Arts Reviews

The good, bad and ugly in arts and exhbitions

Saturday

Patrick Carnegy

Double toil and trouble

‘Shakespeare’s Lost Play Re-imagined’, thus Gregory Doran’s subtitle to Cardenio. The play appears to have been lost in the Globe fire of 1613, but why should the RSC’s chief associate director have wanted to ‘re-imagine’ and stage it as the inaugural production in the refurbished Swan? ‘Shakespeare’s Lost Play Re-imagined’, thus Gregory Doran’s subtitle to Cardenio. The play appears to have been lost in the Globe fire of 1613, but why should the RSC’s chief associate director have wanted to ‘re-imagine’ and stage it as the inaugural production in the refurbished Swan? There was nothing to go on other than a dubious trail leading back from a 1727 effort by

Simon Hoggart

Cartoon counselling

The Trouble with Love and Sex (Wednesday, BBC2) was extraordinary and quite successful. They took two couples plus one lonely single chap, recorded them talking to counsellors at Relate (formerly the Marriage Guidance Council, following the same rule by which the Royal Association for the Protection and Furtherance of Deaf Persons would become Eh?) and then turned the resulting dialogue into cartoons, so you heard their real voices but saw only drawings of people who didn’t look like them. These days, when people will suffer almost any humiliation to get on television, I am sure they could have found folk who would eagerly have appeared on camera to talk about

Kate Chisholm

Cut short

‘She hung up and ended the interview,’ said John Humphrys on Saturday morning’s Today programme (Radio 4), sounding rather bemused. ‘She hung up and ended the interview,’ said John Humphrys on Saturday morning’s Today programme (Radio 4), sounding rather bemused. Had he really been cut off mid-round? The battle not yet won. He’d just been talking to Reem Haddad, director of Syrian state television and also, or so the BBC’s website declares, a spokesperson for the Syrian administration (an odd combination of roles, one might think). Haddad had questioned Humphrys’s use of the number ‘500-odd’ persons as having been killed by state troops during the current uprising in Homs and

Saturday

Andrew Lambirth

Free spirit

Joan Miró (1893–1983) was a great imaginative artist and a pure painter of genius. Joan Miró (1893–1983) was a great imaginative artist and a pure painter of genius. He produced a huge body of work over a long life, and this excellent selection of it transforms the uninspiring galleries at Tate Modern, which have rarely looked so good. This exhibition offers the political interpretation. You can see Miró as a surrealist, as a formalist or as a political artist. Actually, he was none of these, but allowed each to touch upon the wellsprings of his creativity and have some sort of relationship with his art. His identity as a Catalan

Michael Henderson

Unexpected passion

Michael Henderson talks to Alfred Brendel about his favourite films ‘I belong to no tribe,’ says Alfred Brendel, taking tea at his home in Hampstead, surrounded by some of the books that constitute his vast library. ‘I follow no creed, subscribe to no ideology, and I despise nationalism. I have lived in many places but wherever I go I am a paying guest.’ If you wanted a single statement to do justice to this extraordinary man, that would do pretty well. It is the expression of a well-travelled, well-read, well-versed man in language that is by turns serious and playful. With his immense learning, worn lightly, and a highly developed

Michael Tanner

Breaking the spell

Fidelio, once regarded as an uncomplicated celebration of what its title suggests, and of freedom, especially political freedom, has become a problem work, and most productions of it amount to uninterestingly complicated attempts to circumvent issues which shouldn’t have been present in the director’s mind in the first place. Fidelio, once regarded as an uncomplicated celebration of what its title suggests, and of freedom, especially political freedom, has become a problem work, and most productions of it amount to uninterestingly complicated attempts to circumvent issues which shouldn’t have been present in the director’s mind in the first place. This has been a bad season, until Opera North broke the spell

Lloyd Evans Lloyd Evans

Lost in space | 7 May 2011

The RSC isn’t limited to Shakespeare. The RSC isn’t limited to Shakespeare. It’s also one of the richest and most prolific fringe operations in the country. ‘We have between 30 and 40 writers working on plays for us at any one time.’ Golly. Some Stratford bigwig wants to tell the tale of the Russian space programme so a Casualty writer, Rona Munro, has been hired to knock out a script. The programme note is an act of contrition. ‘I have had to take some glaring liberties with time and space and imagined events,’ Munro confesses. A strange approach to scientific history. ‘I ask forgiveness of the dead,’ she goes on,

Deborah Ross

One man and his dog | 7 May 2011

My Dog Tulip is a tender and exquisite animation about one man and his dog which gets as close to what it is to love dogs as I’ve ever encountered, and goes a considerable way to making up for what dog-lovers have had to put up with at the cinema in recent years (Hotel for Dogs, Beverly Hills Chihuahua, Marley & Me; utter tripe). My Dog Tulip is a tender and exquisite animation about one man and his dog which gets as close to what it is to love dogs as I’ve ever encountered, and goes a considerable way to making up for what dog-lovers have had to put up

James Delingpole James Delingpole

Farewell, Sarah Jane

There’s a brilliant moment in the 1975 Doctor Who storyline The Ark In Space when Sarah Jane (Elisabeth Sladen), on a vital mission to save Earth from the evil insectoid Wirrn, gets stuck in a ventilator shaft. There’s a brilliant moment in the 1975 Doctor Who storyline The Ark In Space when Sarah Jane (Elisabeth Sladen), on a vital mission to save Earth from the evil insectoid Wirrn, gets stuck in a ventilator shaft. The Doctor (Tom Baker) hits on the ingenious ruse of goading her across the last few inches by telling her how thoroughly useless she is. At least, brilliant is how I remember it being when I

Kate Chisholm

In a jam

Trust a radio critic, she who is paid to listen, not to rely on the wireless set in her car for information when stuck on a highland road miles from anywhere in a jam that stretches far into the horizon in both directions. But when a forest fire closed the road we were travelling on back across the mountains I realised I hadn’t a clue how to retune our southbound radio from the preset buttons and so couldn’t find the local station, Moray Firth Radio. After three hours, in the gloaming, we turned back along the road we had travelled. If only we had waited — or listened to MFR.

Tuesday

Rod Liddle Rod Liddle

Moonbat redux

There was a very funny joke told by the slightly weird American comedian Emo Philips a dozen or so years ago. He was talking about his German girlfriend, and how she loved being in New York. What she loved best, he said, were those New York bagels, she couldn’t get enough of them. “And you just can’t find them anywhere in Germany,” she added, to which Philips replied: “Well, whose fault is that?” Another slightly weird comedian, The Guardian’s George Monbiot, provided the opportunity for precisely the same punchline in his column this week. At the start of what was, I have to admit, a very well written and cogently

Saturday

Andrew Lambirth

Garden delights

There were two John Tradescants, father and son, operating in the 17th century as travellers and gardeners from a base in south London. Their family tomb is at the heart of the garden surrounding the Garden Museum in the former church of St Mary-at-Lambeth in Lambeth Palace Road, a garden designed as a Tradescant memorial 30 years ago by the Dowager Marchioness of Salisbury. This hallowed place has been the principal subject for the past year of the painter Charlotte Verity (born 1954), the museum’s first artist-in-residence. The initiative has been generously funded by the Cochemé Trust, and the results of Verity’s year-long residency are now on show in the

Robert Gorelangton

Wilton’s Music Hall – The good old days

John Major is half way through a book about the rise and fall of the music hall. His father, Tom, was a song-and-dance man who formed a double act with his wife, Kitty. John’s brother Terry was a trapeze artist, and the former prime minister must have come close to going into the family trade. Parliament’s gain was, in John Major-speak, showbiz’s not inconsiderable loss. Oh, yes.   Tom Major was a name in his day, although the fag-end of the music hall he knew is deader now than even the madrigal. The generation of halls that emerged in 1850 were very rapidly gone. Only one survives, in the East

Michael Prodger

We are the mockers, too

Hieronymus Bosch had a distinctive view of our debased humanity, most distinctly expressed in his paintings of Christ’s Passion, says Michael Prodger Carl Jung described the painter Hieronymus Bosch as ‘the master of the monstrous…the discoverer of the unconscious’. He was, however, only half right. While it is true that Bosch has no peers as a conjurer of phantasms and grotesques, he was no proto-psychologist: he was a man of his times. Bosch lived c.1450–1516 so his times were the late Middle Ages and there was no such thing as the unconscious then — there was the Bible. All human behaviour, good or ill, could be ascribed either to God

Liz Anderson

Me and my spoon

‘We have a spare place at a silver spoon-making workshop. Would you be interested?’ asked the Goldsmiths’ Company. I most certainly was, which was why I turned up (with my pinnie) at the Camberwell workshop of silversmiths Howard Fenn and Steve Wager. ‘We have a spare place at a silver spoon-making workshop. Would you be interested?’ asked the Goldsmiths’ Company. I most certainly was, which was why I turned up (with my pinnie) at the Camberwell workshop of silversmiths Howard Fenn and Steve Wager. Howard and Steve are both Freemen of the Worshipful Company of Goldsmiths with work in private, public and royal collections, yet these master craftsmen were prepared

Lloyd Evans Lloyd Evans

Pinter’s self-vandalising

Let’s think about it. How did Harold Pinter write his masterpieces? And why are they praised so much more lavishly than the scribbles of his contemporaries? Let’s think about it. How did Harold Pinter write his masterpieces? And why are they praised so much more lavishly than the scribbles of his contemporaries? Moonlight, his 1993 play, has been slickly revived at the Donmar and it opens with a dying pensioner sprawling luxuriously in a double-bed and ranting at his wife. Across stage his sons engage in madcap vaudevillian banter. Other characters wander in and speak fluent nonsense. A girl, who is also a ghost, articulates charming drivel about moonshine and

Michael Tanner

Russian revenge | 23 April 2011

The Tsar’s Bride is Rimsky-Korsakov’s tenth opera, give or take various versions of some previous ones, but you’d never guess it. The Tsar’s Bride is Rimsky-Korsakov’s tenth opera, give or take various versions of some previous ones, but you’d never guess it. The production at the Royal Opera, which is exemplary in most respects, suggests a fairly talented newcomer to the genre, who isn’t yet in a position to boss his librettist around in the necessary ways. The Overture sets no scene, and is anyway tiresome and undistinguished; there are lots of stereotypical choral scenes; the central set of characters and their motivations sometimes get submerged in superfluous sidelines. But,

Deborah Ross

Triumph of goodness

Two films, this week, because I spoil you — what can I say? It’s in my nature — and not much to choose between them apart from the fact that one is good (Cedar Rapids) and one is so bad (Arthur) that just thinking about it makes me want to weep for myself, for remakes, for film audiences, for the state of cinema today, for humankind and for dogs that are cruelly treated, which is not especially relevant but, if I am weeping anyway, I might as well include them. Two films, this week, because I spoil you — what can I say? It’s in my nature — and not

Simon Hoggart

Laid-back fantasy

This is how heavily Game of Thrones (Sky Atlantic, Monday) is being promoted: the preview discs came with a big, wider than A4, stiff-backed glossy book containing pictures of the actors and the settings, plus a glossary and a guide to the programme’s fantasy land — more than any lonely schoolboy in his bedroom could wish for. This is how heavily Game of Thrones (Sky Atlantic, Monday) is being promoted: the preview discs came with a big, wider than A4, stiff-backed glossy book containing pictures of the actors and the settings, plus a glossary and a guide to the programme’s fantasy land — more than any lonely schoolboy in his

Thursday

Alex Massie Alex Massie

In Praise of Alastair Sim

There is, I confess, little pressing need to post this clip from The Happiest Days of Your Life beyond the fact that a) it is always good to see Alastair Sim in action and b) this thought was triggered by this, entirely unrelated, story* in the Scotsman which quotes the head of Universities Scotland – a chap named Alastair Sim. The Happiest Days of Your Life, you will recall, is a splendid caper during which the exigencies of wartime demand a girls’ school be sequestered at a boys’ boarding school. Alastair Sim is the much put-upon headmaster and Margaret Rutherford the splendid headmistress. As always, Sim is the real star