Arts Reviews

The good, bad and ugly in arts and exhbitions

Saturday

Deborah Ross

Man and boy

Totally unexpectedly, as I don’t like Brit gangster films particularly — so many sociopaths, so little time — I loved, loved, loved, loved, loved Wild Bill and, for those of you who are slow on the uptake, let me say four times more: I loved, loved, loved, loved it. It may not even be a gangster film proper, although it is certainly being sold as such, with a poster that’s all tattooed fist. This is a shame, as it’s actually a rather delicate and elegant piece of work combining great storytelling, a terrific script, and characters you can seriously care about, and do. It hits all the marks. You’ll laugh.

Michael Tanner

Fatal flaw | 24 March 2012

Judith Weir’s Miss Fortune, whose UK première was at the Royal Opera last week, has received the severest critical panning I can recall for any new opera. It is no masterpiece, but I wonder why it has been rounded on when so many new — not to mention old — pieces with no more going for them, so far as I can tell, get greeted warmly or at least tepidly. Admittedly, it takes an ambitious subject — Fate — and treats it in a largely unpretentious way. But Verdi’s La Forza del Destino takes the same subject and treats it in an utterly preposterous way, and has some dreadful passages

Kate Chisholm

JAM today

On the page a minute’s worth of words doesn’t look like much. A hundred and forty-four or thereabouts. But try spouting forth for 60 seconds on any given subject without hesitation, deviation or repetition and those 144 words become an awful lot to find, especially when they have to be summoned up at speed from some inner reservoir of thoughts and phrases. Maybe that’s the reason why Just a Minute is still such a fixture on the Radio 4 schedule. The panellists make it sound so easy that we’re always puzzled when a new, unpractised contestant struggles to survive for longer than 20 seconds. We’re puzzled but we also relish

Simon Hoggart

Of God and men

Two documentaries this week made us ponder what our country, with its 1 per cent of the world’s population, exists for. How God Made the English (BBC2, Saturday) had the historian Diarmaid MacCulloch musing about the way we have believed for a thousand years that we were God’s chosen people, having taken that baton from the Israelites — thanks to the Venerable Bede. I am not sure that he made the case. Most nations have believed at one time or another that God was their principal cheerleader. When the Israelites were in the smiting business, anyone they successfully smote, such as the poor wretches who lived in Jericho, were simply

Kate Chisholm

Healing art

‘It’s like acting,’ says the illustrator Quentin Blake about his latest project. ‘You imagine yourself there, in that situation. You imagine you are that person.’ The first-ever children’s laureate has been taking his acute eye for gesture, for character, into hospitals, as part of the Nightingale Project. His funny, colourful, bursting-with-life paintings are now decorating the walls of a mental health ward at Northwick Park, the Vincent Square Clinic and a maternity hospital in France, and are being celebrated in an exhibition at the Foundling Museum (40 Brunswick Square, London WC1). They reflect so accurately the experience of illness, parenting, age and infirmity that Blake has been asked, ‘How do

Saturday

Andrew Lambirth

Shape shifters

Someone asked me recently whether I actually liked Mondrian’s paintings. The implication being that his form of geometrical abstraction was too pure — or too antiseptic — to contain the necessary germ of human warmth required to engage the emotions; and that though one could admire his work intellectually, it was difficult to be passionate about it. There’s plenty of passion in Mondrian, but it is controlled fire, banked down to burn with a white-hot flame. Perhaps it should be termed the Higher Passion, as it does not immediately affect the ordinary emotions, but inspires instead to the spiritual ecstasy of the saint. Looking at a handful of his pictures

Robert Gorelangton

Fairground attraction

Robert Gore-Langton talks to Professor Vanessa Toulmin about bringing the 27,000 Volt Girl and five-foot earwigs back into the public eye Vanessa Toulmin is that rare thing — an academic professor who grew up on a fair. From the age of ten she fried onions for the hotdogs, spun candyfloss, and took money for rides on the gallopers. She can remember, as a little girl, George the Gentle Giant (seven foot four) lurching home drunk with his chum Wee McGregor (two foot four) peeing on his shins. Her early life was like a Fellini circus film. As a teenager, Vanessa actually ran away from the fair to get some A-levels.

Lloyd Evans Lloyd Evans

Knock-off Chekhov

Calling all thespians. Roll up, you theatre folk. The Hampstead’s new show is a dramatic love-in you can’t afford to miss. Farewell to the Theatre introduces us to Harley Granville-Barker, one of the greatest playwrights of the early 20th century, as he enjoys a sabbatical in Massachusetts in 1916. Everything is languid, atmospheric and high-minded. Granville-Barker is busy giving lectures and watching American productions of Shakespeare while one of his chums, a literature professor, has had a bust-up with another academic. It’s a pity this off-stage conflict doesn’t test or expose Granville-Barker at all. He just lolls around the garden of a country house making cold, lofty speeches about the

Giannandrea Poesio

Succulent pleasures

It was about time a dance-maker exacted revenge on dance academics. In Alexander Ekman’s 2010 Cacti, a voiceover explains the alleged semantics of the choreography by resorting to theoretical clichés and the known modes of that mental self-pleasuring that many academics indulge in. As the vacuously pompous words bear little or no relation to the quirky actions, the contrast between the taped voice and the dancing becomes explosively comic. Later on, recorded voices are also used to let viewers peep into the minds of two dancers performing a duet, humorously highlighting the kind of artistically detached thinking performers frequently engage in while dancing. As stated by the voiceover in the

Deborah Ross

Redeeming creatures

We Bought a Zoo — in which a family buys a zoo — does what it says on the tin and if you like this sort of film you will like this and if you don’t you won’t, and you have to ask yourself why you buy The Spectator every week? It’s for analysis like this which, I think you will find, is unavailable elsewhere. But do I like this sort of film? Actually, I rather do. There are no surprises. It is comfortingly straight up and down. It is heartwarming, to the extent you can buy it. There are animals: lions, tigers, a grizzly bear, and a funny little

Kate Chisholm

Listen up!

Life-changing moments are not always as dramatic as Saint Paul’s Damascene experience. Often they emerge from conversations that begin with mundane exchanges about last night’s Masterchef, the film you saw last week, the last time there was a drought. Then gradually the talk moves on to other, deeper matters. Something is said, some connection is made which opens up a shaft of light on a problem, a question, a source of confusion that’s been troubling you for years. You might not realise for a while that the conversation marks a change, but looking back on what was said leads you to recognise how from that moment your life has taken

James Delingpole James Delingpole

Downton on sea

If Titanic hadn’t actually sunk on its maiden voyage not even Jeffrey Archer would have dared invent such a hammily extravagant plot. The passenger list — Benjamin Guggenheim, John Jacob Astor IV (Macy’s owner), Isidor Straus, the silent film actress Dorothy Gibson, inventor of the New Journalism W.T. Stead, and sundry English toffs — was just too implausibly rich and diverse. The sudden social levelling induced by disaster too neat and melodramatic. The background details — the band playing on, the lifeboat shortage, the men’s Birkenhead drill stoicism as their female loved ones and children clambered into the lifeboats (or not) — were too upsetting, maddening and moving. And the

Thursday

Alex Massie Alex Massie

Surviving the Ides of March…

I’m indebted to Patrick Kidd for unearthing this terrific advertisement for Scotsh Whisky, published in the Western Morning News in 1927. These are indeed treacherous times so it is pleasing to be reminded that March winds hold no peril for those who are fortified with Scotch Whisky. As Patrick says, what a shame the liquor industry can no longer offer sage advice like Scotch Whisky can be taken at the strength and in the volume best suited to the individual constitution, the time and the climate. Good to be reassured, too, that whisky is The safest & best drink in any climate. That said, it seems a stretch to suggest

Saturday

Liz Anderson

Road to Mecca

The British Museum’s latest exhibition Hajj: journey to the heart of Islam (until 15 April) sets out to explain the mysteries of this annual pilgrimage. Last year, a total of 2,927,719 pilgrims went to Mecca, Saudi Arabia, something that all Muslims should try to do at least once in their lifetime. Such huge numbers are hard to visualise, so a film, projected on to a wall, is a great help: one sees, I suppose, hundreds of thousands of pilgrims arriving in the city, and walking round Islam’s most sacred site, the Ka’ba, confined as they are to the courtyard of the Grand Mosque and surrounding areas. And because of its

Andrew Lambirth

Spring round-up | 10 March 2012

The fashion for museum-quality exhibitions in commercial galleries continues apace with two notable shows in Mayfair: Cy Twombly at Eykyn Maclean, and Julio González at Ordovas. Both galleries specialise in this kind of display, which must be more to do with impressing potential clients than with generating income, given that both are loan shows. I hope there’s also an altruistic motive here, however slight: to provide another forum for the public to view high-quality art they might not see elsewhere. Certainly these venues offer a new and welcome resource to the London gallery-goer, and should be better known. Chistopher Eykyn and Nicholas Maclean, who both have many years of experience

William Cook

At home with Rubens

William Cook believes that the British cannot really understand the artist until they’ve been to Antwerp In a quiet corner of Tate Britain there is a little exhibition that sheds fresh light on an artist whom the British have never really learned to love. Rubens & Britain (until 6 May) is a fascinating show, documenting his work in England, and like all good exhibitions it leaves you wanting more. There are Rubens in countless British galleries, of course, but really to understand him you have to travel to his hometown, Antwerp. Here, Rubens is everywhere, even on the toilet doors in trendy bars and restaurants. My first visit was a

Owen Matthews

Set art free | 10 March 2012

Let’s not waste more millions ‘saving’ Old Masters Last week the National Gallery and National Gallery of Scotland proudly announced that they had jointly raised £45 million to buy Titian’s ‘Diana and Callisto’ from the Duke of Sutherland, thereby ‘saving it for the nation’. A few days before, Turkey’s Ministry of Culture and Tourism announced that it would be blocking export licences for various exhibits due to be displayed at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York, the British Museum and the Victoria & Albert Museum. The Turks said they would not release the artifacts until items in UK and US museums excavated in Anatolia during the 19th century

Stephen Pollard

Theatre of rudeness

I’m told that the new production of Dvorˇák’s Rusalka at the Royal Opera House is controversial. There were boos at the first night and reports of audience members walking out in disgust. I too walked out in disgust. Mine, however, had nothing to do with what was happening on stage. It was prompted by the man sitting next to me, who arrived trailing BO the impact of which could alone knock out any Iranian nuclear bomb. The odour was so powerful that I had to get out as soon as possible. No part of my mind could focus on the performance; I had to hold myself together until the first

Michael Tanner

Reflections on guilt

There can be no doubting the nobility of John Adams’s intentions in writing The Death of Klinghoffer to a text by Alice Goodman, nor ENO’s courage in putting it on, though they do have a captive audience for minimalist and near-minimalist operas. The work is conceived, as all commentaries tirelessly tell us, in the spirit of Bach’s Passions, in which a dramatic narrative thread alternates with arias of reflection and choruses of penance and grief. Yet Bach’s purpose was different in kind from Adams’s. Bach could take for granted an audience of unquestioning believers, and his sublime masterpieces embody their faith more powerfully than anything else a Christian has created,

Lloyd Evans Lloyd Evans

Only the best

Jackie Mason, the New York stand-up, looks very strange. It’s as if somebody shrank Tony Bennett and microwaved him for two hours. Mason is short, dark, troll-like, densely built, with shining bulbous lips and a twinkly expression of diabolical mischief. His hair gathers over his head in a wave of red-brown crinkliness. For his solo show he wears a sharp, grey business suit. He could be Rumpelstiltskin selling real estate. All his jokes are Jewish. And none of them are. He uses ‘the Jew’ as a catch-all tag for a fretful, brow-beaten loser. ‘The Gentile’ is his relaxed, prosperous and self-confident counterpart. The Jew wants to impress people by sporting