The Sparrow reviews the New Statesman current affairs magazine.

When looking to keep abreast of world affairs I find there is nothing better than settling down with a copy of The Economist.  Unfortunately, I have allowed my subscription to lapse and found myself with no other option but to head to the shops.  Abiding my Sod's law as my life tends too, the shop was out of stock and I was left with a few other current affairs magazines.  Blissful in my ignorance of the merits of any of them I picked up the New Statesman, which, the cover assured me is "Current affairs magazine of the year".  

Unfortunatley, what the cover had failed to tell me was that this award was given by the All Russian Union of Soviets.  Had I known the fact that it was little better than an English langauge version of Zvezda, I'd have probably been slightly more subtle in carrying it through the streets.  Without wishing to put too fine a point on it Jnr Senator McCarthy had people hounded out of their jobs for far less.  

To say the magazine was skewed to one side of the political spectrum would be like suggesting that Roman Abramovich had a little money.  Reading the magazine is like entering a time warp, to a time ten years ago, when people still believed Labour would be different, when people could say Tony Blair's name without feeling the need to spit three times and when Gordon Brown was not the most boring man in Britain.  Ok, I lied, Gordon Brown was the most boring man in Britain, it's just none of us knew it yet.  In New Statesman land the future is bright, the future is red.  No one mentions cash for honours, war crimes or John Prescott's promiscuity issues.  In New Statesman land the clamour of opportunist sycophants duking it out for who can be deputy leader are viewed as serious politicians engaging in due democratic process.

I never did reach the end of the issue, as I have to say, the spectre of Joseph Stalin was weighing so heavy on my shoulders that I could think of nothing else but closing the magazine praying that no one saw me with it and had informed the anti-bolshevik league of my activities. Suffice to say, I'll be sticking to The Economist, in future.

The Peacock discusses the National Theatre's revival of Attempts on her Life

The revival of Martin Crimp's 'Attempts on her Life' at the National Theatre is fascinating and frustrating in equal quantities. From a production point of view, it is technically impressive and features any number of strong performances. However, from a textual point of view, it is as obtuse as it was when first published. Is Anne/Ann/Anny/Annie/Anya/Anushka victim or aggressor, tortured artist or suicidal madwoman? With no narrative thread to the piece, Crimp has left it deliberately open to interpretation. However, so many possible outcomes are offered, many of them conflicting with one another, that it is almost impossible to draw any conclusions. The overall effect is that of a group of actors coming together to improvise around the story of one woman's life. The ideas are all thrown into the pot, discussed, tried out - if this is a film, it's the director's cut, the high-concept and confusing version.

Katie Mitchell has directed a fast-moving, multimedia piece of theatre. The stage is stripped right back to basics; no wings, nothing hidden. A large video screen hangs above the stage and cameras and cables litter the space. Some interesting effects are achieved by the audience being able to watch both the video screen and the actors performing in front of the camera; at one point we hear a description of the central character attempting to drown herself. On the screen we see a close up of her face, struggling to control herself as she walks further into the sea, shadows of rippling water reflecting up onto her, the wind blowing her hair. On stage, we see an actress standing in front of a camera while another actor waves a wind board and shines a blue light onto her, at the same time as frantically signalling to another member of the cast across the stage. This is a high-energy show with huge amounts of things going on. There is always something to watch, wherever you look on stage. The actors are always 'on'; if they aren't speaking or interacting directly with another actor, they are working cameras, playing instruments, singing, dancing. This is a hugely multi-talented and hard-working cast. Make no mistake, this is not an easy show to do.

It is all the more frustrating, therefore, that the text doesn't really support them. Considering the central character seems meant to represent Everywoman, the play itself is one for the chattering classes. The opening and closing scenes reinforce this idea, with their multi-layered conversations, none of the characters so interested in listening to each other as in putting forward their own views and ideas on just who Anne is or was. The issues raised in the play never really hit home, because the text deals with them so dispassionately. We are never allowed to engage with the central character; this is a merely a news report, painted with a very broad brush. There is nothing shocking, nothing controversial, nothing for the audience to get excited about in Crimp's text. The power of this piece lies in its cast and production values, which are truly outstanding; it's a crying shame that the base material isn't worthy of them.