Arts Reviews

The good, bad and ugly in arts and exhbitions

Thursday

Tom Sutcliffe

Sideshow winner

I thought my 27th Wexford Opera Festival since 1972 was going to be one of the best. I had seen and enjoyed the Cilea and Chabrier operas on the bill at Holland Park and Opera North in the 1990s, and I was intrigued whether Delius’s A Village Romeo and Juliet was viable music theatre. Wexford veterans are used to disappointment and surprise success. We know why Glyndebourne audiences go with the flow and enjoy themselves, there being dinner, gardens, atmosphere and ticket prices to dissolve criticism. Wexford is cheaper: €25 to €130 a night for the main operas, less for sideshows. But most visitors make a three-night excursion with b&b

Lloyd Evans Lloyd Evans

Ryans’ daughter

Martina Cole is a rarity among novelists. Her work is set in the ugly, male-dominated world of London’s criminal fraternity and yet nearly all her fans are women. Blonde women, in particular, as I found out when I took my seat in the Theatre Royal Stratford East to see Patrick Prior’s adaptation of her breakthrough novel, Dangerous Lady. In a great sea of peroxide hairdos, my coiffure was the only point of darkness. Cole’s novel starts with a gem of an idea. She takes the brutal mythology of the Kray twins and softens it with a dash of femininity. Her criminal gangsters have a sister. The Ryans are a family

Michael Tanner

Creeping confusion

The legend of Faust is perhaps the dominant one in post-Renaissance Europe, yet it resists satisfactory artistic realisation. The most celebrated versions of the legend, such as Marlowe’s and Goethe’s, seem to me to be utter messes aesthetically, retaining their status through the great passages they include rather than through any coherence. Thomas Mann’s Dr Faustus is a very great novel with a fundamental structural flaw. Of the major musical treatments, Berlioz’s contains the largest amount of superb music; Boito’s Mefistofele is high-minded but a bit of a bore; Busoni’s obstinately refuses to rise to its key moments with sufficiently impressive music, so remains a regrettably fringe work; while Gounod

Deborah Ross

What shall we do with the drunken sailor?

Paul Thomas Anderson’s The Master is his first film since There Will Be Blood and although it stars Joaquin Phoenix and Philip Seymour Hoffman, who give two of the most blistering performances you will see for an unspecified time period — usually, the form is to say ‘this year’, but how do I know? I’m not psychic! — it is all so enigmatic and underwritten I felt rather shut out. A ‘challenging’ film is one thing, but one that actually slams the door in your face is quite another, as well as rude. Heck, I’m mother to a teenager and can stay at home if I want to be shut

Giannandrea Poesio

Mixed bag | 1 November 2012

Last year I raved about Birmingham Royal Ballet, their artistic drive, their freshness, their impeccable artistic eclecticism and, not least, their superb dancing. It was with such memories that I went to Sadler’s Wells last week, only to leave both programmes with reservations and mixed feelings. Neither programme stood out for being particularly well constructed; one, titled Opposites Attract, lacked contrast and shadings, while the other suffered from excessive stylistic idiosyncrasy. David Bintley’s Take Five, to Dave Brubeck’s luscious jazz, strived to add sparkle, but did not succeed — surprisingly, one might add, given that it has all the right ingredients to be a success. But Bintley’s known and generally

Ben West

The same old story

Hard on the heels of last year’s television adaptation starring David Suchet and Ray Winstone is a new version of Dickens’s Great Expectations, in cinemas later this month. The new version, starring Helena Bonham Carter and Ralph Fiennes, and which closed the 2012 London Film Festival, comes after adaptations which include David Lean’s 1946 classic, the BBC’s 1999 version with Charlotte Rampling, a 1981 take on the yarn, an early 1970s production starring Michael York, one in 2007 with Timothy Spall, another featuring Ray McAnally, and yet another with Gwyneth Paltrow. At least the versions differ — for example, Paltrow’s dumbed-down offering is set in modern times complete with an

Katrina Naomi

Nan’s Advice After My Partner’s Breakdown

What did you know of love? You, who slept in a separate bed, separate room, who knew nothing of us. You told me to let him be, let him get on with it, let him alone. You gave me your harshest advice, told me what you’d done after Grandpa was discharged from the Navy; hiding from the merest sound, from you. You made me hear every whistle and blast of your advice. And I never thanked you.

Thursday

Lloyd Evans Lloyd Evans

Addicted to Chekhov

One departs and three more come charging in. It’s always rush-hour for Chekhov in the capital. As the Young Vic’s production of Three Sisters is drawing to a close, the Vaudeville is preparing to host a star-studded version of Uncle Vanya. Up the road, at the Novello, another Uncle Vanya is about to arrive from Moscow. And rehearsals are already under way for The Seagull, starring Matthew Kelly, at Southwark Playhouse. For years, we’ve been recreational users of Chekhov. We’re now in danger of becoming hopeless addicts. How come we’re hooked? Chekhov’s career as a dramatist was short and full of trouble. Early plays flopped. His breakthrough hit, The Seagull,

Andrew Lambirth

Neglected master

Every so often, about once a decade, the work of Mark Gertler (1891–1939) is rediscovered and exhibited. I remember seeing excellent shows of his work at the Ben Uri Art Gallery in 1982 and in 2002, and at Camden Arts Centre in 1992. Each time a well-selected body of his paintings is gathered together, we are reminded of the extraordinary talent of this young artist, who tragically took his own life. Yet for many of those who care about art, Gertler is still best remembered as the wild bohemian obsessed with the Bloomsbury siren Dora Carrington. Certainly, Gertler’s 1913 portrait of her, a striking example of his Neo-Primitive tempera style

Francesca Steele

21st-century Disney

When, in 1940, Walt Disney released Fantasia, his radical arrangement of animations set to classical music, he fancied that he might add new segments to it every few years so that it could grow with its audience. Alas, it was not to be. The cost of installing the new ‘Fantasound’ technology in cinemas, plus a public mood made inhospitable by war, meant that his fantasy was soon a box-office flop. So he would, no doubt, have been delighted to see Fantasia, accompanied by the London Philharmonic Orchestra, moving with the times 72 years later, as part of the Royal Albert Hall’s Live in Concert series. In an age of event

Kate Chisholm

Time switch

It seems an astonishing statistic but 99.6 per cent of radio is broadcast live, delivered straight from the studio mike to your personal loudspeaker: 99.6 per cent! Compared with TV, which must be at least 80 per cent recorded, this is an extraordinary indicator of how radio is the on-message medium right now, able to deliver immediate content, live and interactive. Yet a lot of radio listening is not done in real time these days, but later, after transmission, via the internet, the iPlayer, podcasts and downloads. We could experience a live connection but find ourselves switching on to a recorded moment. This is all about to be revolutionised with

James Delingpole James Delingpole

BBC goes for it

Which is the worse crime, would you say: eavesdropping on celebrities’ answerphones? Or hosting and covering up for a ruthless predatory paedophile ring — led by your biggest, most heavily promoted star — over a period of four decades? Mm, me too. In fact, I’d say the Savile affair is as close as we’ll ever get to proving that God really hates the BBC. I mean, the timing is far too perfect to be coincidental, isn’t it? First we get Leveson — essentially a stitch-up by the BBC and the Guardian to entrench the power of the bien-pensant establishment, increase regulation and destroy the free market (especially Rupert Murdoch). Then,

Lloyd Evans Lloyd Evans

Racial tensions

Covent Garden, 1833. Edmund Kean, the greatest tragedian of his age, has collapsed while playing the title role in Othello at the Theatre Royal. His son, Charles, is all set to take over and has just prised the lid off a trusty tin of boot polish ready to smear dark grease all over his peachy white cheeks. But, instead, a black American actor, Ira Aldridge, is engaged to play the lead. Kean’s company are aghast by this affront to their man’s talent and authority. But his fiancée, Ellen Tree, who plays Desdemona, is smitten by the charismatic American and tries to embrace his realistic new emotional acting style. This is

Michael Tanner

No laughing matter | 25 October 2012

About two of the operas I saw in Leeds this week there is a serious question as to whether or not they are comedies. The third, Gounod’s Faust, is clearly not meant to be; I’ll be writing about it next week. The new production of Mozart’s Don Giovanni by Alessandro Talevi is jokey and fast — or, anyway, the arias and ensembles are fast, the recitatives less so — but it’s not particularly funny, and what humour there is would certainly not have been available to da Ponte and Mozart: peasants rocking and rolling in the finale to Act I, for instance. Talevi alternates the main action with Punch and

Colin Falck

B-Troop

A degree in maths might have helped. ‘Correction of the Day,’ wind charts, slide-rules, log tables, maps of the terrain, OP reports — all combined (again and again) to make four 25-pounders point the right way. B-Troop, ‘officer material,’ we learned our parts: don’t get VD; take care when choosing your friends; prefer gin and tonic; wear a hat at weekends; believe in the Empire (ignore what you know in your hearts). There was never much sense of who we were — except once, when the Colonel said ‘You gents are lucky to be here.’ Or — daily — as we lurched from the barrack-room, caps aslant, ‘chattering like monkeys,’

Tuesday

Steerpike Steerpike

Jimmy Savile Is Innocent…

Now then, now then. How is this for the most inappropriate publicity stunt going? The Bread and Butter gallery in Islington is opening an exhibition tomorrow provocatively called ‘Jimmy Savile Is Innocent‘. Artists are invited to bring works on the subject to the opening tomorrow night: ‘In an age when the dead can’t defend themselves Jimmy Savile has been found guilty. Lets remember that Jimmy is innocent and can only be found guilty by a court of law, perhaps its time for a posthumous trial?’ Trial by artistes. Is that better or worse than trial by media?

Thursday

Andrew Lambirth

Green fingers

The last time I visited Kew was to see the installation of Henry Moore’s sculptures in 2007. Moore’s monumental bronzes made an enormous impact on the botanical gardens, so much so that the gardens were in danger of becoming merely a backdrop for the sculpture. Although a good many people came to see the exhibition, it was felt by the authorities at Kew that the crowds took away a greater appreciation of Henry Moore than they did of the Royal Botanical Gardens. So, when another sculptor was invited to show at Kew, the intention was that he or she would be involved more closely with the aims of the institution.

Laura Gascoigne

Bizarre visions

If you want to see how myths arise from misunderstandings, the Tower of Babel provides a textbook example. In ancient Assyrian babilu means ‘door of God’ and thus correctly describes the Babylonian ziggurat erected to the god Marduk by Nebuchadnezzar II and later seen in ruins by Herodotus. But in Hebrew the word bâlal means ‘to confuse’, hence the confusingly different account in Genesis. In this version, men come together in the cradle of civilisation to build ‘a tower, whose top may reach unto heaven’ as a monument for posterity, lest they be ‘scattered abroad upon the face of the whole earth’ — and God, sensing that ‘this is only

Harry Mount

The hate of the new

The title of the new show at the Palazzo Strozzi is a little confusing. Most of the artists in Italy in the 1930s weren’t beyond fascism; they were in it up to their necks. They didn’t really need much persuading by Mussolini to come up with pictures like Luciano Ricchetti’s 1939 painting ‘Listening to a Speech by the Duce’: enraptured, bare-footed Italian peasants in headscarves sit dangling babies on their knees, hanging on Il Duce’s every word. Today lots of Italians still don’t like to admit it, but much of Florence, and Italy, were really rather keen on Mussolini, and Hitler, too. A fascinating little exhibition of official watercolours at

Rhalli Burton

Blurring boundaries

Each of the Buddhist monks’ faces tells a variation on the same story. One simmers with fury, another sags with despair, a third is locked in a stoical gaze. The sign they are holding is written in Mandarin — its message the latest piece of sadistic invention by the Red Guards promoting Mao’s Cultural Revolution. ‘To hell with the Buddhist scriptures, they are full of dog farts.’ This is just one tiny photograph in the Barbican exhibition Everything Was Moving (until 13 January 2013). The project takes a gargantuan bite into world affairs in the Sixties and Seventies, so that through the eyes of 12 photographers we revisit such provocative