The Life of Galileo, The National Theatre

The National Theatre really should be more pretentious than it is. I mean, it’s the ‘National’ for Christ’s sake. And yet somehow, it’s accessible, affordable and universal in its appeal. The last two plays I’ve seen there – Measure for Measure and The Life of Galileo – have been fantastic. Engaging, enjoyable productions, and neither ticket cost more than a tenner. While the prestige may guarantee the appearance of the middle-class bourgeois elite (who won’t be disappointed), the theatre is equally accessible to the student, the McWorker, the yardie or the Hoody. Please, don’t let the name fool you.

Galileo starts with the man himself explaining the theories of Copernicus to a young boy. There’s not a hint of ham in Simon Russell Beale’s performance, no affected accent or melodramatic delivery, and as he speaks to the boy, he speaks to us. And we listen. You do not need to know about Galileo, or indeed Copernicus, to enjoy the play. You do not need to know what sunspots are, or Galileo’s theories on motion or weights. The themes are crystal clear, the sticky predicaments and ethical dilemmas problematised so clearly and in such a way that when we are confused, it is because we are meant to be confused. Because confusion provokes thought about some of the most important questions humans have had, and have yet, to answer.

The danger of rhetoric, of hot air, the blind belief that stuff written down in book form, or spoken by powerful men is more ‘true’ than that which can be clearly seen, heard, felt and tested, resonates strongly with today’s political climate. This is an intelligent, insightful and timely adaptation by one of Britain’s finest playwrights. And most importantly, it’s very watchable.

Galileo is a bit like Fox Mulder. He’s after the truth, and he doesn’t care how stupid it sounds. There’s a moment, when he’s talking to a cleric on the cusp of joining his band of merry truthseekers, when they get on to the subject of the truth. "The truth?" Galileo says. "The truth?". There was a pause, and I very nearly shouted "YOU CAN’T HANDLE THE TRUTH" but fortunately pulled out just in time. But that’s very much it. David Hare (with a little help from Bertolt Brecht) has written a wonderfully enjoyable 16th century episode of the X-files.

Miami Vice, Vue cinema, Portsmouth.

"Probability", Colin Farrell tells us, "is like gravity."

Just one of the many fascinating and completely baffling insights that pepper the ‘script’ of Michael Mann’s cinematic adaptation of his ’70s TV series. I put script in inverted commas for a reason. It is completely irrelevant in this film, they might as well have been speaking Swahili. The hispanic baddies whisper everything in a drug-dealer drawl that’s either inaudible, incomprehensible, or both ("Zay recover our low" = "They recovered our load"). Jamie Foxxxx speaks in abbreviations (‘OpSec’ = Operational Security, ‘Counter-Intell’ etc. etc.) while Colin Farrell just shouts things or stays quiet looking moody and perplexed. ‘Perploody’ as Jamie might say.

The film is ridiculous. The outfits are ridiculous, the plot is ridiculous, the guns, girls and the dance moves are ridiculous. The fact that the weird quiet guy from Vera Drake turns up as a Miami crimelord is ridiculous. And yet.

It looks fantastic (if a little ridiculous). It’s pacy, gripping and frankly very sexy. Miami sizzles and titillates under Mann’s inventive direction, bullets bang and whizz, drug barons menace, white supremacists get caps in their asses. It’s a summer popcorn blockbuster that shouldn’t leave you feeling short-changed. Foxx and Farrell aren’t as tight as Gibson as Glover, nor as funny as Smith and Lawrence, but Mann achieves what he sets out to do. No credits, just action – sex, drugs and death – from start to finish.

A big-budget, blockbusting brainless treat.

The Squid And The Whale, Prince Charles Cinema

Going to the cinema on my own is one of my guilty pleasures. But it’s got to be the right film, and it’s got to be the right cinema. For me, they don’t come much better than the Prince Charles.
Tucked off Leicester Square, it shows a selection of recent and not so recent films, from mainstream romantic comedies to obscure Asian horror flicks. And on Friday, everything’s a pound. So there I was, on my own near the back, with my popcorn and Haagen-Dazs.
The film was first class. Some nice Brooklyn Jewish angst and profound tragicomedy, neatly written with fantastic performances all round. Yes, well done everyone on that one.

Rock ‘n’ Roll, Tom Stoppard, Duke Of York Theatre

At the interval, you could divide the audience in two. Clever people feeling smug and the rest feeling slightly baffled.

Foolishly I was expecting something a tad lighter. But, as I’ve since been told, this is ‘Stoppard’. And ‘Stoppard’ can be like this, launching a competition to see how few of the audience can get the joke. If just one guy at the front with really thick glasses and seventeen letters after his name laughs, then Tom’s done his job.

It also felt like ‘Stoppard’ was trying to be a bit trendy. The loud music that punctuates the play sometimes worked very well but at other times came across as a bit try-hard. You know when your uncle – or, worse, your dad - that may have been quite cool in the seventies but really isn’t now tries to dance or sing along to Pink Floyd because they think they have the right. And it just doesn’t work. You can’t be a grown-up and do that. You just can’t pull it off.

There are some great things about the play, not least that it combines smart-arse clever with fascinating clever, well-acted clever and entertaining clever. But if I had paid 60 quid for a ticket because I loved 'Shakespeare in Love’ then didn’t get any of the jokes, I probably would have cried. It’s not for the masses, but it’s worth the pain. Just read up before you go.