Using our guide, can you name all of the fetishes in this photo?

The word “fetish” originally meant “charm,” originating from the fifteenth century Portuguese word “feitico,” meaning “spell.” A fetish is an object believed to have supernatural powers, or in particular, a man-made object that has power over others.

Sexual fetishism describes the sexual arousal a person receives from a physical object, or from a specific situation. A sexual fetish may be regarded as an element that enhances a sexual relationship, but can also become a disorder of sexual preference if it causes significant psychosocial distress for the person or has detrimental effects on important areas of their life.

Early psychology assumed that fetishism was caused either by being conditioned, or as the result of a strong emotional or physical experience. Late nineteenth century French philosopher (and incidentally also inventor of the IQ test) Alfred Binet thought that fetishism was the pathological result of associations. He argued that by accidentally presenting sexual stimulus and an inanimate object simultaneously, the object can become permanently connected to sexual arousal. In 1920 sexologist Magnus Hirschfeld proposed that sexual attractiveness never originates in a person as a whole but is always the product of the interaction of individual features, and pathological fetishism exists where people detach and overvalue a single feature – a theory which is still often used in explaining why males and females highlight specific body parts. Alternatively, neurologists propose that fetishism could be the result of neuronal cross links between neighbouring regions in the human brain. It could be more than coincidental that the area processing sensory input from the feet lies immediately next to the part processing sexual stimulation.

Most people have ingrained and natural sexual fetishes, which are part of the method a person uses to choose a desirable and arousing sexual partner and mate. Fetishes are often considered taboo subjects, but it is common and normal for people to find multiple areas of fetish subjects arousing and intriguing. There are some fetishes that tend to be universally arousing to everyone, particularly body parts, which are usually viewed as more acceptable than the extreme examples. Fetishism describes normal variations of human sexuality, and legal forms of fetishism are usually considered unobjectionable as long as all people involved feel comfortable, and do not experience any suffering from their feelings or actions.

PartB Fetish Guide

Popular fetishes

Specific body parts: Humans instinctively find particular physical attributes arousing, and different people have different reactions to different body parts. Common examples include feet, breasts, stomach, butt, curves and sexual organs. Hard-core examples include extreme body sizes such as morbidly obese or unhealthily skinny forms, extremely old or young looking people, transgender or cross-dressing individuals, and drastically altered body parts via plastic surgery, such as abnormally large breasts.

Sensual materials or clothing: One of the most famous fetishes is the desire to see women in stockings and heels. Other popular sex signals in modern culture include tight fitting materials such as leather and spandex, and materials that are sensual to touch, such as satin, lace and latex.

Voyeurism and exhibitionism: By another name, one form of voyeurism is probably the most widespread and popular fetish of all: pornography. The act of watching others engaging in sexual acts tends to be universally arousing and allows people to explore fetish material that they would not want to engage in personally. On the extreme side, some voyeurs enjoy watching live shows and extreme examples of this fetish would be illegally spying on or videotaping others. On the flip side, exhibitionism is also highly popular. As seen with the ever increasing popularity of home-made or amateur porn, and some people even enjoy having other people watching during the acts themselves (hence the popularity of nudity on “Chat Roulette”).

Piercings: Piercings are a common fetish due to the visual and physical stimulation they can provide. Pierced tongues are a common desire for oral play, and piercings in nipples, on a man’s penis, and near a woman’s clitoris provide extreme pleasure, even without stimulation.

Role play: Role play can range from simple dirty talk to complex scenarios involving costumes, sets and intricate “scenes.” Role playing allows participants to wear sexy costumes, explore a different persona, and act out fantasies.

Bondage: Bondage is basically the act of restricting the movements of one partner during sexual activities. This can range from a pair of novelty handcuffs to using intricate restraint systems. The lighter forms of bondage are quite common and many people enjoy using furry handcuffs, scarves and blindfolds. Hard-core examples can be quite extreme, and include real handcuffs or restraints that cannot be escaped without assistance, suspended restraint systems (which suspend a person from the ceiling or wall), cages, stocks and bolted wall restraints.

Power play: Commonly known as being submissive or dominant, power play is the act of giving power to another person or receiving control over another person in a sexual situation. Perhaps surprisingly, it is common for women to be dominant over their men in bed, and for men who are in powerful positions in their everyday life to become highly aroused by being submissive in the bedroom. This shift of normal power tends to heighten sexual desire and provide extreme arousal for participants.

Fetishes that are stranger than usual (Note: fulfilling the following may not be legal)

Acrotomophilia: The person is sexually aroused by the sight of an amputation, usually of a whole arm or leg.

Apotemnophilia: This person is sexually aroused by having a part of their body amputated, either by themselves or someone else. They have to be awake during the process, and the memory of the amputation can serve to arouse them for years.

Asphyxiophilia: This is sexual arousal caused by loss of control over your ability to breathe, i.e. self-strangulation or allowing another person to asphyxiate you.

Autassassinophilia: The person is sexually aroused by putting themselves in situations in which they may be killed. They really have to feel they are in danger in order to be sexually aroused. Many such people get killed in the process.

Catheterophila: The person is sexually aroused by the insertion of a catheter.

Coprophilia: Smearing human faeces on yourself or having someone smear it on you causing sexual arousal (see the infamous internet video “Two Girls One Cup”).

Coprophagia: Eating and ingesting human faeces (again, see “Two Girls One Cup”).

Erotophonophilia: These people are dangerous – they are sexually aroused by, not just thoughts, but attempts of killing someone.

Formicophilia: Sexual arousal is caused by having insects crawl on their genitals.

Hierophilia: Sexual attraction to religious items or figures. This is often found in people who are very devout to their faith. Many claim that it is blasphemous to desire any religious figures, but practitioners claim they are simply taking their love of the faith to a higher, more intimate level.

Hybristophilia: Sexual relations with a convicted criminal.

Infantilism: Dressing as an infant and acting the role of a child under two years old is sexually arousing. This can include having someone act as a nurse or nanny to take care of you.

Morphophilia: Peculiar body shapes and sizes are sexually arousing such as heavy, short, dwarfism, etc.

Necrophilia: Engaging in sexual activities with dead people.

Objectum sexual: Sexual attraction to inanimate objects. The term was first coined by Eija-Riitta Berliner-Mauer, a 54-year-old woman who was “married” to the Berlin Wall for 29 years. In 2008 Erika La Tour “married” the Eiffel Tower in front of a group of friends and family. Her first infatuation was with a bow that helped her to become a world-class archer, and she claims to have a physical relationship with a piece of fence she keeps in her bedroom.

Plushophilia: Also known as “pony play” or “human animal role play,” this is sexual attraction to stuffed animals or people dressed in animal costumes (there are lots of entertaining photos on the internet). It can also involve a partner taking on a dominant role in relation to the animal, for example, the owner or trainer.

Somnophilia: The person can only maintain sexual arousal while having sex with someone who is sleeping. If the person wakes up they lose interest.

Stigmatophilia: Body piercing and tattooing is sexually arousing.

Symphorphilia: Natural disasters are sexually arousing.

Tentacle erotica: Describes a fetish most commonly found in Japan. Originating in early nineteenth century Japanese artwork, “tentacle rape” (shokushu goukan) involves tentacled creatures (usually octopuses or fictional monsters) having sexual intercourse with females. While most tentacle erotica is animated, there are a number of popular live-action films featuring this theme.

Urophilia: Being urinated on or urinating on someone (“golden showers”).

Zoophilia: The person wants to be treated like an animal wearing a collar and even eating out of an animal’s dish. (This is different from bestiality, in which the person wants to have sex with an animal.)

Yet, she has been met with a crashing wave of backlash before even finding her well-deserved fame, with cynics who see her as a trouty-mouthed Frankenstein creation by back-room bigwigs aiming to manufacture the Facebook generation’s newest indie-pop pin-up. Two years ago, under her given name Elizabeth Grant, Del Rey was little-known on the music scene, one of hundreds of musicians trying to find their footing amongst the bar and club scene of New York. Now, traces of Lizzy Grant are hard to come by, with her first album, “Lana Del Rey A.K.A Lizzy Grant” having been withdrawn from iTunes after a brief period, prompting Grant fans to believe suited Svengalis have been behind Del Rey’s potentially strategic reinvention. Add to this her recent lacklustre Saturday Night Live performance and theories that her Daddy Warbucks has been behind her transformation and you have yourself a star enshrouded by public intrigue.

Either way, “Born to Die” has been hugely anticipated ever since Del Rey uploaded her home-made, old-Hollywood reminiscent video of the beautifully haunting “Video Games” to YouTube. In the album’s opening track, after which the record is named, she floats effortlessly between her sultry lower register and coquettish soprano, resulting in a track which is unforced evidence of her (self-proclaimed) “gangster Nancy Sinatra” perfection. On the addictive “Off to the Races,” her enticing vocals take the listener dizzyingly from raspy flirtation to sugary giddiness, while there is a momentary breather from the heavy atmospherics on the succulent “Diet Mtn Dew,” a truly standout track. “National Anthem” is well worthy of its title, brimming with attitude and showcasing Del Rey’s ability to create tracks that are little less than epic.

What makes Lana Del Rey, and the album, so richly thrilling is her ability to naturally transition between the film-noir femme fatale, the white trash all-American girl and the innocent Lolita, a trait which she seems at times, deliciously unaware of and, at others, teasingly eager to augment; the vocally Lykke Li-esque “Lolita,” which appears on the Special Edition, seems to be an almost mocking play on this depiction, while on the compellingly dark “Carmen,” Del Rey rarely lets slip her veil of Hollywood glamour.

Bittersweet as dark chocolate, a thematic focus of the record is that of destructive and damned love, of the rebellious “jeune fille” falling for the bad guy. It’s the kind of record you could imagine being spun by Skins’s Effy Stonem during an hour of contemplative solitude, though its inevitable appeal to today’s angst-filled teenaged youth should not detract from its brilliance.

The record is not quite perfection; it collapses slightly towards the end, and the excessive production can become rather nauseating. “Summertime Sadness” plays the nymphet card one time too many, while “Dark Paradise,” though a small masterpiece in its own right, pales in comparison to the opening track’s magnificence. Yet, Del Rey works hard to make each track a work of art in its own right. From start to finish, “Born to Die” takes the listener on a giddy journey down the rabbit hole to her own dark and hazy wonderland where she is the Queen of Hearts. Whether the persona, or the bee-stung pout, is authentic or not, there is no doubt that music certainly is.

The exterior of Mishkin’s, on Catherine street

If you have ever wandered to the north end of Brick Lane you will have visited a true London highlight – the beigel (the true Yiddish spelling of bagel). These shops are bastions of the cultural heritage of East London’s Jewish population, as well as the historic Cable Street Mural and the Ridley Road Market. Yet they are the faltering earmarks of a very important immigrant population that are disappearing from the former working class areas. The rapid and ubiquitous investment in to East London has robbed the area of these little wonders and smeared a number of stale chain eateries that capture as much social history as the back end of a donkey. However, Mishkin’s has brought some remnants of Jewish cuisine back to London and in quite some style too. The self-claimed “kind-of Jewish delicatessen” (mind you, it is not kosher) takes most of its influence from across the pond but also holds on to the Jewish London influence. The range of Jewish inspired classics in their superb small plate selection and delectable list of cocktails makes this a perfect venue for a special lunchtime experience.

Mishkin’s is one of four restaurants opened in Central London by the restaurateur Russell Norman. This, his second in Covent Garden, mimics his others in their New York inspired diner/cocktail bar mash up. His style is to peel back and polish, letting the interiors splash with 1950s wallpaper and a shining but dented giant zinc bar. What’s more, the exterior looks like an authentic 50’s diner from either side of the Atlantic, sporting the name on the window in a handsome gold font and the lace curtain that starts half way down the window. As I walked on to the parquet floor and looked up at the vintage pendant glass lampshades, I feared that, in addition to the red vinyl benches, it would all be a bit too kitsch for me. Russell Norman’s choice of staff quickly put an end to that notion. Tattooed up to her jaw line, Carmen, the floor manager, is not your usual Covent Garden waitress. Furthermore, her colleague, Elliott, two years her junior at 24, sports wristbands from all festivals five years prior, but is a delightfully skilled barman, complete with dishcloth over shoulder. The youthful looking and comfortably capable staff bring a crucial twist to what potentially could, on looks alone, be a stand-alone idiosyncratic Ed’s diner.

The consumables rid me of any doubt I had. Starting with a gin based cocktail of a majority grapefruit juice, the London Cup, served in iced jam jars, really inspired the stomach to lead the way as I perused the menu. On such a winter’s day when the wind would have you on the floor, I fell instantly for the Brick Lane salt beef with Colman’s mustard and dill pickles. A classic I knew and a classic that held up. At twice the size of your average Brick Lane salt beef beigel, this sandwich is a behemoth. This works for the price but not for its behaviour as a sandwich, for which it disintegrated quickly among the yummy pickle juice. I did not shed a tear, however, as I was entertained by experimenting with the different levels of hot English mustard I could take from the retro yellow condiment squeezer. An affair that is not possible on Brick Lane, which is more like a Russian roulette game, waiting for the fateful bite that has the entire dollop of mustard they scraped in to the damned thing.

On another occasion I had the latkes, smoked eel, applesauce and soured cream. While eel appears in jelly in England, the Jewish-German immigrants took their smoked version over with them to the bright lights of The Big Apple. It has made its delicious trip back east on to my plate to tell its tale, bringing with it its very sweet American applesauce and another Jewish treat – the potato latke. The presentation is a delight in its delicate tower always served on a blue bone china plate. The meaty smoked eel has the lighter soured cream as a foil, while the crunchy latkes and applesauce complete a well-rounded combination of well waited oppositions. While the dish is filling, a side order of the beautifully battered onion rings make for a hearty meal.

It can get pretty hectic at lunch, especially if you sit at the bar. It is possible to book but I find it most enjoyable to stroll on up after a mid-afternoon lecture and lounge for a while with a nice meal, good atmosphere and scrummy cocktail. Who knows, it could be your little piece of Mad Men living.

Rating: 4/5

Location: 25 Catherine street, London WC2
Nearest station: Covent Garden
Average price: £25
Opening times: 1100–2330 Mon–Sat, 1200–2230 Sun

Website: www.mishkins.co.uk

Shai-Hulud, the sandworm of Arrakis, by John Schoenherr

In a world where resources are scarce and the Earth is reduced to dust, the human race must adapt in order to survive. Resources indigenous to a particular planet have suddenly become worth more than gold, and because of this, conflict between kingdoms and clans loom large.

This should all sound vaguely familiar in relation to our world. Replace oil with a geriatric drug known as the Spice, Earth with the seemingly destroyed ecosystem of Arrakis, and inter (and intra) state conflict with rivalling clans in an intergalactic empire and you have a closer picture of what Frank Herbert paints in Dune. Of course, the list goes on and the rest is startlingly complex.

Frank Herbert’s 1965 novel was a seminal work in the history of science fiction. It tackled the very relevant themes of religious fundamentalism, environmental decline, feuding families and offered a very interesting view on eugenics. The plot itself is roughly as follows: Paul Atreides is the sole heir of the Atreides house and inherits the fiefdom of Arrakis (a planet better known as Dune) after the murder of his father, Duke Leto. Arrakis is an arid, sandworm-infested landscape without a drop of water in sight. Consequently, inhabitants of this planet wear protective suits to conserve water at all times and have developed supersensory capabilities. More importantly, Arrakis is the only planet where the Spice (a powerful drug) is harvested and subsequently, certain powerful clans in the galaxy wanting in on the drug trade are interested in the politically inexperienced Paul Atreides. Except when their armies arrive some years later, they discover Paul the revered Messiah of the Arrakeen populace, transfigured into something rather mythical. The real powers of Paul are mind-boggling and he is often at doubts with what he is capable of. And the story goes on.

Published at a time when issues such as climate change and climate change science was only just taking off (at a time when we were all preoccupied with the Cold War and well before the first global oil shock), Dune was both foretelling and revolutionary. Many agree that next to the venerable world of Middle Earth, the Dune saga (Frank Herbert wrote the six novels of the original series, while his son, Brian, and Kevin J. Anderson co-authored two trilogies as well as a seventh novel based on Frank Herbert’s notes to conclude the original series) is one of the most well-built and well defined imaginary constructions to date. The fragile ecological system of Arrakis is explained thoroughly, and the religion its inhabitants build their lives around has references to Islamic texts. Even the exact workings of the Dune peoples’s protective suit are described. Every minutiae is addressed and the glossary and appendixes round it all off. Alongside a strongly developed world, the emotional development of the characters appear a little stilted at times. But the cast is nonetheless of epic proportions. While some characters such as Duke Harkonnen are rather simplistic (but still a formidable and crafty foe), the Bene Gesserit, Paul and Stilgar and Leto are all fleshed out and to the reader, become more than just the author’s literary voiceboxes The plot does not drag and Herbert manages to fit in quite a few references to apocalypse, jihadists, impending death of the main protagonist, the usual epic romance and a many other revelatory concepts new to science fiction and the world at the time.

Many (more qualified) individuals have reviewed and analysed Dune, and have place it in the hall of science fiction fame. It spawned a terrible film adaptation by David Lynch and a staunch cult who defend the work as one of the greatest in science fiction literature and has since set a very high standard for would-be authors of the genre. Dune has also influenced many subsequent works, including Star Wars. Sadly, however, it has not been accepted into the usual literary canon, but Hodder and Stoughton have recently issued an edition with a more mundane cover, in the same way that the Harry Potter books all received monochrome makeovers, so that you might be mistaken for reading a great contemporary classic on the Tube instead. Enjoy.

Dune (1982), Frank Herbert, Hodder and Stoughton, Paperback, £8.99

Bertrand Bonello skilfully captures the last days of brothel L’Apollonide in fin-de-siècle Paris and of the girls living and working inside the closed world that is the House of Tolerance.

The opening scene begins with the story of Madeleine (Alice Barnole), who is brutally attacked by a client. He leaves her mutilated with a scar in the shape of a smile stretching up her cheeks. This becomes a key symbol and a central focus of the film, and we return to the events of the evening in flashbacks throughout. The closing scene, equally dramatic, parallels this opening scene and brings together the story of Madeleine.

Played out alongside the tragedy of Madeleine is the death of Julie (Jasmine Trinca) from syphilis and the demise of opium addict Clotilde (Céline Salette). However, much of what lies between the dramatic opening and closing scenes is less energetic. The main body of the film often seems little more than a compilation of events and anecdotes from the girls, which often grate against each other rather than fusing together.

This is part of Bonello’s vision to capture everything from the individual perspective of the prostitutes – of the women themselves. It is an uncommon angle of approach. His idea extends beyond the screenplay, as there are very few shots of males at all. The film alternates between the girls’s happiness and misery, allowing them to disclose their worries alongside their confessions.

House of Tolerance is a film of contrasts. Being shot almost entirely in the brothel house, spaces within the building have extra importance. Downstairs is the workplace of the girls, an elaborate aesthetic – think a house of velvet – that is juxtaposed with the upstairs, where the girls live a very simple lifestyle. Paradoxically, it is upstairs that they at times are able to find companionship in each other, quite unlike their relationships with the clients who seek clandestine pleasures in the rooms below. The men are always portrayed as self-absorbed and lacking in character: “men have secrets, but no mystery,” and thus sympathy for the prostitutes is easily felt.

For a film that is essentially about sex, there is less eroticism than you might expect. Although there is certainly no shortage of bosom, the limited sex scenes are characterised by unusual fetishisms. The clients have the girls act out their oddest fantasies, such as bathing in champagne and talking dirty in Japanese while dressed as a geisha.

The casting is excellent with the mélange of personalities complementing each other extremely well. Their friendships are raw and believable. Iliana Zabeth, as the youngest prostitute Pauline, is particularly likeable and her tender naïveté contrasts with Sallette’s role as the haggard and weary Clotilde. While each girl is unique, they all exhibit characteristics of endurance and compliance, and of course all are incredibly sexy.

As with most period dramas the costumes are among the most captivating aspects of the film; the women’s outfits emulate opulence, lavish corsets and provocative lingerie, while the dandy appearance of the male clients works perfectly too. The work of costume designer Anaïs Romand is very impressive.

More debatable is the choice of music. Bonello’s soundtrack mixes early twentieth century classical pieces with modern 1960’s American soul music, aimed at connecting the lives of the girls with slavery. While this is a veritable parallel, the anachronism is jarring and the film has the potential to create such connections more subtly.

This is not the only respect in which the film is not entirely a period piece. The last shot, which acts as a final comment, underlines the perpetuity of the issues highlighted by Bonello. We see the girls of L’Apollonide standing by a busy road, their corsets replaced with short skirts, as they offer themselves and their sex to a resolute twentieth century world.

While House of Tolerance may not be to everyone’s taste, it leaves you with much to think about and, if nothing else, the haunting images of a once beautiful, now disfigured face.

Rating: 4/5

House of Tolerance is in cinemas now.

George Clooney, as Matt King, and family in Hawaii

So much for preconceptions. If The Descendants continues its mediocre performance at the stateside box office then Alexander Payne only has his publicity team to blame. Their trailer makes the film look everything it is not; schmaltzy, overblown and painfully feel-good. In reality, it is a beautifully subtle and bittersweet reflection on loss, grief and legacy that deserves every plaudit being thrown at it this awards season.

George Clooney plays Matt King, a lawyer in Hawaii dealing not only with the tragedy of his wife Elizabeth falling into a coma after a boating accident, but also with the imminent sale of his family’s swathes of unspoilt land, part of their heritage in the state for hundreds of years. What could seem like a relatively straightforward tale of loss is quickly shown to be far more convoluted and morally ambiguous; King’s daughter Alexandra (Shailene Woodley) tells him his dying wife had taken a lover prior to her accident. King is thus forced to attempt to reconcile his feelings of anger and betrayal with his deep love for his wife as she drifts away, whilst also embarking on an almost farcical search for the man his wife loved in her final years.

That, really, is all that happens in the film, as we follow King’s journey around Hawaii, punctuated by visits to see his cheating, comatose spouse. Yet Payne makes every scene utterly enthralling, and manages the bittersweet, dark comedy with the same skill as in About Schmidt 10 years ago. There are none of the soaring orchestral pieces or shots of rain snaking down an open window that often make Hollywood weepies so unbearable. Instead, Payne does everything in his power to underplay the tragedy and lace it with brilliant laugh-out-loud humour. King’s veneer of contentment never breaks for his daughters’s sake, and we are introduced to a string of ever more absurd characters along the way, not least Alexandra’s doofus boyfriend Sid (Nick Krause) and King’s cousin Hugh, Beau Bridges on inspired form as the archetype of an aging Hawaiian hippie.

Clooney himself is particularly interesting in this film. It is often said that he only has three or four characters which are endlessly recycled, and for many of the early scenes he seems to be on auto-pilot as the lovable idiot character we have seen so often in the past. He is startlingly excellent, however, as the film reaches its climax; his understated emotion fits the tone of the film perfectly, and his rare ability to convey a full range of feeling in one look dovetails with many of the moral challenges in Payne’s screenplay. If there should be no surprise at Clooney’s Oscar nod this week, then there should also be consternation at Woodley’s absence from the nominees. She is revelatory as Alexandra, the eldest of King’s daughters, and her charming, and often cutting outspokenness complements the introverted nature of her father. Their relationship is at the very core of the film.

The true brilliance of the film, however, predictably lies with Payne. It has been seven years since his last film, Sideways, but The Descendants proves that he has lost none of his mastery of either direction or writing. He carries an interesting premise with wonderful dialogue; nothing is superfluous and comedy is found in the most unexpected of places. Who knew that shouting at a dying, comatose woman could be both so tragic and simultaneously so darkly amusing? Payne. His direction, moreover, is beautifully done. Hawaii is strikingly attractive. It is shown not as the fantastical hula-land of countless previous portrayals, but as a real place, where tragedy occurs amidst the palm trees and not everything can be surfed or slept away. Loss is shown as neither inexorable nor fatal, heritage is not always a barrier to progress and tragedy and comedy can be equal bedfellows in a film without it feeling awkward or lop-sided.

Characteristic of Payne’s films, The Descendants is richly satirical and symbolic, but it would be a shame to spoil the unexpected challenges the film poses. Instead, I would simply suggest that you ignore the cliché ridden trailer for this film and go and see it. It is one of the most charming and thought-provoking films to come out of Hollywood this year.

Rating: 4/5

The Descendants is in cinemas now.

Shohreh Agdashloo as Bernarda Alba, with further cast

Emily Mann has reinvigorated Federico Garcia Lorca’s masterpiece The House of Bernarda Alba by transporting it from rural Spain to present-day Iran. Originally written during the political unrest in Madrid in 1936, Lorca uses the everyday inferior treatment of women as a suitable metaphor for tyranny more generally. At the time of writing a military coup was looming in Spain, threatening to plunge the country back into another dictatorship – a context that adds further substance to the play’s already far-reaching motif. What sets the play apart from others is its entirely female cast, which leaves the audience no choice but to focus their attention on women, and more specifically the way in which they live as subordinates to men. Mann’s version manages to keep hold of the messages that have made it Lorca’s most frequently staged play, and the cast gives a crisp, and at times delicate, performance.

The stage is designed by Bunny Christie to give the impression of a grand old house, with bare bricks and chipped paint; in the first scene we see the maid (Mia Soteriou) busily scrubbing the floors, before giving up to retrieve a vacuum cleaner – one of several humorous moments in an otherwise composed production. The maid resents her master, Bernarda Alba, played by the brilliant Shohreh Aghdashloo. As a servant, the maid suffers: she must obey Bernarda’s every command. It soon becomes clear, however, that Bernarda is just as restricted as her maid: powerlessness does not stop at the lower classes, but extends across all women. Where the maid is inferior to the higher classes, women are inferior to men.

The house of Bernarda Alba would be better described as a prison. Aghdashloo gives a commanding performance as the autocratic Bernarda, and rules her five daughters (Pandora Colin, Amanda Hale, Seline Hizli, Sarah Solemani, Hara Yannas) with an iron hand. The daughters are like a chorus of dissatisfaction, each one as inherently unhappy as the other in their struggle to exist in the monotony of a patriarchal society. Their weakness and feelings of helplessness are illustrated on stage as they often use the walls of the house as support, leaning exhaustedly against them – struggling to deal with the heat of the day, but perhaps more the dominance of men. Bernarda is, ultimately, subject to the whims of men too; and Aghdashloo presents this frailty with a subtle conviction – despite it going against her character. She is wary of men, most evident in the unmoving commitment to her late husband, who manages to control her even from beyond the grave. Elmira (Amanda Hale) describes their lives in house as like “living locked up in a cupboard,” and as their frustration grows they begin to turn on each other. Sibling point-scoring has never taken on a more serious form, when Adela (Hara Yannas) maliciously pursues her sister, Asieh’s (Pandora Colin), fiancé. This turn in the plot exposes the destructive effects of tyranny.

In The House of Bernarda Alba, Lorca boasts a carefully constructed script which reveals the plot at a gradual pace so as to keep the audience engaged right up until the end. It is the maid’s vacuum cleaner, however, that resonates even after the curtain falls on a dark closing scene. It makes the point that there has been little progress since the 1930s. The tyranny of men is still at large and the persecution of women is still a very real issue – perhaps less so in the West, but certainly in Middle Eastern countries and elsewhere.

Rating: 4/5

The House of Bernarda Alba is at Almeida Theatre until 10 March 2012.

Hideki Noda as Ogoro, Glyn Pritchard as child and Kathryn Hunter as Ido

The Bee, which opened in the Soho Theatre in 2006, makes its return to London as part of a world tour that takes it to Tokyo, New York and Hong Kong. Its blend of physical theatre that verges on clowning and blank verse will no doubt delight audiences craving a departure from the normal language of spoken theatre, just as it will leave others bemusedly scratching their heads. Some quirky and innovative stage artifices from co-writer, director, actor and Japanese legend Hideki Noda keep the production interesting, yet the highly stylised action sequences (set in the main to music) are not quite elegant enough in their execution to truly convince that this is artful dance rather than pantomime. One is left with the impression that the play is merely a vehicle for experimental direction, and as such, the story fails to stir the emotions.

Set in Tokyo in 1974, Mr Ido, a salary man, returns home to find that an escaped convict, Ogoro, has taken his family hostage. Rather than wait for the inept police force to deliver a messy resolution, he takes matters into his own hands and retaliates by taking the convict’s own family hostage. So begins a brutal game of tit-for-tat whereby each captor rapes and maims their opposite’s wife and son. In dream like semi-balletic sequences set to Puccini’s Madame Butterfly, Ido is trapped in a cycle of posting severed fingers to his enemy and in turn receiving Ogoro’s gruesome offerings. He fucks Ogoro’s wife, eats, washes and sleeps. He is at once horrified by the violence he is committing, yet also empowered by the fact that he is no longer a victim.

The significance of the bee that torments Ido throughout the play is not especially clear. Perhaps it is a symbol of domestic annoyance reflecting the monotony of the life of a salary man; perhaps Ido’s nagging conscience; perhaps nothing more than a dramatic conceit to show that Ido, like a bee that has stung, must die for his violence. The dreamlike quality of the play, reinforced the narration by Ido of the physical actions he is simultaneously taking, hints at themes beyond the simple hostage narrative. Yet if this is a comment on the role of women in Japanese society, or some more existential imperative to own one’s own actions, this is lost in the calamity of the production.

Each member of the cast plays a variety of characters. Kathryn Hunter, notable for being the first woman to have played King Lear, cuts a strange figure as Ido. Her raspy voice and RSC training lend a deranged yet lyrical quality to the text, which is written in blank verse (with a slight over-reliance on rhyming couplets). Hideki Noda appears as Ogoro’s wife and lends some credibility to the kabuki style set-pieces. Particularly impressive in terms of characterisation is Glyn Pritchard, who plays Ogoro’s much mutilated son as well as a raft of other parts.

Playful at times, funny and occasionally taut, the production is never slow. There are moments of directorial brilliance and the creative team achieve what they set out to achieve in blending various theatrical traditions of both the West and the Orient. However, this constant mish-mash of styles is overwhelming and a great deal of meaning and poignancy is lost in the on-stage cacophony.

Rating: 3/5

The Bee is at Soho Theatre until 11 February 2012.