Month: November 2023

Ox and Finch

26/11/23

Sauchiehall Street, Glasgow

We are in Glasgow, mostly for the purposes of visiting the Kelvingrove Gallery and Museum, but we’re in the mood to make a day of it and hankering for a fancy lunch first, so we put out a call on the old socials, asking for recommendations. Most of the replies we receive mention Ox and Finch, which is why we find ourselves striding along Sauchiehall Street on a brisk November morning, working up an appetite.

The place has a vaguely rustic feel, with a team of industrious chefs in the open kitchen area, poised to deliver the goods. The central premise here is small plates to share, which sounds like a great idea, so we settle into a snug booth for two and place our orders. We love the fact that, like its sister restaurant, Ka Pao, the restaurant offers a bottle of still or sparkling water to accompany the meal at no cost. More places should adopt this approach.

First up there’s a bowl of fresh sourdough with whipped butter and a generous helping of gordal olives, crisp, crunchy and infused with lemon, which makes a perfect palate cleanser.

Next up there’s whipped feta, a bowl of creamy, cheesy delight flavoured with banana chilli and fresh oregano, served with toasted flatbreads. This is so delicious, we’re glad to have a bit of sourdough left over to mop up what’s on the plate. We soon discover that pretty much everything we’ve ordered is great. This may not be the best-looking selection of food we’ve ever been served, but taste-wise, it’s faultless.

The crab tubetti is next, an indulgent and aromatic delight, little tubes of pasta in a rich chive and urfa pepper sauce, every mouthful a revelation. In hindsight, it’s hard to single out one dish in particular as the highlight, but this could well be it. There’s something in those sumptuous, sticky mouthfuls that is completely gratifying.

Next out is charred hispi cabbage and I ask you, when was the last time you were enthusiastic about a brassica? But this crispy hunk of greenery, studded with creamy blue cheese and sprinkled with macadamia nuts is absolutely stunning and the accompanying thin slices of pear provide a perfect contrast.

A couple of impressive meat dishes follow. The pan-fried pork is sublime – melt-in-the-mouth tender medallions of flesh are accompanied by smoked ham hock and wonderfully earthy butter beans – while the slow-cooked lamb shoulder stands on a mound of creamy polenta with a scattering of salsa rossa and herb salad. So far, so perfect. 

Now, I know what you’re thinking, You can’t possibly have room for pudding, can you? But remember, these are small plates, perfectly judged – and it would be silly, wouldn’t it, to come all this way without going for the full experience? Well, that’s our excuse and we’re sticking to it.

So we sample three puddings: the raspberry and olive oil mille feuille, the delectable pastry layers cooked to a crisp brandy-snap consistency and loaded with sweet filling; the Montenegro semifreddo, a cold ice cream-like confection served with poached plums and pistachios; and a coffee and praline tiramasu, which is perhaps my least favourite of the three, though that has a lot to do with me not particularly liking the flavour of Tia Maria. (Susan is a fan though and assures me that it’s one of the best she’s ever tasted.)

So, there we are, suitably fortified and ready to walk on to the labyrinthine delights of the Kelvingrove, which is little more than a stone’s throw further along the road. My only regret here is that Ox and Finch has been in existence since 2014 and I have only just found it. 

As we’re paying the bill, our waiter slyly tells us that a brand new menu is coming in just a couple of weeks’ time. Would we be up for another visit?

Oh yes, I rather think we would.

5 stars

Philip Caveney

The Snow Queen

25/11/23

Lyceum Theatre, Edinburgh

Hans Christian Andersen’s The Snow Queen has never been my favourite fairytale. Although there are plenty of gloriously memorable images – and the book I had as a child was beautifully illustrated – I’ve always found the plot unwieldy. Happily, in this very Scottish adaptation, Morna Young does an excellent job of clearing the dead wood, jettisoning some of the unnecessary complications and illuminating the story’s season-appropriate warm heart.

We start off in Victorian Edinburgh, where we were for last year’s An Edinburgh Christmas Carol. But we don’t stay there long: The Snow Queen is about a quest, so of course there’s an epic journey to be made. Best friends Gerda (Rosie Graham) and Kei (Sebastian Lim-Seet) are orphans, living with their respective grandparents. Every evening, they climb up onto the roof of their tenement to tend to their pot plants and plan for the future. Kei dreams of going to university, while Gerda wants to see the world.

Meanwhile, in another realm, some trolls have broken a magic mirror and its shards have caused havoc, turning Beira, the Scottish Queen of Winter, into the evil Cailleach Bheur (Claire Dargo), determined to reign forever, and never relinquish her power to Bride, the Queen of Spring. Bride (Naomi Stirrat) isn’t strong enough to overpower the Snow Queen, but she does manage to slow her down – by planting five seeds of spring inside five human beings. So far, the Snow Queen has tracked down four… and now she thinks she knows where the fifth one lies. Kei doesn’t stand a chance. Corrupted by the magic mirror, he turns against Gerda and follows the Cailleach Bheur to her icy lair. But the Snow Queen has reckoned without Gerda, and underestimated the power of true friendship…

With a lively score by Finn Anderson and some very memorable songs – including Quines Gotta Fight and the innuendo-rich A Horse with a Horn – this production is as bold and vivacious as everything we’ve seen Cora Bissett direct. Graham and Lim-Seet convince as sweet and wholesome children, while Dargo’s white witch is suitably scary. Samuel Pashby – who plays Corbie, the Snow Queen’s corvid assistant – is an excellent clown, his gymnastic capers always engaging. But it’s Hamish the Unicorn (Richard Conlon) who steals the show, which does unbalance things a little – but, honestly, it doesn’t matter a jot. After all, this is a piece of festive family fun, and it’s hardly surprising that a rainbow-farting magical beast should be the mane (sorry) attraction.

I’m a little bit in love with Emily James’ set, which mirrors (and thus closes) the Lyceum’s dress circle, reflecting the theatre back at us. It’s huge and imposing and difficult for the actors to negotiate – and therein lies its beauty. The image is as in-your-face as it gets, too direct to count as subtext, and I admire its audacity. It’s impossible to ignore. James’ costumes are wonderfully opulent too: I’m drawn to the bright colours of the flowers in the fairy garden, and to the Cailleach Bheur’s shimmering pastels.

The Snow Queen straddles the line between theatre and panto, Hamish’s broad humour contrasting with the more serious underlying themes. For the most part, I think this works, although some of the jokes don’t land as well as they might, eliciting titters rather than belly laughs. Perhaps it would be an idea to have Hamish and Corbie engage more directly with the audience, signalling the tonal change. Nonetheless, the enthusiasm with which the final rendition of A Horse with a Horn is sung suggests that even the youngest attendees are fully on board.

A sparkling delight.

4 stars

Susan Singfield

Napoleon

25/11/23

Cineworld, Edinburgh

Over his long career, Ridley Scott has taken on all manner of subjects, in pretty much every genre you can name. It’s interesting to note that his very first feature film, The Duelists, was set during the Napoleonic era, so perhaps it was only a matter of time before he returned to the period and took on the story of the little Corsican – a subject that has brought many other directors to their personal Waterloo. In this particular case, it’s taken forty-six years to get there.

Some cinephiles will tell you that the ultimate Napoleon movie has already been realised way back in 1927, when Abel Gance produced a staggering version of the great man’s life under the same title. It was certainly remarkable and I speak as someone who sat through one of Kevin Brownlow’s restorations of the film in the early 80s – all five and a half hours of it (complete with a live symphony orchestra and several judicious toilet breaks). Compared to that, Scott’s two hours and thirty-eight minutes seems relatively jaunty.

Those who have complained that this version is historically inaccurate may be missing the point. Scott is clearly far more interested in the legend than the reality. It’s a matter of record, for instance, that Napoleon probably owes his defeat at Waterloo to the fact that he suffered from bleeding haemorrhoids and couldn’t sit on his horse – but that’s a film that nobody wants to see.

And yes, Joaquin Phoenix may be too old for this role, and surely needed some de-ageing for those early scenes, but he makes a great job of it, mining the man’s hubris and determination to the core, even descending into brattishness when taunted with the spectre of England’s superior navy. Vanessa Kirby offers up a more opaque Josephine, playing everything so close to her bosom that we’re never entirely sure if she actually loves her husband or merely sees him as her personal plaything. Their complex relationship is at the beating heart of this film and perhaps it would have been more fairly titled Napoleon and Josephine.

The inevitable result is that pretty much everybody else in the film is reduced to cameo roles, including Rupert Everett as the Duke of Wellington and an unusually hirsute Mark Bonnar as Napolean’s early confidante, Junot. David Scarpa’s screenplay makes a determined attempt to find some humour amidst all the pomp and misery.

But of course, Scott is the king of spectacle and if it’s battle scenes you’re looking for, there are plenty of them here, so thrillingly recreated that I find myself wincing at every explosion, every visceral thrust of a sabre. Each of the major confrontations is depicted in a different way and I particularly relish the scenes set in the Russian winter, where Napoleon is left bewildered by the fact that his adversaries refuse to meet him on the battlefield, even choosing to torch Moscow rather that surrender it to him. This is stirring stuff, the awful choreography of destruction played with absolute conviction and I cannot think of a director who could have made a better job of it.

Producers Apple Films have already announced that a four hour plus director’s cut of Napoleon is waiting somewhere down the line, and while this has worked for Scott before with Kingdom of Heaven, I’m not convinced that a longer film can hope to add much to the exhilarating theatrical release, which has me gripped pretty much from start to finish.

4.4 stars

Philip Caveney

Play Pretend

24/11/23

Traverse Theatre

Framework Theatre is a rather special support organisation for emerging theatre-makers in Scotland, helping to build a “better, stronger, Scottish theatre sector”. It’s often said that you should write about what you know, and playwright Katie Fraser certainly does that, with this self-referential piece about, um, emerging theatre-makers, battling the old guard and forging a new way.

Actors Amy (Claire Wootton) and Greg (Gerry Kielty) are rehearsing a new piece about Flora MacDonald and Bonnie Prince Charlie. For her, it’s an exciting opportunity, her first professional role since leaving drama school. For him, it’s a backwards step; his career trajectory has been stymied by an unspecified scandal, so he’s slumming it, waiting out his time on the naughty step by directing and starring in this ‘little’ play.

To begin with, Amy is deferential, and Greg responds well to this. He’s pleasant, happy to share the benefits of his experience. But we soon see his darker side as Amy gains confidence and begins to question his peculiar interpretation of what is supposed to be a feminist play, written by ‘Harriet’, a young female playwright.

It makes sense that Greg should contrive to keep Harriet from the rehearsal room, as he tries to assert his dominance over the narrative. But Play Pretend suffers a little from the absence of this third character: I find my attention diverted from the action on stage as I wonder why she doesn’t ignore his instructions and come to see what’s happening to her play. It might be more convincing if we were to hear Greg making up outrageous excuses about why she can’t attend.

Fraser’s script comprises a series of vignettes, from which the story emerges bit by bit, the two actors learning more about each other as the rehearsal process goes on. It’s a strong idea and generally works well, although I do find myself wishing for higher stakes, and for a bolder, more cathartic climax.

Laura Valerie Walker’s sprightly direction highlights the meta-theatricality of the piece. The slow-motion transitions are effective in conveying the passing of time, moving us from one snapshot to the next, reminding us that this is all a performance, but they are too protracted, and start to become a little wearisome towards the end. The set, by Isadora Gough, with its over-abundance of tape marks on the floor and moveable furniture, reinforces the point that this is a constructed image, an illusion, designed to tell a tale.

Both Wootton and Kielty inhabit their dual roles convincingly. Wootton nails Amy’s mixture of self-assurance and desperation, her superficial politeness masking her frustration with Greg’s pomposity. She needs this part to kickstart her career, so she forces herself to put up with his condescension – but Wootton shows us what a struggle this is. It is to Kielty’s credit that we feel any sympathy for Greg: he is a bombastic, arrogant man, showing no contrition for his past aberrations and riding roughshod over the two young women he’s working with, assuming that he knows more than both the playwright and female lead about what this feminist drama needs. Nonetheless, Kielty manages to convey Greg’s underlying vulnerability, his fear at being left behind as the tide turns, his self-esteem dependent on his status.

With its artfully-woven historical and contemporary strands, Play Pretend is a thought-provoking and insightful piece about the struggles we face as we try to move towards a more egalitarian society. When you’re used to privilege, as the saying goes, equality feels like oppression.

4 stars

Susan Singfield

Saltburn

22/11/23

Cineworld, Edinburgh

Emerald Fennell’s second film shares some DNA with her debut: they’re both stories of revenge writ large, of simmering grievance metamorphosing into violence. But, while Promising Young Woman was an out-and-out success, Saltburn is more of a mixed bag.

Oliver (Barry Keoghan) is a fish out of water at his Oxford college. Not only has he made the terrible faux pas of devouring every book on the summer reading list, he’s also got a Scouse accent and his tuxedo is rented. “The sleeves are too long,” sneers his tutorial-mate, Farleigh (Archie Madekwe). “Still, you almost pass.” Frustrated by his outsider status and bored rigid by Jake (Will Gibson), apparently the only other non-posh person in the city, Oliver becomes obsessed with Felix (Jacob Elordi), insinuating himself into the young aristocrat’s circle. Felix warms to Oliver, taking him under his wing and inviting him to spend the summer at his family home. Oliver is delighted: the titular Saltburn is a bastion of excess and he is more than ready to indulge himself. But, as the weeks slip by and real life looms, things begin to take a darker turn…

The first third of this film is anachronistic. It’s supposed to be set in 2006, but the Oxford we see here feels like a throwback to the 1920s. Although there’s no denying that the university is still disproportionately posh, by the time the movie’s events occur, about 50% of Oxford undergraduates came from state schools (the figure is 68% now) – and, even among those who were privately educated, only a tiny number were as privileged as Felix and his friends. I find myself rolling my eyes at the idea that Oliver and Jake might stand out amongst their peers, or that anyone would notice them enough to bellow “scholarship boy” as they pass by. It’s unnecessary too: Oliver’s desire to move in Felix’s orbit doesn’t need to be dependent on the absence of any other working or middle-class people.

When the action moves to Saltburn, things improve dramatically – although the sense of stepping back in time might be heightened if Fennell were more effective in capturing the early noughties in the opening stretch. Here we meet Felix’s parents, Sir James (Richard E Grant, on top form) and Elspeth (played with obvious glee by Rosamund Pike). “Mummy” is the best thing about the whole movie, delightfully lacking in self-awareness, blithely callous in every word and deed. She gets the funniest lines too, and Pike delivers them with deadly precision: when Elspeth hears of her erstwhile friend’s death, for example, she responds with a scathing, “She’ll do anything to get attention.”

If the revenge, when it comes, is faintly ridiculous, then it’s found a suitable home in Saltburn, where everything is magnified, where there’s too much space, too many artefacts, too many people and too much money. The house and grounds provide a perfect backdrop for this illustration of careless privilege, and Linus Sandgren’s cinematography is almost hallucinogenic, reinforcing the sense of dislocation from the outside world.

Of course, there are many ways to read this sly, allusive story, with its Brideshead references and satirical tone. The most generous interpretation is that the joke is on the upper classes, depicted here as shallow and vacuous, playing games with other people’s lives to relieve their louche ennui. But it also comes across as a warning to the toffs to beware the pesky proles. Give us an inch and we’ll take a mile; we just don’t know our place. Fennell (whose own rarefied life is far closer to the Cattans’ than to Oliver’s) reveals an unfortunate blind spot when it comes to class. Elspeth references Pulp’s Common People early on, refuting the idea that the lyrics refer to her. “No, it wasn’t based on me. She had a thirst for knowledge. I’ve never wanted to know anything.” But there are a few lines later in the song that are perhaps more relevant: “Like a dog lying in a corner, they will bite you and never warn you. Look out! They’ll tear your insides out.” There appears to be an underlying (perhaps unconscious) snobbery at play.

Despite its dodgy subtext, Saltburn is a curate’s egg of a movie, with some very good parts indeed, and the final sequence – set to Murder on the Dancefloor – is utterly glorious. I look forward to what Fennell does next, albeit with some trepidation.

3.3 stars

Susan SIngfield

Nandor Fodor and the Talking Mongoose

19/11/23

Amazon Prime

There are are some so-called ‘true’ stories that, if presented as fiction, would simply be dismissed as sheer nonsense. And then there’s ‘Gef,’ the talking mongoose, alleged to have haunted the Irving family on the Isle of Man in the 1930s, a situation deemed credible enough to prompt esteemed investigators into travelling to the Irvings’ remote farmhouse in order to establish whether or not Gef is actually real. Even the BBC produced a film about him and, for a while his fame was widespread. My main reaction to the story is one of bewilderment: why did anyone take this blatant baloney seriously?

I’ve heard about the story previously, thanks to an episode of the podcast, No Such Thing as a Fish, so my interest is sparked when I hear about writer/director Adam Sigal’s feature film. However, the fact that it hasn’t troubled the cinemas but has been unceremoniously dumped onto Amazon Prime suggests that there can’t be much here to shout about and, sadly, this proves to be the case.

Respected psychological researcher, Doctor Nandor Fodor (Simon Pegg), receives a letter from the Irving family telling him all about their resident mongoose and, after consulting esteemed colleague, Harry Price (Chistopher Lloyd), who has also investigated the case without reaching a satisfying conclusion, Fodor is intrigued enough to travel to the Isle of Man, accompanied by his assistant, Anne (Minnie Driver), to whom he may or may not be attracted. (It speaks volumes about the storytelling when I have to report that I’m still not sure sure about that element.)

Once there, they meet the affable Mr Irving (Tim Downie) and the other members of his household, including his teenage daughter, Voirrey (Jessica Balmer), who makes no secret of the fact that she is an accomplished ventriloquist. (I know: suspicious, right?)

But Fodor’s subsequent attempts to get to the truth of the matter are met with a whole series of bewildering obfuscations. Is Gef real? (No.) Or is he a cunningly contrived hoax, designed to bring people to the Irvings’ remote farm for reasons that can only be guessed at? Normally in cases of deception, the idea is to generate money, but that certainly isn’t what’s happening here. While the Irvings are far from being destitute, they live a frugal existence.

Sigal’s film is certainly enigmatic and it’s also handsomely filmed, the era convincingly evoked thanks to Sara Deane’s assured cinematography – but the screenplay spends far too much time telling us about events that have happened off screen, whilst offering us only the barest glimpses of Gef (voiced by Neil Gaiman). Both Pegg and Driver do their best with their respective characters, despite being given so little to work with. In the end though, the biggest mystery of all is how this unremarkable little project managed to pull in such a strong cast.

By the time we reach the underwhelming conclusion, I’ve pretty much given up on the film, and that’s a shame. There’s something so off-the-wall captivating about its central premise, that I’m left with the powerful conviction that there’s surely a great film to be made about Gef and his escapades.

Sadly, this isn’t it.

2.8 stars

Philip Caveney

Learning to Fly

17/11/23

Traverse Theatre, Edinburgh

We have an unusual reason to remember the name James Rowland.

Searching back through the annals of our reviews blog, I see that, on the 14th March 2019, we were in the Traverse Theatre, watching him perform A Hundred Different Words for Love, part of a trilogy of plays he was touring. We managed to see all three of them but, due to circumstances beyond our control, in the wrong order.

You don’t need long memories to recall that this was a troubling time for theatre-makers around the world – and indeed, the poor turnout for this show had nothing to do with Rowlands’ material but instead spoke volumes about how frightened audiences were of mysterious new virus that was afflicting the world. Tickets had been sold, but few customers were brave/reckless enough to turn up and take their seats. Sure enough, just two days later, theatres across the UK were instructed to close their doors – and it was a long time before they were safe to reopen them.

Happily, things have moved on since those dark days  – and Rowland’s latest offering, Learning to Fly, is a charming and affable piece, based around a recollection from the performer’s youth, a time when he lived in Didsbury, Manchester, near to Fog Lane Park. 

Weirdly, in the 1980s, I lived there too, but that’s another story.

Rowlands is as likeable and swaggering as ever. I can hardly fail to forget that he performed one part of the aforementioned trilogy stark bollock naked, which certainly takes some confidence, but tonight he’s modestly dressed in a white singlet, trackie pants and trainers. He wanders onto the stage, has a brief chat with the audience about trigger warnings and the like, and then launches into his story.

He tells us about being fourteen years old and about an unspecified illness that keeps him from going to school; and how his struggling mother leaves him for one day a week in the care of Anne, an elderly neighbour, who never seems to leave her house and who spends most of her time listening to the music of Beethoven.

Against all the odds, the two of them  form an uneasy friendship, one that steadily grows over the weeks until one night, James does something unprecedented – something that will change their relationship forever…

Learning to Fly is a charming and beguiling piece, one that veers from outright hilarity to moments of pathos and regret. It’s easy to picture Rowlands as a youngster, steadfastly pursuing his own particular goals in life, which perhaps unsurprisingly, are not those of the average fourteen year old. I can believe that he would do something so spectacularly off-the-wall. 

If I’ve a criticism to make, it’s simply that some of the pay-offs are not always delivered as forcefully as I’d like – and there’s an indecisiveness to the conclusion that has tonight’s audience unsure of whether the time to applaud has actually arrived or not. 

But it would be an unsympathetic viewer indeed who doesn’t derive enjoyment from this unconventional mix of comedy, storytelling and music. 

Hopefully Rowlands’ current tour will be allowed to continue without the unwelcome interruption of a pandemic. Fingers crossed.

3.8 stars

Philip Caveney

The Killer

13/11/23

Netflix

The arrival of a new film by David Fincher is always of interest, but apart from limited screenings at a few independent cinemas, The Killer has quietly dropped onto Netflix without much trumpeting. Based on Alexis Nolent’s graphic novel of the same name, this sees Michael Fassbender as the titular assassin, who, when we first encounter him, is stalking his latest target, whilst simultaneously providing a running commentary. This comes across as a self-help manual for would-be professional murderers and would perhaps be more impressive if the projected hit didn’t go spectacularly awry.

But it does and, shortly afterwards, a revenge attack is carried out on our psychopathic hero’s nearest and dearest, whereupon (cliché alert!) he is obliged to travel around the world ensuring that those who were hired to clean up after his errors are brought to book in the severest manner possible.

Fincher is an accomplished director and the long opening sequence is beautifully handled, the tension and suspense steadily mounting as the seconds tick by. Likewise, an extended fight sequence in an apartment somewhere in Florida is brutally and viscerally captured in bone-crunching detail. The assassin’s preoccupation with listening to The Smiths as he works provides a wonderfully quirky detail and Erik Messerschmidt’s sleek cinematography is a delight.

But there’s an inherent problem here and it’s one of empathy. It’s hard for a viewer to care about a sociopath and even harder to sympathise with him when he’s given the kind of rough treatment he generally doles out to his victims. We never really learn anything about them – or him for that matter – and the only other person we meet in any detail, The Expert (Tilda Swinton), isn’t on screen long enough to make her presence felt.

Ultimately, this is an exercise in style that needs more content to back it up. Yes, the various components are masterfully assembled, and yes, it’s an example of skilfully-constructed images, but I’m left chasing shadows for the best part of two hours and, no matter how artfully that’s depicted, it’s really not enough to make this a satisfying piece of cinema.

3.4 stars

Philip Caveney

Anatomy of a Fall

11/11/23

Cineworld, Edinburgh

Winner of this year’s Palme d’Or at Cannes, Justine Triet’s Anatomy of a Fall is a sly and unconventional crime drama that steadfastly refuses to follow the familiar tropes of the whodunnit, preferring instead to explore the psychologies of its characters. It manages to sustain an air of mystery without ever offering viewers anything resembling a plausible solution – and yet, somehow, this only serves to make the story all the more intriguing.

In her remote chalet in the French Alps, novelist Sandra Voiter (Sandra Hüller) is attempting to conduct an interview with graduate student Zoé (Camille Rutherford). There’s an obvious attraction between the two – Sandra is openly bisexual – but up in the roof space, Sandra’s husband, Samuel (Alan Davies lookalike, Samuel Theis), is asserting his presence by doing some noisy manual work. He’s also playing music at an ear-shattering volume, which makes the planned interview impossible. It is soon abandoned and Zoé leaves. 

Shortly afterwards, Sandra and Samuel’s visually-impaired son, Daniel (Milo Machado Graner), takes his dog for a walk in the snow and, on his return, he (quite literally) stumbles upon the bloody corpse of his father, lying a short distance from the house. Samuel has fallen from the attic space, striking a shed on the way down.

But did he jump – or was he pushed?

Soon, an investigation is under way and Sandra is the only suspect. Her past actions are making her look ever-more unreliable, so her attorney (Swann Arlaud) is struggling to construct a credible defence – and it probably doesn’t help that he is attracted to her. Meanwhile, the prosecutor (Antoine Reinartz) seems to have made it his personal mission to see her behind bars. 

The irony here is that the person with the clearest vision of what’s actually going on is a boy whose eyes don’t work…

Anatomy of a Fall is a strange beast indeed, a film that becomes increasingly compelling as it moves ever further away from anything approaching a straightforward resolution. The fact that the two main characters are writers of fiction – and the ways in which the narrative becomes increasingly more speculative as the case progresses – adds to the sense of intrigue. And then there’s a late-stage flashback, prompted by the discovery of an audiotape (recorded by Samuel), which sets everything spinning in an entirely different direction. Hüller offers a compelling performance in the lead role, but it’s young Machado Graner who makes the biggest impression, as the indefatigable Daniel, struggling to come to terms with the death of his father.

The nebulous nature of the plotting will doubtless have Agatha Christie spinning in her grave, but this feels like a fresh and unconventional approach to the crime genre and it’s easy to see why the film was chosen as the winner of one of cinema’s most coveted prizes. 

4.3 stars

Philip Caveney

Henderson’s

10/11/23

Barclay Place, Edinburgh

Some friends are up in Edinburgh for the weekend, so we arrange to meet at Henderson’s for a meal and a catch-up. The Henderson name is an Edinburgh institution: Janet opened the city’s first vegetarian restaurant way back in 1962. Sadly, the original venue closed in 2020 (due to the pandemic), but her grandson, Barrie, has since picked up the family (carrot?) baton, taking his turn to encourage the city’s residents to ‘Eat Better, Live Better’.

Philip chooses the vegan king oyster mushroom scallops for his starter, which are served with a cauliflower puree, samphire and seaweed flakes. It’s an impressive opening: the fungi’s texture and shape perfectly mimicking their seafood equivalent, and these are expertly cooked. One of our friends opts for gnocchi, with carrot purée, nasturtium pistou, toasted pumpkin seeds and almond parmesan crumb. He says it’s delicious.

Our other friend and I decide to eschew starters in favour of ‘nibbles’, reasoning that we don’t want to be too full to enjoy our mains. This is a mistake. Both her preserved lemon hummus and my butterbean, confit garlic and rosemary pate are very tasty and well-made, but they’re robust, generously-portioned and served with sourdough. We should probably have stuck with olives!

For our mains, three of us opt for the beetroot and black bean burger on a bouncy, homemade brioche bun. There’s also an onion ring, some caramelised onion and, because none of us is vegan, an extra layer of smoky cheddar. The burger comes with a side of skin-on chips, and a rather wonderful stout mayo. Philip – ever the outlier – has the beet bourguignon pie, which, despite its inelegant appearance, turns out to be the standout dish of the evening. Nestled beneath a flaky, golden pastry top is a rich, slow-cooked beetroot concoction, which he devours with gusto.

For pudding, our friends share a warm spiced fruit cobbler with homemade vanilla ice cream, while Philip and I go halvies on a slice of vegan biscoff cheesecake and a baked Alaska with banana ice cream and salted caramel topping. While Philip prefers the cheesecake (he likes its silky texture and the fact it’s not too sweet), I think the baked Alaska has the edge, precisely because it is so intensely sugary.

It’s great to spend time with our friends in these convivial surroundings. Throw in a couple of mocktails (I highly recommend the Noscow Mule) and you’ve got yourself a delightful evening.

4.1 stars

Susan SIngfield