Arts Reviews

The good, bad and ugly in arts and exhbitions

Thursday

Kate Chisholm

Vision on

Something strange, very strange is going on. Take two sparky young, very young men, watch them launch their media careers a couple of years ago by creating zany videos and putting them up on YouTube. Witness the impish, imaginative duo going viral, followed by millions across the globe. Note that what they’re famous for are the videos, the visual gags; not for music, for sound, for aural wizardry. Who, then, might you expect to snap them up as the next best thing? The head of Sky TV? Or the controller of Radio 1? In this topsy-turvy world, it’s Radio 1 who’ll be hosting Dan and Phil from 13 January onwards,

Olivia Glazebrook

What the doctor ordered

I don’t know whose idea it was to put New Year at the beginning of January, but it seems like an odd one. Why not begin each new year on, let’s say, the first of April or May? It might bring at least a dash of new dawn-ishness — a flicker of sunlight, scampering clouds, hello birds and a hey nonny no — to New Year’s Day. There’s no spring in the step of 1 January. She has neither the time nor the inclination for good cheer. She is as tired, headachey and whey-faced as if she had stayed up half the night dancing to ‘Yes Sir, I Can Boogie’

Peter Hoskin

Friends reunited | 3 January 2013

You know how television is becoming like the movies, more expansive and more expensive? Well, what if the movies were to meet television halfway, becoming smaller and more routine? The result, I’m sure, would be something like Quartet, Dustin Hoffman’s first directorial effort since 1978’s Straight Time. If you ran past this film at speed, you could almost mistake it for an episode of Downton Abbey. It’s set in a country house. Maggie Smith is among its cast members. And it’s borrowed actors from small-screen series such as Gavin and Stacey and The Vicar of Dibley. Just the ticket for a lazy Sunday night in. Except Quartet is not nearly

Lloyd Evans Lloyd Evans

Wrong, wrong, wrong

I wasn’t the only one desperate that Viva Forever! would be a blast. There were hundreds of us eager to leap to our feet and holler through the Spice Girls’ greatest hits as a band of teenage lookalikes led the tribute on stage. Didn’t happen, I’m afraid. The Spice Girls are not in this show. I’ll say that again. The Spice Girls are not in the Spice Girls musical. Jennifer Saunders has penned an arch and scabrous spoof of TV talent contests like Pop Idol and The X Factor. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Even celebrity culture has its epochs and phases, its stratifications and its correct chronology. The Spice Girls date

Michael Tanner

Dutch treat

The Flying Dutchman, Wagner’s first masterpiece, has had a rough passage in the UK over the past few decades. I recall a production at the Royal Opera in the mid-1980s which revealed to me for the first time the possibility that an insensitive director can completely destroy a great work, something which is now commonplace. In between there have been further productions, in London and in Wales, which have done nothing to penetrate the work’s grandeur and freshness, so that the idea of a concert performance was even more welcome than usual. Zurich Opera came over for one night to the Royal Festival Hall and can have left no one

Giannandrea Poesio

Bourne again | 3 January 2013

While most theatres brace themselves for the annual invasion of prancing Nutcrackers and flying snowmen, Sadler’s Wells offers something that is mercifully not as sugary. Never-ending love and magic kisses might be at the core of Matthew Bourne’s long-awaited take on Sleeping Beauty — aptly subtitled ‘ A Gothic Romance’ — but there are also bites of the Twilight saga genre, demonic creatures and a fair amount of gender-bending. Odd as it may sound, it all works to absolute perfection, contrary to what some Jurassic highbrows might like to think. Of the Tchaikovsky ballet trilogy, it’s true that Beauty is the one that never lent itself to any memorable revisitation,

Wednesday

Steerpike Steerpike

Down-turn Abbey, the movie

A brief flurry of excitement in Guardian-land over the festive period as the news trickles out about who might be cast in Dreamworks’ silver-screen adaptation of the paper’s turbulent love-in with Julian Assange and subsequent fall out with the Wikileaks chief. Benedict Cumberbatch will play the reclusive protagonist, but enter stage (liberal) left Dan Stevens, who was last seen with blood pouring out of his ear on Christmas Day after being clumsily written out of Downton Abbey. Last week’s Mail on Sunday reports that he is now in talks to play Guardian deputy editor Ian Katz. Being played by such a high profile star would surely do wonders for Katz’s

Friday

Laura Gascoigne

New dawn for Newlyn School

‘The street scenes in Newlyn lack nothing of subject for the painter,’ reported the young Frank Richards from the Cornish art colony in 1895; ‘paved with cobblestone, some of the narrow streets are occasionally strewn over with fishheads and entrails, so that one’s progress in going “up” or “down”-along is sometimes considerably facilitated by an alarmingly quick slide to an unexpected destination.’ Thirty-six years earlier, Brunel’s bridge across the Tamar had connected England’s westernmost tip to the railway system, speeding the transport of fish one way and tourists the other. And, as elsewhere in Europe, before the tourists came the plein-air painters. The first to settle in Newlyn in 1882

Andrew Lambirth

Particularity of place

John Sell Cotman (1782–1842) is a key figure in the great tradition of English watercolour painting. A prominent member of the Norwich School (he was born in the city), he was a landscape painter of genius, who transcended mere topographical record by making paintings of superb abstract design which also evoke the particularity of place. He could suggest space and light and weather with the lightest and broadest of touches, in images that look curiously modern, if not timeless. He earned a living by teaching and travelling, making saleable studies of antiquities, many of which were reproduced as etchings. Between 1810 and 1821 he focused on the architecture of Norfolk

Clarissa Tan

Special K

There’s a K-Pop Academy in London. Students go through a 12-week course and learn not only the finer points of PSY-style hip-hop, but also Korean cuisine, fashion, history and traditional music. Not everyone can attend — as with Hogwarts, one must be chosen. Applicants submit an essay to the Korean Cultural Centre and 30 students are picked each term. Once you have been selected, the course is free. I am invited to the Academy’s ‘graduation’ ceremony, where the students — all teenage girls, from all ethnic groups — express their love for all things K-Poppy. They adore Korean dance, Korean soaps, wearing the hanbok or Korean national dress. ‘I can’t

Kate Chisholm

Heart of the matter | 28 December 2012

Looking back can be fatal and is usually ill-advised, inducing a nostalgia that can only blight what lies ahead. Let’s risk it, though, reliving those radio moments of 2012 (avoiding the Jubilee and the Olympics) when words took shape and became visceral. Most memorable (perhaps because most recent) was John Humphrys’s grilling of his boss George Entwistle on the Today programme on Radio 4. The air crackled with pent-up feeling, as Humphrys, like one of Eddie Grundy’s ferrets, went after Entwistle. ‘You should go, shouldn’t you?’ says Humphrys, after we had heard the then DG admit that he hadn’t seen the newspaper story which exposed the flawed Newsnight investigation. The

James Delingpole James Delingpole

On the bias

It must be ten years now since I risked life and limb to brave the Cresta Run, go fox hunting and be driven round a racetrack by Lord Brocket in a Ferrari for a Channel 4 documentary on the British Upper Class. In the heady few minutes following its first transmission I thought it would mark the beginning of a glorious TV career. But TV never happened for me and oftentimes since I’ve wondered why. The short and obvious answer is that I’m crap — which may be true, but that never stopped a thousand and one other TV C-listers you could name. What I think it really boils down

Lloyd Evans Lloyd Evans

Age limit

Michael Grandage is homeless. After a near-faultless decade in charge of the Donmar Warehouse, he now reinvents himself as a roving thesp, a buskined vagabond, a theatrical mendicant wandering the byways and the turnpike lanes and ushering his troupe of all-stars into any pen that will accommodate them. It’s a medieval conception. The strolling players. His team of celebrity vagrants has taken a 15-month lease on the Noël Coward theatre where its residency kicks off with Privates on Parade, a 1977 play by Peter Nichols, examining life in an army concert party in Malaya in 1948. In shorthand, it’s the BBC sitcom It Ain’t Half Hot Mum  without the spitting

Deborah Ross

Trading places | 28 December 2012

The trouble with this adaptation of Salman Rushdie’s Booker prize-winning Midnight’s Children, aside from the fact it is a mess and a muddle, is that it goes on and on and on and on. And on. And on. And then, just when you think it has to be over, it goes on some more. If it were up to me, I would charge film-makers for every minute — £1, say; let’s not be greedy — over 90 minutes that I’m kept in the cinema for no good reason. In this instance, as the film comes in at two and a half hours, I think I’m owed £60 (plus VAT and

Michael Tanner

Talk of the devil

In one of his finest essays, Gore Vidal recalls that when he worked as a scriptwriter for MGM the Wise Hack always used to advise his toffee-nosed team that ‘shit has its own integrity’. If crap is what you’re producing, make sure there are no signs in it that that’s what you think it is. Meyerbeer’s Robert le diable fails that test, I think, as do the rest of his operas. And at the Royal Opera, where a new production by Laurent Pelly, shared with Geneva, is on display, there are plenty of indications that no one involved takes it seriously either. When the curtain rose on knights in medieval

Paul Henry

A flock of bells…

A flock of bells takes the air and you come to me, out of nowehere and I smile, knowing you’ll visit me always, that this is how it will be till the last thread of an island slips through a bell-ringer’s hands and they put me in the listening earth.

Wednesday

Andrew Lambirth

The art of Christmas

One of the most important and enjoyable Christmas decorations in our house is the profusion of Christmas cards. I am fortunate to number quite a few artists among my friends, and a good percentage of them make and send their own Christmas cards. Most of these tend to the secular and celebratory, but the range of image and technique is what really stands out. Literally, in the case of the sculptor Ann Christopher (born 1947), who makes wonderful little constructions of flexed and frayed silver card often decorated with stars, which balance three-dimensionally on the mantelpiece, like geometric Christmas trees. Other artists send small paintings — the abstract painter Edwina

Maurice Riordan

Turkeys

emerge from the orchard. There now Aunt Kit says, pouring us lemonade. It’ll be another scorcher. The bronze birds drop wing, shake caruncle and snood engorged with purple blood, and rattle in full barding. My prize cock’s gone lame! He lifts each ringed foot singly, slowly — to shoot the short film frame by frame. In rue Ortolan I hear the chorus of gobbles roll across the mossed cobbles from distant Ophir.

John Hartley Williams

Men’s Wear

From the Woolrich Elite Concealed Carry line Shawn Thompson bought two shirts. He wrote on his blog: ‘The clothes I used in the past to hide my sidearm looked pretty sloppy and had my girlfriend complaining.’ The line includes the sort of vest that includes a stealth compartment. The wearer can appear to be warming his hands while gripping a pistol in a holster. Says a spokesman for Woolrich: ‘The bad guy gets a glimmer of fear wondering “Are they packing, or not?” ’ Not everyone is a fan. Howard Walter, 61, a salesman, said he preferred to carry his colt and a couple of knives and two extra magazines

Clarissa Tan

London’s high life

You can take a five-minute flight across the Thames on something called the Emirates Air Line. It’s a cable-car ride between North Greenwich and the Royal Docks that’s sponsored by the Gulf carrier. Much else on the ride simulates a plane trip — the tickets are called boarding passes, and when you ‘take off’ from either side of the river there’s a large digital screen showing cheery people waving you off, as at an airport. As I embark from the southern bank, a bunch of ‘Butchers from South London’ bid me goodbye. The cable cars, however, are called gondolas rather than, say, ‘cockpits’ or ‘cabins’ — and once up in