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The Day After The World Never Ended - Jesse Jones Meets The Creatures From The Ash Lagoon

A Diary of A Film-Shoot 1 It's the morning after the day the world never ended, and everything feels fine. With the much vaunted Rapture of 18.00 hours Greenwich Meantime on Sunday May 21st 2011 having passed without incident and apparently revised for October 21st later this year, it's a windy and rainy Sunday morning in Edinburgh, but nothing 30,000 marathon runners can't handle. The Collective Gallery, too, is a hive of activity equally of its own making. In the gallery space itself, the regular Sunday marketplace is in motion, while by the door, something called the Feral Trade Cafe is taking place. More significant, however, are the two sets of placards leant against the wall while a woman in tracksuit bottoms and an orange hoodie polishes down several large silver coloured triangles so swishly you can see your face in them. Which, as it turns out, is the point. Slowly but steadily a stream of women arrive at the gallery, all dressed down in utilitarian shades o

That Was Then But This Is Now – Moment By Moment With Stuart D Fallon

Every bugger's a curator these days. What used to be a rarefied, aloof and ever so slightly dusty job title is now a ubiquitous, catch-all, access all areas kind of thing that implies a power, of intent if not always execution. This isn't just the case in the visual art world. There are curated music festivals as well as exhibitions, shows and events, while in other artforms the word curator can be substituted for other, equally nebulous but just as (self) important sounding worlds, with self-styled creative producers and creative directors occupying chairs where administrators and general managers used to sit. That's not to say these jobs aren't essential for facilitating things and Making Things Happen. They are essential to the process, particularly in the wonderful and frightening world of the DIY, the pop-up and the shop-front, the temporarily autonomous zones made necessary to show one's wares in a nouveau recessionary climate. Some might call it Punk. But w

Mary McCluskey - Twenty Years at Scottish Youth Theatre

When Mary McCluskey visited New York's Tartan Week with Scottish Youth Theatre in 2008, all concerned got more than they'd bargained for. It was set to be the first time First Minister Alex Salmond and his parliamentary team had seen the organisation McCluskey has been artistic director of for almost twenty years perform there, and he arrived early while rehearsals were still ongoing. Given the Minister's unexpected presence, proceedings were put on hold to enable SYT's guest to chat with the company. Rather than a cosy Q and A session, however, the SNP leader was challenged on the state of drama school training in Scotland, both in terms of funding and facilities. The next generation of theatre workers then explained how difficult some of them were finding it to raise funds for drama school and were being forced to look at institutions south of the border. Somewhat chastened, Salmond responded with aplomb, even promising to help one of them to find fun

Young Scottish Jazz Musician of the Year 2011 Final

Old Fruitmarket, Glasgow 3 stars Since the Scottish Jazz Federation founded the Young Scottish Jazz Musician of the Year competition five years ago, the event has become a consolidation of talent hungry enough to already be out there doing it. All five of tonight's finalists may be no older than twenty-one, yet they've been learning their chops with assorted youth jazz orchestras and at various music schools for some time. Small wonder chair of the judges Dennis Rollins, who led a panel that included Herald and Jazz UK critic Rob Adams, praised Scotland's musical and educational networks, singling out the winner as someone possessed with a way of communicating ideas beyond instrumentation to create what he deemed “a magic.” Backed by the sterling house band of drummer Tom Gordon, bassist Mario Caribe and Paul Harrison on keyboards, all five finalists took a forward-thinking approach to the old school, from pianist Peter Johnstone's opening Keith Jarret

A Midsummer Night's Dream

Botanic Gardens, Glasgow 4 stars Bard in the Botanics may not have the full-on whistles-and-bells resources of Take That's Hampden Park extravaganza, but there's a definite whiff of X-Factor-age showbiz about Gordon Barr's jazz-age musical reinvention of Shaky's ever malleable new age rom-com. A not so big top beside the Kibble Palace morphs into a glitzyu nightclub, complete with a bevy of dancing girl and boy fairies, Puck as a Cabaret style MC, and bill-topping show-girl Hippolyta mashing up Fever and Madonna's Vogue for Theseus' high-rolling rat-pack. Clearly the place to be, Puck's place becomes an arena for after-hours adventures and almighty benders. Bottom and his band of players, meanwhile, come on like an alternative comedy troupe whose rubbish act is part Marx Brothers, part Vic Reeves. This Dream, then, is a riotous jukebox musical, with cheesy pop classics by Lady Gaga, Kylie and Abba rearranged as showtunes a la Glee by a fantastic band dra

Ghosts

Brunton Theatre, Musselburgh 3 stars When Frank McGuinness' new version of Ibsen's nineteenth century assault on morality appeared in 2010 in a production by Iain Glen, McGuinness' language was rightly praised for its frankness. London Classic Theatre recognise this enough to give it serious treatment in Michael Cabot's look at the play, even if at times it is let down by uneven acting and melodramatic flourishes that render it off-kilter. Set on the day before widowed Helene Alving is about to erect a monument to her seemingly respectable husband, the play's ghosts cast up by the pious Pastor Mander are nothing compared to those inherited by Helene's prodigal son Oswald, in blissfully horny ignorance as he chases the maid just like his old man did. The opening scene between maid Regine and her grizzled father looks promising in this Irish-accented version that lends things a chewily vivid speakability. Which makes it all the more mysterious why Brendan Flem