Month: March 2025

The End

30/03/25

The Cameo, Edinburgh

Joshua Oppenheimer might not be the most prolific of directors, but he’s certainly one of the most original. The documentary-maker’s first foray into fiction is a case in point: who else would offer us an unsettling post-apocalyptic… musical?

The setting is an oligarch’s nuclear bunker. There’s been some kind of climate disaster, precipitated by the billionaire’s fossil fuel company. Most of humanity is dead, but – decades after the fallout, far below the earth – a chosen few still live in luxury, albeit in the confines of some eerie salt mines.

Father (Michael Shannon) is the oligarch, Mother (Tilda Swinton) his wife and Son (George McKay) their twenty-year-old child, born underground. He has never seen the sky, never met anyone outwith their small circle – and never questioned his parents’ tales about their former lives. Instead, he immerses himself in building an intricate model of all the outside places he’s only ever heard about.

The bunker has three more occupants: Friend (Bronagh Gallagher), Butler (Tim McInnerny) and Doctor (Lennie James). The trio are touted as “part of the family” but it’s pretty clear they’re here to serve, to take care of the cooking, the cleaning and the rich people’s health. Father spends his time working on a self-aggrandising autobiography, resisting Son’s attempts to offer editorial advice, while Mother fusses endlessly over the exact positioning of the priceless artworks on the walls. Life ticks by, one day much like another, an opulence-clad monotony that fulfils none of them.

And then Girl (Moses Ingram) turns up. She’s the first outsider Son has ever met, and he’s smitten. But she’s had to leave her family behind, and her survivor’s guilt opens up new avenues of thought for Son. Why has his family been chosen, out of everyone, to inhabit this haven? And why, when the place is vast, are there so few of them? Once he starts to ask questions, everything changes…

Mikhail Krichman’s cinematography is sumptuous: the scenes in the salt mines are particularly beautiful, but every shot is a work of art, as meticulously framed as the Renoirs and Monets decorating the bunker.

The film is billed as a musical but, despite the lengthy spoken sections, it feels more like an opera, with its formality of tone and portentousness. The music by Marius De Vries and Josh Schmidt amplifies the heightened emotions, but the vocal parts are sensibly kept simple, which suits the non-singers in the cast (such as Swinton). Ingram, Gallagher and McKay are more accomplished, and they are given the most to do.

Despite its bloated running time, The End is a thought-provoking and startlingly unconventional movie, quite unlike anything else on the big screen. It’s not one you’ll find at a multiplex, but it’s definitely worth the price of a ticket at your local indie (or Picturehouse) cinema.

4.3 stars

Susan Singfield

Dr Strangelove: National Theatre Live

29/03/25

Cineworld, Edinburgh

In 1964, I watched Stanley Kubrick’s dark satire, Dr Strangelove, in an RAF cinema somewhere in darkest Lincolnshire. I was thirteen years old, arguably a bit too young to fully appreciate its biting satire, but I remember being absolutely terrified by the apocalyptic ending, which left me feeling decidedly nervous about the world’s future.

Fast forward to the early 1980s, where I attend a stand-up gig at the Old Grey Mare pub in Didsbury, Greater Manchester. Friends have encouraged me to go along and catch a gifted young impressionist called Steve Coogan, who they predict ‘has a promising future ahead of him.’ It costs me fifty pence to get in and the funniest routine is the one where Coogan adopts the persona of a BBC reporter, commentating on a live tragedy unfolding in… er… Camberwick Green.

What I could never have predicted is that in 2025, Coogan would be starring in an adaptation of Kubrick’s film, adapted by Armando Iannucci from the original screenplay co-written by Kubrick and Terry Southern – and, perhaps more pertinently, that a story that played like an outrageous spoof in the 1960s feels suspiciously like a cautionary warning in the present day.

Brigadier General Jack D Ripper (John Hopkins) has a paranoid breakdown and orders a B52 bomber, piloted by Major TJ ‘King’ Kong (Coogan, in one of four roles) to drop a nuclear device on a target in the Soviet Union. President Merkin Muffley (also Coogan), after being briefed by General Buck Turgidson (Giles Terrera), finds himself presented with the tricky task of contacting the Russian President to warn him of the incoming attack. The Russian premier is understandably not too happy about the situation, especially when he learns that the aircraft is maintaining complete radio silence, and that the attack can therefore not be called off.

A whole series of disastrous events ensue…

This brilliantly-staged production is a weird hybrid – part play, part film – and at times it is astonishing in its sheer invention. Coogan is extraordinary. Like Peter Sellars before him, he also takes on the role of RAF officer Group Captain Lionel Mandrake and, of course, the titular Dr S, a man who can’t seem to stop himself from making involuntary Nazi salutes… (Now where have I seen that recently?) Some of the lightning-fast costume changes he’s obliged to undergo are so slickly done that I’m left gasping.

But it’s not just Coogan who excels here. Hopkins plays the cigar-chomping, alpha male, Jack D Ripper with panache, while Terrera milks plenty of laughs as the scheming, self-serving Turgidson. There’s a huge cast at work here and every one of them is drilled to perfection.

Hildegard Bechtler’s set design is accomplished, opening and closing to disclose a wild variety of settings, even managing to convincingly place the audience in the cockpit of a B52 bomber, flying over mountainous terrain. Iannucci handles the adaptation with a light touch, capturing the original film perfectly and only occasionally tweaking the script to accommodate more recent references.

You don’t have to have seen the original to appreciate this superb production, but it might prompt many to investigate it on streaming. Kubrick made many great films over his long career and was famously pernickety about his work. But I have no doubt that he would be absolutely delighted by what director Sean Foley and his team have done with what could be the filmmaker’s greatest achievement.

5 stars

Philip Caveney

Ghost Stories

26/03/25

Festival Theatre, Edinburgh

What a strange thing, the passing of time. Taking my seat in the Festival Theatre, I can’t help being transported back to thirteen years ago, when Susan and I travelled from Manchester to London, with the express purpose of catching Ghost Stories as it neared the end of its first run. We’d heard great things about the show, created by Jeremy Dyson and Andy Nyman – and we were not disappointed.

Fast-forward to 2018 and now we’re in the cinema, watching the big-screen adaptation of the story, which has been skilfully retooled for a different medium, but still delivers a feast of creepy moments and heart-stopping jump-scares. 

And now, here’s the original production, out on tour and taking its twisty-turny narrative to a series of new locations. Over the intervening years, the show’s creators have somehow managed to compel audiences not to reveal too much about what actually happens in that intense hour-and-a-half and they continue to implore us to keep its secrets. Of course, this makes a reviewer’s job harder, but hey, those are the breaks. 

Suffice to say that Ghost Stories is a deliciously old-fashioned portmanteau, which incorporates three quite dissimilar stories and links them all together with an intriguing framing device. We are greeted by Professor Goodman (Dan Tetsell), a staunch disbeliever in all things supernatural, but he does have some puzzling cases to share with us. There’s the one about the chatty, chirpy nightwatchman, Tony Matthews (David Cardy), who has a particularly troubling evening at work; the cautionary tale of nervy Simon Rifkind  (Lucas Albion), who really should never have been put behind the steering wheel of an automobile; and let’s not forget the recollections of snarky businessman, Mike Priddle (Clive Mantle), who has a sobering memory to recount for anyone thinking of becoming a parent…

And that is about as much as I’m willing to share, other than to say that if you’ve never seen Ghost Stories in the theatre, this is your chance to rectify that situation. And if you have seen it, go back and admire the details. You may even spot the clues that have been artfully scattered throughout. You’ll relish Jon Bauser’s extraordinary set, forever opening up like a puzzle box to reveal its hidden depths. James Farncombe’s lighting design amps up the intense atmosphere of dread, which is also amplified by Nick Manning’s nerve-shredding sound design. Scott Penrose’s special effects will have you flinching in your seat at several key moments, while director Sean Holmes brings all the elements together and ties them up with a great big blood-curdling bow.

And if you’re of a nervous disposition, then my advice is to go along and see it anyway, because you’ll be so relieved to step out of the theatre to find that the real world is a whole lot less scary…

4.6 stars

Philip Caveney

Wasps

25/03/25

Traverse Theatre, Edinburgh

Cameron Forbes’ Wasps, the latest offering from A Play, A Pie and A Pint, buzzes along busily, like its  hymenoptera lookalike. Anchored by a gutsy performance from Yolanda Mitchell, this tragic coming-of-age monologue has quite a sting in its tail (sorry, not sorry).

Teenager Rianne (Mitchell) just wants to fit in. At school, she’s perfected the art of invisibility: if she dresses right, wears her make-up exactly so, earns just enough detentions, she can move through the corridors without attracting any attention at all. But there are downsides to never being seen. For one thing, her crush, Oran, doesn’t seem to realise she exists. And for another, not even her best friend notices when her life implodes…

I’m not usually a fan of so-called inspirational quotations but “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger” serves as a pretty decent précis of Wasps‘ central message. And I mean that in a good way. Rianne faces some really serious problems – including a confrontation with her spheksophobia -which she has to dig deep to face up to. And yes, she emerges battle-scarred, but at least she’s no longer desperate to disappear. She’s bolder, braver and ready to take up space. A bit more… wasp-like.

Director Lesley Hart ensures that the pace never flags, so that the play has a convincingly propulsive teenage energy, and Mitchell does a wonderful job of conveying both Rianne’s turbulent emotions and her evident disdain for many of the people in her life, evinced by her scathing impressions of them.

Gillian Argo’s set is visually arresting. I like the hexagonal construction, suggestive of a wasp’s nest, and the flickering projections of the worker wasps . However, I’m not always fully convinced by the wasp analogy; the comparison is perhaps stretched a little too thin. I’m also left with a couple of nagging questions about the plausibility of some of what occurs. (I can’t elucidate without spoilers but let’s just say that, though social care in the UK is undoubtedly in dire straits, Rianne is a vulnerable child and her situation would surely be flagged up; she wouldn’t be left to deal with it entirely alone.)

Nonetheless, this is a sprightly, engaging piece of drama, with some lively writing and a spirited delivery – a worthy addition to the PPP canon.

4 stars

Susan Singfield

Flow

23/03/25

Cineworld, Edinburgh

We managed to catch nearly all of this year’s Oscar nominated films at the cinema before (or shortly after) the event, but news that the widely-admired The Wild Robot hadn’t taken the gong for ‘best animation’ came as something of a surprise. Only a few minutes into Flow, which is finally on general release, that surprise is quickly annihilated. I often think that the word ‘masterpiece’ is overused but this groundbreaking animation by Latvian director Glints Zilbalodis is so accomplished, it’s all-too easy to see why it was handed the top award. The fact that it was made for a budget of three-million dollars – utilising free software package, Blender – only adds to the accomplishment.

Zilbalodis – who co-wrote the story with Matiss Kaza and Ron Dyens – eschews any of the long-established tropes we’ve come to expect from this genre. There are no talking animals voiced by well-known actors, the creatures that make up the cast can only miaow, bark, screech and grunt at each other and yet, somehow, that all adds to the wonder of the thing. The influences on the verdant look of this strange new world are more Miyazaki than Disney. Much of what I see on the big screen is quite simply breath-taking.

We’re somewhere in the near future and, while initially the world looks intact, there’s no sign of any humans, other than their empty houses and the everyday things they’ve left behind. Our hero is a black cat, who wanders across the countyside engaged in a never-ending search for food. He has a run-in with a pack of dogs, one of them an affable-looking golden retriever, but the confrontation is rudely interrupted by the arrival of a herd of fleeing deer. This is followed by a sudden and unexplained tsunami, a biblical flood that sets water levels rising at a terrifying speed.

The cat is lucky enough to encounter a sailboat drifting on the torrent but, once aboard, he finds it is already occupied by a capybara; though the two creatures have nothing in common, they quickly learn to co-exist. It’s not long before they are joined by the aforementioned retriever, an acquisitive lemur and a lanky secretary bird, who – it turns out – is pretty good at steering boats. Together they sail onwards, heading now towards a mysterious range of peaks on the far horizon. But what’s waiting for them there?

Flow is a great big allegory wrapped up in an enigma, one that fairly bristles with references. Climate crisis? Right there. Biblical references? Yup, you’ve got them – and not just Noah’s Ark. Allusions to death and what happens when creatures confront it? Oh, yes. It’s probably worth mentioning that there’s a lot of peril in this U certificate story and that some of its strands may not be suitable for younger viewers. While there’s no real violence to speak of, there is evidence of nature red in tooth and claw, so parents should think carefully before taking their smaller offspring along.

For older children and grown-ups, there’s a wonderful feast of viewing to be had, backed by soaring electronic music – composed by Zilbalodis (is there no end to this man’s talents?) with Rihards Zaļupe. Afterwards, there are great discussions to be had about all the different themes touched on by this ambitious, inspired, and sometimes downright challenging story.

It took five years to create Flow – and I’m already looking forward to exploring wherever Zilbalodis takes me next.

5 stars

Philip Caveney

Wild Rose

20/03/25

Lyceum Theatre, Edinburgh

Rose-Lynn Harlan (Dawn Sievewright) has a dream: to appear on the stage of Nashville’s legendary Grand Ol’ Opry, belting out a country song – not a country and western song, mind you. It’s an important distinction. So, being banged up in prison for a year wasn’t part of the grand ol’ plan – but now she’s served her time and is finally able to head back to her mum, Marion (Blythe Duff), who has been dutifully looking after Rose-Lynn’s two young children, Lyle (Leo Stephen) and Wynonna (Jessie-Lou Harvie).

Rose-Lynn is dismayed to find that her kids have become disaffected by her long absence and that their former trust in her has been all but eroded. What’s more, they view her long-cherished dream as selfishness. And that’s not all that has changed. When she calls in at the Grand Ol’ Opry, Glasgow – where she previously had a residency – she discovers that her regular slot has been handed to the dreaded Alan Boyne (Andy Clark), a long-haired carpet fitter with a sideline as a charisma-free country singer.

Desperate to keep her head above water, Rose-Lynn takes a part-time post as a cleaner, working for the highly-privileged Susannah (Janet Kumah). She’s a go-getter and, once she’s heard Rose-Lynn sing, she becomes determined to put her in touch with legendary DJ Bob Harris, who Susannah believes might be able to offer some good advice.

Rose-Lynn realises that her long-cherished ambitions are still burning as fiercely as ever…

This assured version of the 2018 film (adapted by its original screenwriter, Nicole Taylor) makes a seemingly effortless transition to the stage. A prison-set opening where Rose-Lynn and her fellow inmates launch headlong into a propulsive rendition of Country Girl sets the tone perfectly, with Sievewright stepping into Jessie Buckley’s cowboy boots with absolute authority. An eight-piece band ranged across the back of the stage performs a varied selection of numbers, from banging rockers to lilting, steel-guitar layered ballads. And it’s not just Sievewright supplying the singing.

As bar-owner, Jackie, Louise McCarthy belts out her own fair share of raunchy vocals, Duff does a fabulous job with a haunting song of regret and even the two youngest members of the cast have the opportunity to shine as vocalists. Clark – who takes on a number of roles – proves himself an invaluable asset to the production, as does Hannah Jarrett-Scott, who appears as two (very different) characters.

Chloe Lamford’s simple but effective set design works beautifully alongside Jessica Hung Han Yun’s inventive lighting and Lewis den Hartog’s simple-but-effective video design. John Tiffany handles the directorial reins with absolute aplomb. It’s worth mentioning, I think, that Wild Rose will be the final production under David Greig’s eight-year spell as the Lyceum’s artistic director. He leaves on an impressive high note.

Wild Rose is a fabulously entertaining story about ambition and acceptance, anchored by a knockout performance from Dawn Sievewright. Anyone in search of an uplifting night at the theatre will find it here. And you don’t have to be a die-hard country fan to enjoy this fabulous show.

5 stars

Philip Caveney

Eilidh, Eilidh, Eilidh

18/03/25

Traverse Theatre, Edinburgh

This three-hander, written and directed by Lana Pheutan, explores the rural housing crisis through the lens of drunken cousins, Eilidh (MJ Deans) and Eilidh Bheag (Chelsea Grace). The two women are in their late twenties, ready to embrace their adult lives but thwarted by the prevalence of AirBNBs on their native island, Skye. “I’m a teacher!” wails Eilidh. “I deserve my dream home…” While her sense of entitlement is quite comical – she’s been working for just a few years and her unemployed boyfriend isn’t even looking for a job – she’s not wrong in her assessment of a broken housing market, where flats are snapped up by remote investors before locals can even get a look in. But living back at her mum’s is starting to wear her down…

Her solution? To persuade Eilidh Bheag to break into a holiday let with her and then… um… Well. She hasn’t really worked out what should happen next. It just seemed like a good idea half an hour ago, when the pub landlord refused them a lock-in.

MJ Deans imbues Eilidh with lots of sass and self-righteousness, while Chelsea Grace’s Eilidh Bheag provides a calmer foil, tempering the former’s outrage with a few gentle home truths. After all, Eilidh Bheag is the one who’s stayed on Skye, while her cousin’s been living the high life in Glasgow for the past eight years. How dare she come back to the island and accuse her of pandering to tourists, being “part of the problem”? “You only care when it directly affects you,” snaps Eilidh Bheag at last, tired of being hectored. 

The altercation is disrupted by the unexpected arrival of Miss Nicille Mhicheil (Annie Grace), an elderly local resident. The dynamic changes, and an inter-generational element is added to the polemic, injecting more nuance. 

Pheutan’s direction is sprightly and the pace never drops, although the dialogue occasionally sounds a little too much like rhetoric, the issues taking precedence over the characters and their immediate situation. On the plus side, the occasional use of Gaelic serves as a reminder of the culture the community stands to lose, and also sounds very authentic (I’m from North Wales, so the pattern is a familiar one: it feels very natural to me to speak English with a smattering of Welsh phrases). 

Eilidh, Eilidh, Eilidh succeeds in raising awareness of an important problem – and even moots an answer, albeit a little simplistic.  All in all, this is a heartfelt and ultimately heartwarming piece of drama. 

4 stars

Susan Singfield

Felicity Ward: I’m Exhausting!

15/03/25

Traverse Theatre, Edinburgh

Felicity Ward’s manic energy is apparent from the moment we hear her shrieking, “Please welcome to the stage…” from the wings. She bounds on – which is in itself quite a feat, given the towering stilettos she’s wearing. And the tone is set for two hours of mayhem…

Ward is an experienced performer and it shows. The London-dwelling Aussie hasn’t done any stand-up for several months, she tells us, so why not “ease” back into it with a two-hour set? Actually, the show is a little baggy in places – I think I’d prefer a tight ninety minutes – but she has us in the palm of her hand and the Traverse 2 is rocking with laughter.

The subject matter is wide-ranging, from childbirth to the pandemic, from Quorn to, erm… fingering. There are also some weirdly wonderful animal impressions (more of these, please!), as well as some admirably frank references to mental health problems, particularly of the post-natal variety. Ward’s unfiltered openness is what makes her so engaging – well, that and her irrepressible mischievousness. She has an infectious laugh and the cheekiest smile you’ve ever seen.

I’m not usually a massive fan of comedians talking about parenthood because they mostly tread the same old ground, but Ward’s disarming admissions are bold and fresh. She makes us feel the horror of childbirth as well as the wonder; makes us laugh out loud (with schadenfreude) at her various mishaps.

I’m less keen on her weight-gain material. Previously a size 4, Ward bemoans “ballooning” to a size 14. While she aims for body positivity, claiming to love her belly, she also acknowledges that this material doesn’t really work now that she’s lost a lot of the weight, thanks to training for Australia’s Dancing With the Stars. It’s all a bit Bridget Jones and I’m not sure it ever would have sat well with me, especially as lines like, “When your leggings don’t fit, you know you’ve got a problem” and, “At least you’re never too big for a scarf” belie her supposed fat acceptance.

That aside, I have a thoroughly fabulous evening. Ward’s not lying with her titular assertion: she is exhausting. Her ADHD might be undiagnosed but it’s surely undeniable. She ping-pongs all over the place, physically and verbally – yet somehow manages to take us with her.

One thing’s for sure: I’ll be streaming the Australian version of The Office tonight. I can’t wait to see what this kinetic woman brings to the David Brent role. Meanwhile, I’ve laughed more than I have in ages. And I’ll never look at a giraffe in the same way again…

4.2 stars

Susan Singfield

Black Bag

15/03/25

Cineworld, Edinburgh

Meanwhile, back in the most unconvincing retirement since Frank Sinatra announced his ‘final’ tour, Steven Soderbergh has a new film. (We reviewed his previous effort, Presence, in January.) So he’s more productive than most of his peers and, if it sometimes feels as though he’s simply ticking some boxes here – “Ooh, I haven’t done a proper spy movie before!” – Black Bag is yet another notch on his belt, even if it seems like his latest opus is a little too understated for comfort.

British intelligence officer George Woodhouse (Michael Fassbender) is contacted by his superior, ‘Meachum’ (Gustaf Skarsgaard), to investigate the leak of a top-secret software programme called ‘Severus.’ (It might just as readily have been named ‘McGuffin.) All we really know about Severus is that, if it falls into the wrong hands, thousands of people could die, though exactly how is a matter of conjecture. Meachum warns George that amongst the suspects is Woodhouse’s wife and fellow-operative, Kathryn (Cate Blanchett), who – George has to reluctantly admit to himself – has been behaving rather suspiciously of late. But he trusts her implicitly… doesn’t he? Meachum gives George a week to find out who is responsible but, shortly afterwards, Meachum succumbs to an unlikely heart attack and dies.

George is a meticulous operative and he promptly invites the four other suspects – all of them fellow spies – to a dinner party at his house, where he spikes a bowl of curry with a truth serum (after first warning Kathryn not to eat any). But who is the most likely candidate for this betrayal? Could it be satellite imagery expert, Clarissa (Marisa Abela)? Her current boyfriend, Freddie (Tom Burke), who is himself having an affair with… somebody? What about the agency psychiatrist, Zoe (Naomi Harris), who is privy to all their secrets? Or her current squeeze, James (Regé Jean Page), a man who is perhaps a little too cool and handsome to be entirely trustworthy?

To add a little extra spice, the agency’s overall boss, Arthur Steiglitz (Pierce Brosnan), would also appear to have some skin in the game…

Black Bag is, I suppose, a slice of cold-war claustrophobia. The title refers to the two-word excuse given by operatives when they don’t want their recent escapades to be investigated too closely. Soderburgh keeps everything bubbling along as David Koepp’s script switches slickly back and forth between the various machinations, and there are some cyber-tech scenes where suspects are investigated by hidden cameras… but there’s a problem here: it’s that I’m simply not invested enough in the characters to care what happens to them. The most interesting scene is the one where the four suspects undergo lie-detector tests and Soderbergh has fun cutting back and forth between their respective POVs, but that’s not really enough to keep me hooked through the entire hour-and-a-half run time.

And the closing scene’s final ‘twist’ doesn’t feel like enough justification for the whole enterprise. So, decent-ish, I guess, but certainly not up there with the director’s finest work.

So, let’s see what he has up his sleeve. It occurs to me that he’s never really done a cannibal holocaust movie. Who knows? It could just happen.

3.2 stars

Philip Caveney

Chef

14/03/25

Traverse Theatre, Edinburgh

We are in a working kitchen and Chef (Rebecca Benson) is commenting on the purity of a peach, how so many cooks see it as their duty to corrupt and mask its natural flavour in their constant mission to seek out exotic new recipes. Here is somebody who has an almost religious fervour about food: its presentation, its flavours, the impact it can have on our lives. As she warms to her theme, we learn that the preparation of food has been both her salvation and her downfall. Alongside her, a silent kitchen porter – and BSL interpreter (Yvonne Strain) – helps her out whenever she needs to illustrate a point.

Sabrina Mahfouz’s Chef is an extraordinary play, a monologue delivered in a lyrical, almost poetic flow of startling imagery, the various sections of the narrator’s life introduced around specific recipes, each one important to her development. We learn about her hardscrabble youth, her uncaring father, her fierce determination to one day have a Michelin star displayed above the entrance to her own premises. And we gradually learn about what brought her to this particular kitchen today.

The tone at first is light, stuffed with delicious descriptions that flow from Benson’s tongue like manna – but, as the play stretches into its second half, other darker flavours begin to creep in: the shocking tang of corruption, a hint of something rotten at the heart of this tale of vaulting ambition.

And I love the fact that the story ends with a note of duality, the possibility that all might not be as straightforward as it initially appears…

Anchored by a powerhouse performance by Benson that ranges from uplifting fervour to unfettered rage, the piece is skilfully directed by André Agius, with Peter Small’s lighting design switching us effortlessly from place to place in the narrator’s cluttered headspace – and I’ve never seen a BSL interpreter so seamlessly incorporated into a performance, with Strain making an important contribution to the production that goes beyond the practical purposes she’s been put there for.

This is a riveting slice of theatre, brilliantly performed and expertly presented.

5 stars

Philip Caveney