Arts Reviews

The good, bad and ugly in arts and exhbitions

Thursday

Ed Rex

We should be teaching kids to make programs like Word, not how to use them

Technology is turning the human urge to consume information into an unhealthy addiction. Some of this consumption — reading, following the news, exposing ourselves to culture — has obvious merits; I’d have no trouble downloading the entire works of Shakespeare in the time it would have taken someone ten years ago to find their keys before setting off to a bookshop. But with so much around us to consume we seem to have lost the ability to make things ourselves. How can we be creative when every waking moment is spent trying to keep up with the feeds, updates and new releases volleyed at us from all sides? Take, for

Michael Tanner

Opera review: Crying with the heroine in WNO’s Lohengrin

In Act II of Lohengrin, after the villainess Ortrud has interrupted the procession to the Minster, and sown the seeds of doubt in Elsa’s mind about the provenance of her rescuer, Lohengrin himself appears and comforts Elsa, saying, ‘Come! Let your tears of sorrow become ones of joy.’ That is followed by a solemn quiet passage, only 11 bars long, and unrelated to anything we have heard before or will hear subsequently, but of such grave beauty that it makes you, too, cry. This kind of pathos and nobility permeate Lohengrin, and though each of Wagner’s dramas has its own feel and colour, those of this opera are so wonderful

Kate Chisholm

Radio review: The Archers — Soapland’s response to our post-9/11 world

He’s gone. Not that anyone apart from Lilian will miss him. But Paul’s been despatched (at long last) to the Land of Discarded Soap Actors, despised, rejected and scorned by most of those who knew him in Borsetshire — and also, I hope, by any self-respecting Archers Addict. I felt nothing, absolutely nothing, at the news of his heart attack in a hotel room in Cardiff, except perhaps relief that we will never again have to listen to his wheedling, self-satisfied tones. How could smart, zappy Lilian ever have fallen for his oleaginous charms? It was clear from his very first words that he was as badly behaved as his

Andrew Petrie

Herzog at the BFI: Mad men in the rainforest

‘I am the wrath of God. The earth I pass will see me and tremble.’ Not my words, Mr Speaker, but those of demented conquistador Klaus Kinski in Werner Herzog’s electrifying Aguirre, der Zorn Gottes (1972). Now back in cinemas nationwide in a restored print that makes its rainforest setting a real feast for the eyes, Aguirre heralds a two-month Herzog season at the BFI Southbank. Five weeks of location shooting in Peru effectively meant the film crew endured the same hardships as the characters: heat, hunger and the unpredictable behaviour of Kinski, scarcely any less a madman than the treasure-seeking Aguirre. The director claims that Kinski only calmed down

Polly Walshe

Thirteen and a half

Have you looked across the Sound? On the other shore life lies. Can you see it over there? The palaces, the esplanade? It only takes a little while to cross, A year or two at most, sometimes just days. In clear weather you’ll see boats leaving the marina, The scarlet awnings of the shops And fortune-tellers on the steps; At night there are restaurant lights And houses glimmering on nameless slopes. Over there are parties you’ll attend, The masques and tattered carnivals And all the long white hours of getting wise. You’ll talk about returning here – You’ll say it’s where your heart is – But, knowing the tides, we

Sunday

Sebastian Payne

Conspiracy theorist Alex Jones goes mad on BBC Sunday Politics

Everyone enjoys a good conspiracy theory, particularly Alex Jones. His Infowars.com site can explain every single problem in the world through his theories on the rise of the ‘New World Order’. I only discovered Jones a few weeks ago and wrote him off as a wacko on the fringe American media. Today, he’s arrived on a mainstream BBC programme. In the above video clip, David Aaronovitch of The Times and Andrew Neil try to figure out Jones’ big theory on the Bilderberg conference. Instead of explaining, he ranted on topics including ‘the SS office Prince Bernard’, ‘the Nazi German plan’ behind the EU to ‘hydroflourons in the water’. It makes

Thursday

Roderick Conway-Morris

Venice Biennale: from unusual sexual obsessions to a primary school Open Day

William Empson believed that ‘the arts are produced by overcrowding’. But, as 20,000 invited guests and 4,500 accredited journalists surged through the pavilions of the Giardini and Arsenale on the 55th Venice Biennale’s preview days last week, it was more a case of overcrowding being produced by the arts. Over the past 20 years the Biennale has inexorably expanded with every edition. In 1993, 53 countries were represented. This year there are 88, with Angola, the Bahamas, Bahrain, the Ivory Coast, Kosovo, Kuwait, the Maldives, Paraguay, Tuvalu and the Vatican officially appearing for the first time. There are nearly 50 official collateral events and scores of other exhibitions around town.

Andrew Lambirth

Exhibitions: Leon Kossoff, The Bay Area School

Paint is but coloured mud, pace scientists and conservators, and it can be said that the human animal comes from mud and goes back to it. Thus are the activities of painting and being human linked at a fundamental level, which can be raised by consciousness to impressive heights. As the philosopher T.E. Hulme wrote, ‘All the mud, endless, except where bound together by the spectator.’ This is an apt description of an exhibition by Leon Kossoff (born 1926). Kossoff paints thickly with much piling up of the mud of paint, which is trenched and seamed and dribbled across the surface of board supports. He is a pupil of David

Alistair Elliot

Seals (Iona)

No angels listen when you cry out here, but seals rise up to see, and criticize perhaps, as you intone the omega (their favourite vowel) or the medical alpha (sticking your tongue out) for these gods of ocean. Words wouldn’t do. There are no consonants in the mouths of seals. They can appreciate only the modified howl, the growly roar, and perhaps the loudest purr a man can make. It’s not the singing; that just summons them. It’s curiosity that makes them stand in the water on their useless feet, to stare at the creature with two tails, unnaturally split beside its genitals, the loose skin, the weed that seems

Deborah Ross

Michael Douglas is 68 – and for the first time, as Liberace, vaguely sexy

Behind the Candelabra is Stephen Soderbergh’s film about Liberace, starring Michael Douglas and Matt Damon, and already you will have heard two things which, naturally, you will need me to confirm so you can move on with your life. These two things are: 1. It is fabulous. 2. The film was ultimately funded by the television channel HBO, as Hollywood declared it ‘too gay’. I will now deal with both: 1. Yes. It is fabulous. No other word for it, unless that word is ‘glorious’. 2. True and, if I had the time, I would go to Hollywood and knock their heads together. Saying this film is ‘too gay’ is

Clarissa Tan

Sex! Soap! Starkey! The Tudor invasion of British television

The Tudors have invaded television. Everywhere you look, it’s Henry VIII this, Henry VII that, Anne Boleyn this, Anne of Cleves that. On BBC2 is the continuing drama series The Tudors, whose Henry VIII looks like the lead singer in a boy band who’s stumbled on to the wrong film set. At any moment, you expect him to announce the execution of Anne Boleyn with those jabbing-the-air hand gestures that boy-band members use to semaphore emotion. Lushly soap operatic, The Tudors depicts the royal court not so much as a place of high political intrigue but as a hearth for dynastic family troubles where improbably good-looking people have lots of

Michael Tanner

Opera: Is Philip Glass’ trying to bore his way into immortality?

First nights at English National Opera are, in the main, matters for a sociologist rather than an opera critic. That emphatically wasn’t the case with Wozzeck, but that is an acknowledged grim masterpiece, though still, nearly 90 years on, enough to put off casual opera goers and trendies. But the succession of vacuous new works that ENO has mounted in the past few years has attracted audiences, at any rate first-nighters, of a kind that one doesn’t see at any other operatic performance. They arrive early to kiss and shout and drink champagne, they trickle into the auditorium very slowly, stopping for many hugs on the way to their seats,

Lloyd Evans Lloyd Evans

Theatre review: Below par Mamet is still more fun than a personal-best performance from a second-rater

Mamet is back. His 2009 play Race is an offbeat courtroom drama set entirely in a lawyers’ office before the trial begins. Jack and Henry are two hotshot attorneys, one white, one black, who must decide whether to accept the case of a prosperous banker, Charles, accused of raping a black woman in a hotel. Jack and Henry have a young black trainee, Susan, whose ethnicity and gender may help them sway the jury. The case against Charles turns on sequins. The victim swears that her dress was torn off during the attack but a hotel cleaner found no sequins on the floor. Sequinned attire is naturally deciduous, or, as

Kate Chisholm

Radio review: Coronation Day Across the Globe

Coronation Day 1953 could have marked the end of radio as we know it. No one wanted to listen to the commentary from Westminster Abbey. Everyone wanted to see what was going on. Hearing could not, it was thought, be as effective an act of witness as viewing the glittering diamonds, the gleaming satin, the pageantry, the pomp and the extraordinary sight of the weight of royalty, both physical and metaphysical, being bestowed on so slight a young woman. Those who had the money rushed out to buy a Regentone table TV or a Baird Townsman. Those who couldn’t afford to buy or rent a TV begged a neighbour to

Lloyd Evans Lloyd Evans

Interview: Theatre director Marianne Elliott on really, really good and bad plays

Ah! Here comes the girl from the temping agency. That’s my first reaction when I meet Marianne Elliott, director of the global hit War Horse, and winner of this year’s Olivier for her work on The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time. She’s a trim, attractive fortysomething with a neat blonde bob and she wears a shrill turquoise blouse of the kind favoured by Romford copy typists in the 1980s. Her blue eyes are amazing — huge, screen-goddess orbs, which shine with an exceptional brilliance and clarity. She’s two weeks into the rehearsal period for her next play, Sweet Bird of Youth, at the Old Vic, which stars

Nicola Mccartney

Culture note: Curiosity: Art and the Pleasures of Knowing, Turner Contemporary, Margate

An oversized St Bernard’s body masked with a sheep’s head and a regal peacock with penguin feet and flippers punctuate the start and end of Curiosity: Art and the Pleasures of Knowing at Turner Contemporary, Margate (until 15 September), curated by Brian Dillon. Art and artifacts from around the world represent the glory, revelations and threat of mankind’s inquisitive nature. Thomas Grünfeld’s taxidermy misfits are just two examples of a witty and wondrous collection of objects that we wouldn’t usually have the opportunity to view outside their own dedicated museums or private homes. Inspired by the cabinets of curiosities that flourished throughout 17th-century Europe, Curiosity displays previously unseen oddities, products

Christopher Booker

Timothy Birdsall – the greatest cartoonist you’ve never heard of

Few people under the age of 65 will have heard of the cartoonist Timothy Birdsall, who died 50 years ago on 10 June 1963, having produced his finest work in the last months of his life here in The Spectator and  in Private Eye. But had his career not been cut cruelly short by leukaemia at the age of only 27, he would today be revered as one of the outstanding cartoonists of our time. Tim was part of that talented late-1950s Cambridge generation, along with a galaxy of others later to become famous, from Peter Cook to Ian McKellen. On coming down in 1960 he was employed to do pocket

Robin Robertson

The Straw Manikin

after Goya The hooded penitents have passed – the shackled Nazarenos holding their long candles – and the altar boys, carrying the trappings of the Passion on their pillows: the hammer and nails, the crown of thorns, the chalice and the pliers; the soldiers’ flail, the soldiers’ dice. What shall we give him? The straw man is sick. We’ll finish him off, and beat him with sticks. The pasos have drifted away: statues of full-size wooden Christs and Virgins painted till they came alive – glass eyes, glass tears, eyelashes of human hair, ivory teeth and nails – on floats borne by fifty men, invisible under curtained palanquins. Poor puppet,

Declan Ryan

Trinity Hospital

There was a gunboat on the river when you led me to your new favourite spot: a home for retired sailors; squat, white, stuccoed, with a golden bell. It could have been a lost Greek chapel, a monument to light, designed to remind the old boys of their leave on Ionic shores among tobacco and fruit trees. Just after rain, sunlight stood between us like a whitewashed wall. You were lit skin, gilt and honey, dressed in olive. No paper trail connects us. No procedure of law would tell you where to stand in your sleek black mourning dress if I die but as you turned towards me the golden

Thursday

Christina Patterson

‘Basically, we’re stuffed’

You might expect a chief executive of English Heritage to look quite English, and Simon Thurley certainly does. He has the pale eyes, and fine bones, of the English upper classes. He has the clipped vowels of the English upper classes, too. In his nice pink shirt, in his nice white office, in a nice big Victorian building near Chancery Lane, he has the air of a man who lives a nice, quiet, clean, ordered life. He also has a very big job. He looks after, or at least the organisation he runs looks after, more than 400 historical sites. He advises the government on ‘England’s historic environment’, which must