproportionately large Shire horse and shoot arrows to her hearts content. But the final straw for Merida is her parent's demand that she must immediately marry into another clan to smooth over clan relations- important stuff in the highlands. Cue a comedy ensemble of weedy suitors, unintelligibly Scottish suitors, vain suitors, and all their mad, bum flashing, mallet wielding, round-bellied family and friends. With the eyes of every clan on her, her parent's reputation in the balance, and the political equilibrium of Scotland at stake, Merida must find a way to change her fate. Of course, a trail of will o' the wisps, a comedy witch (Julie Walters- played awfully like Jennifer Saunders' fairy godmother in Shrek), enchanted confectionaries and comedy baby triplets later, all has not gone quite to plan... and unfortunately, as Merida's fate gets ever more complicated, any trace of a gripping plot slips further into obscurity.
Although the storyline is simply not up to scratch alongside Pixar's previous efforts-not quite as inane as Cars, but certainly no Finding Nemo- the central character of Merida goes some way in salvaging the film as a whole. Fiesty, spirited and independent she certainly is (Merida competing for ownership of her own heart will make your ovaries quiver with pride). Elinor appears to represent the previous generation of Disney princesses- dutiful and old fashioned- the whole film seems to imply that this type of princess is growing old and growing out, replaced by a new age of princesses re-defining the genre... about time, folks.
The wild and wind-blown setting of the craggy Scottish highlands also keeps Brave's head above the water- the scenery is ruggedly beautiful, with waterfalls crashing over fierce rock faces, moss-laden forests, and- strangely- only one wee spell of rain! Having grown up with Scottish parents, I'm certainly more susceptible to Scottish nostalgia (in particular, a reference to tatty bogles which almost made me jump from my seat to inform the rest of the cinema about the legend of big scary bogles...), but any cynics who thought Brave would merely pay passing homage to Scotland's culture and heritage can eat their words (cooked in a sheep's stomach for authenticity please)- it's there in bucket loads.
It is only a shame that with such promising foundations, Brave fails to deliver the real emotional gut-wrenching that Pixar is so exquisitely capable of. The moral of a Pixar story is usually a well-observed, intricate, complex and subtle beast, told in an adult language that it expects children to understand- and they do. Brave deals in universal, cheap and easy-to-come-by morals, speaks in fairytale language and drives it's point home with over-egged imagery: you hate the dark, red eyed beasts, you love everyone else. There's not much wrong with this kind of story- and every little girl's idol should be just like Merida, rather than the Sleeping Beauties of this world- but when Pixar is involved, I expect to leave the cinema knowing a little bit more about how my head and heart works, and Brave fell sadly short.
★★★]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1747495 2012-08-07T19:00:00-04:00 2012-10-07T05:12:03-04:00

Charlotte Skeoch http://www.huffingtonpost.com/charlotte-skeoch/ Red Road's Clyde is a nutcase, and the bad kind of ginger; Loch Ness's Nessie probably doesn't even blooming exist. Greyfriars Bobby was pretty plucky, but he was a dog- and a wee-legged Scottie dog at that, which rather seriously throws into question his ability to kick some badass butt, unless Scotland's freedom and dignity is being threatened by a Chihuahua.

But this summer, cinema could be giving us a new Scottish hero in the form of Merida, the flame haired heroine of Brave. Taking her fate into her own hands, defying her Mother and eschewing the geeky boy Princes who look like they should topple over from the weight of their animated conks, makes for a bona fide, kick-ass, feistier-than-Boudicca-on-her-period Warrior Princess. She is, actually, a testament to the fact that (in or out of Scotland) it's always the girls that do action better. It's the element of surprise, the foxiness that accompanies the death blows, the sweetly sultry one liners as they run off into the sunset- alone, of course, flying the flag for all the independent laydeez (throw your hands up at me) and girls who dream of judo throwing their tyrannical boss into terrified submission, under the pseudonym Daria von Crushaman.

So in honour of Merida's service to the Warrior Princess set, and so we can all revel in the wonders of oestrogen-fuelled fury, here's a round up of the best warrior princesses ever committed to celluloid.


Princess Leia

Ass-kicking ability- 7

Pin-up for- Anyone who gets turned on at the mere thought of Comic-Con. When she's Jabba the Hut's slave woman, however, anyone with a pulse- male or female.

Do say- Nice buns.

Don't say- Anything about incest.


Tiger Lily

Ass-kicking ability- 4 (although I wouldn't want to test her)

Pin-up for- Anyone who can find a cartoon sexy. Probably not Walt Disney though... he'd have her for his slave.

Do say- Hoooooow.

Don't say- Oh do grow up.


Xena, Warrior Princess

Ass-kicking ability- 10

Pin-up for- Anaemic masochists who live by the light of their computer screen(s).

Do say- Kalimera! The Hellenic era is like, soooo feminist.

Don't say- Weren't you just Hercules' side kick/sex toy?



Princess Fiona

Ass-kicking ability- 8

Pin-up for-Big green smelly noisy farty men. Or men who don't mind big green smelly noisy farty women.

Do say- Conforming to the body-type norm imposed on us by society is for dim-witted Disney princesses.

Don't say- What's that smell?


Eowyn (Lord of the Rings)

Ass-kicking ability- 9

Pin-up for- Wood-dwellers who enjoy sturdy velvet frocks/cross-dressing.

Do say- Faramir is well fit.

Don't say- But Aragorn is fitter.



Rapunzel

Ass-kicking ability- 3 (she largely just hits people with a saucepan, then tells them to sing and hug)

Pin-up for- One Direction. Anyone with the mind or body of an under-10.

Do say- Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair!

Don't say- These extensions are SO convincing!



Tamina (Prince of Persia)

Ass-kicking abilities- 8

Pin-up for- Sorry, what? I was distracted by Gemma Arteron's... everything.

Do say- لحظاتی بعد از شهرنشيني، عاليجناب ! Which translates- Kick some butt, Your Highness! In Persian. Thank me later.

Don't say- I always preferred Lara Croft.



Mulan

Ass-kicking ability- 9 (by the end)

Pin-up for- Anyone with a predilection for extremes... Mulan is a Geisha, or Hun-slicing boy, nothing in between.

Do say- Mulan kicks Hun ass better than the boys!

Don't say- Did you know that when you masquerade as a big tough man, your chosen name 'Hua Ping' is a play on the Mandarin word huāpíng, figuratively meaning eye candy?



This is the space where I should dutifully say that Snow White in Snow White and the Huntsman was a Princess, and yes she went to war. But try as I might, I can't imagine K-Stew shaking off studied indifference for long enough to kick anyone's ass in anything. Unless it was an angry staring competition. Or a steal someone's husband competition. Big, fat Feisty Test FAIL. But, an honourable mention for your effort. Keep on frownin'.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1585837 2012-06-11T06:31:47-04:00 2012-08-11T05:12:07-04:00

Charlotte Skeoch http://www.huffingtonpost.com/charlotte-skeoch/
Adam Shankman, choreographer extraordinaire and the director behind Hairspray the movie, takes the directorial helm once more for what has to be the campest hit of 2012. Think Glee does rock week, add a hefty dose of blue eyeliner and none-too-subtle allusions to wild sex, and you're close to the Rock of Ages experience. Calling on our guilty weakness for soft rock and singing in the aisles, Shankman has peppered his latest oeuvre with an all star cast comprising of Hollywood's most deluded oompah loompah, Tom Cruise, every boy's teenage dream, Julianne Hough, and some sturdy acting stock in the form of Paul Giamatti and Alec Baldwin. But a star-studded cast alone cannot a movie make, as New Years Eve will testify.

The narrative follows a 'small town girl' (three guesses which soft rock number that's going to lead to- no prizes for getting it right, mind) Sherrie (Julianne Hough), whose Hollywood dreams fall flat on their face when she arrives in the rain, among a shoal of prostitutes, being mugged and groped and enduring all shades of nastiness. Until, a knight in eyeliner and skinnies (Drew, played Diego Boneta, owner of a face so akin to a puppy dog the whole relationship almost feels bestial) picks her up, in more ways than one. Working side-by-side in the Bourbon Room bar, a pit of 12A-rated sex, drugs and rock and roll- which has a palpable lack of cocaine and any nonsense above 1st base- they become embroiled in a war between the mullet-topped rockers of sunset strip and the twin-set and pearls army behind the Mayor of Los Angeles. Stacee Jaxx (Tom Cruise), a man with a more ridiculous demeanour than his name, is the Messiah of rock and rollers, and along with Bourbon's owner Dennis Dupree (Alec Baldwin) and his Geordie/Scouse/Brummie/whatever he damn well feels like sidekick, Lonny (Russell Brand) they try to protect the Sunset Strip from the clutches of the appalled conservatives. Led by a viscious, sexy, brilliant Catherine Zeta Jones as the Mayor's wife, Patricia Whitmore, the pearl-encrusted prudes put up a good fight... but is all as it seems with Mrs and Mr Whitmore? Is Stacee Jaxx really all he's cracked up to be? Will Sherrie and Drew last on the mean streets of LA? And what the blazes has Mary J Blige got to do with it all?! I shan't spoil any more. You can drag you're unwilling other half and find out for yourself, ladies (yep, I know you're the only ones still reading).

On the whole, Rock of Ages is good sing-a-long fun with some genuinely funny moments of very base humour. Thankfully, the cast seems to have their collective tongues firmly in cheek. All except for- entirely predictably- Little God Cruise, who tries so hard to be rock and roll, out of it, wild and oozing primal sexuality, you can practically smell his desperation, with a top note of chino and comb over. There are some bum-clenching moments of musical theatre cringiness: namely a bus-load of strangers bursting into empathetic song, and a particularly odd moment of song in the urinal. Yet alongside these almost child-like attributes, is a worryingly adult collection of pole dance and strip scenes- which, at best, condone wiggling in your thong for money, and at worst, recommend it as a legitimate and empowering way to conduct yourself. To my mind, it's an inappropriate message for a 12A film, much in the same way that Christina Aguilera and her Burlesque bunch showing up on the XFactor was an utterly misguided decision for a family show.

However, despite its flaws, it's a real challenge to keep your face straight, your head from bobbing or your vocal chords from twitching. Although Hough and Boneta are so sickly saccharine it's a wonder they don't come with a health warning (not to mention possessing a gaping chasm where their inner rock stars should be), Paul Giamatti is delectably sleazy, and a more than worthy villainous counterpoint. Zeta Jones is easily the star of the show: spitting bile, dancing like a pro, looking sexier in a twin set than Sarah Palin through beer goggles, and wielding her dominating presence like a lethal weapon. Who needs Tom Cruise?

Rock of Ages does exactly what it says on the tin. It's big and not very clever, it's unashamedly cheesy and it knows it, it's not quite all sequins and feathers... but certainly studs and spandex. It's not a film Axl Rose would rush to put his name to... but when did Axl Rose ever have judgement worth following? Go with an open mind, or even expecting the worst, and enjoy Rock of Ages for what it is: a back-combed, high legged, writhing mass of guilty pleasure.

★★★]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1552299 2012-05-29T08:56:01-04:00 2012-07-29T05:12:04-04:00

Charlotte Skeoch http://www.huffingtonpost.com/charlotte-skeoch/
Immersive theatre often treads the fine line between enhancing experience and aggressive involvement. What starts as engulfing theatrical aggrandizement can quickly trip into the realms of terrifying audience participation - and only attention - hungry stage botherers really enjoy on-stage participation, or those of masochistic temperament. Luckily, Theatre Delicatessen tread that precarious line with tender expertise, remaining stoically on the enjoyable side of immersion.

In their most recent production, we are transported to the barracks of the Falklands War, for a gritty re-imagining of Henry V. London's 35 Marylebone High Street- formerly the offices of the BBC- has been torn up, gutted out, and renovated into a dark, camouflaged hide out, complete with sand bags for seats, barbed wire fences, and an assault course in the bar. The time is ripe for Shakespeare, with the International Festival kicking off this Summer, but if you're looking for a fresh take on the Bard's works, you'd do well to steer clear of the obscure plays in obscure languages that most of London sees fit to offer, and opt for this alternative take on Shakespeare that isn't going to leave you hankering after subtitles.

The experience begins almost as soon as you step into the building, as a squaddie carries out a rigorous once-over before leading you through bunk-strewn barracks to the main performance area. Designer Katherine Heath hasn't scrimped on detail- ultimately it is the set design and seating layout (which is scattered around the performance space) that lends an innate sense of immersion.

I shan't mince my words: it is bloody long. A cushion, refreshments, and a hefty attention span are most definitely required for a play that lasts two and a half hours (not including the interval), but then, this is Shakespeare, so we should thank our lucky stars we're not standing in the mud in a circular straw hut for four hours. The pacing does leave a little to be desired however- the blame for which can hardly be attributed entirely to director Roland Smith- but while the moments of action swept the audience up in a flurry of sound and emotion, some of the more staid dialogue became stagnant and trying, made all the more frustrating by Smith's excellent direction elsewhere in dialogue-heavy moments.

The decision to set Henry V in the Falklands War also had its pros and cons: at its best, the grittiness of modern warfare enabled the audience to relate to the story far better than we are able to relate to anything doused in 15th Century oddities. At it's worst, however, the fleeting flirtation with ska music and skinhead culture was a little insubstantial and jarring against such classical narrative.

The stellar cast contribute a great deal to keeping the audience riveted from start to finish: Philip Desmeules' Henry is charming, persuasive, aggressive, but too wiry and wide-eyed to ever be unsympathetically threatening. Liam Smith dazzles as both Pistol and Charles VI (and is barely recognisable from one role to the next), he wields his physicality like an on-stage weapon: a bile-spitting Pistol with a Praying Mantis-esque gait one moment, a restrained and loftily sneering French King the next. A brilliant comedic turn from Laura Martin-Simpson as Katherine in the second half adds a spirited lightness to proceedings, and yet more stunningly transformative talents.

Henry V is precisely what immersive theatre should be: painfully visceral, palpably arresting and undeniably touching. It's intentions, cast and design are all commendable enough to forgive and forget a few questionable theatrical choices... and a numb bum.

Henry V is at 35 Marylebone High Street until 30 June. Tickets £16, £10 concessions. http://theatre-delicatessen.makemoredigital.com]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1550522 2012-05-28T11:09:44-04:00 2012-07-28T05:12:10-04:00

Charlotte Skeoch http://www.huffingtonpost.com/charlotte-skeoch/
Touched... Like a Virgin is the sequel to Zoe Lewis' 2009 play Touched... for the very first time, in which Frost also took the hefty lead role in this one woman show. 2009's Lesley was introduced to us as a die-hard Madonna fan, struggling to radiate the same levels of sexual magnetism, aggressive independence and financial success as her heroine. Now, in 2012, we meet Lesley as a grown woman, jaded and embittered, childless, Turkey baster on the horizon, blood levels more often than not stagnated with alcohol and harbouring a new-found love for Heroine-chick idol Kate Moss (guffaw, guffaw, she's in the audience har-dee-har-har). Strung together by a compère (4 Poofs and Piano's Dave Wickenden) singing Madonna's hits, Frost flits from tableau to tableau around the room, drifting in and out of the audience in a rather cosy manner, which would have been highly effective if Frost hadn't had all the charisma of a tapeworm residing in the belly of Michael Owen. The script requires an ability to flit between various regional accents, which (while decent once established) was shakily executed by Frost, who slipped one too many times to be forgivable. Add in a handful of fluffed lines, some serious upstaging from a portly man crotch-grabbing and winking his way through Madonna numbers, and it's safe to say Olivier fodder this is not.

Luckily, the script is sparkling. Tackling the kind of female issues that Sex and he City dresses up in Manolos and makes light of, Lewis tackles feminism and all it's problems with a dogged tenacity. The real genius, however is in underpinning the narrative with ditties that are immediately recognisable internationally. Not only does it add a sugary palatability to the sometimes bitter flavour of female issues, it also doses up the audience with pop-fuelled euphoria before a word is even spoken. We were like kiddies on the lolly-pop high before a trip to the dentist- I am almost certain the only reason I left the theatre smiling, after what can fairly be comparable to a GCSE monologue performance, was down to the genius of Madonna, via the comic stylings of Dave Wickenden.

Touched... Like a Virgin is only one hour long, has a giggle-studded script, a compere that can only be described as fabulous, and one of the best theatre bars in London attached to it. With so much in its favour, it's only a shame that we are still a society who will buy a theatre ticket to see that bird wot shagged Jude Law. With so many excellent comedy actresses at our fingertips, Lewis has done her brilliant script a criminal disservice.

Touched... Like A Virgin is at Soho Theatre until 9th June.]]>