Arts Reviews

The good, bad and ugly in arts and exhbitions

Kids’ stuff

(500) Days of Summer 12A, Nationwide (500) Days of Summer is a Hollywood romantic comedy with (unnecessary and annoying brackets) in the title just so we know it’s quirky, which it rather is, but it’s so in love with its own quirkiness it gets tiresome after a while. It’s just not as clever as it thinks it is although, having said that, I should point out it’s been a huge commercial and critical hit in America so maybe I’m just getting too old for dating movies generally. Or, as my five-year-old niece recently put it to me: ‘Deb, why are you all cracked around the eyes?’ Kids, couldn’t eat a

Lloyd Evans

The full Brazilian

The Assault/The Last Days of Gilda Old Red Lion Eye/Balls Soho London in August. It’s the capital’s sabbatical. Theatre is all Edinburgh right now and the London-bound play-goer feels dislocated, irrelevant almost, alienated by accidents of chance and inclination, like a Hebrew at Christmas, a teetotaller on St Patrick’s day, an honest man in the Labour party. There’s still theatre to be had, though. The hunger remains, the unappeasable ache. A Brazilian double bill catches my eye. When it comes to Brazilian theatre — and I come to Brazilian theatre often — I’m more than an enthusiast, I’m a proto-fanatic. My expectations are vast. My sense of anticipation is beyond

Grimeborn experience

Exactly ten years ago I visited Battersea Arts Centre to see eight short operas performed by Tête à Tête. Exactly ten years ago I visited Battersea Arts Centre to see eight short operas performed by Tête à Tête. It was a memorable evening, and showed what a good idea it is to encourage young composers to write quarter-hour-long pieces, instead of making a whole evening of their first attempt at opera. Inevitably, of course, there is a workshop aspect to these occasions, and anyone who feels understandably suspicious of workshops is likely to give them a wide berth — and thereby to miss a good deal of hit-and-miss pleasure. There

Alex Massie

Torture: You Know It When You See It

I watched Tunes of Glory again last night. It’s one of my favourite films*. During it, Basil Barrow, the newly-arrived Colonel of the battalion, played by John Mills, mentions his experiences in a Japanese prisoner of war camp during the Second World War: Oh they gave me time, all right. Again and again. When I was in the prison camp, they nearly drowned me, then they brought me round. Then they put a wet cloth over my mouth and kept it wet until I nearly drowned again. And the only thing that pulled me through was the thought that one day I’d come back and sit in the middle of

Alex Massie

Men of Harlech

It’s a bank holiday weekend, so what better way to spend a Sunday afternoon than by watching Zulu one more time? Granted, the movie is riddled with historical inaccuracies but so what? ‘Tis grand, stirring stuff. And the “sing-off” between the Zulus – “Well, they’ve got a very good bass section, mind, but no top tenors, that’s for sure” – and our Welsh heroes is splendid, ranking behind only the superb rendition of the Marseillaise in Casablanca. Here it is:

Working with Veronese

Roderick Conway Morris talks to Peter Greenaway about creating a ‘painting with a soundtrack’ Peter Greenaway is standing against the backdrop of Paolo Veronese’s enormous ‘The Wedding at Cana’ in the Palladian refectory of the Venetian monastery of San Giorgio Maggiore and is in rhetorical mode: ‘When we put art and cinema in the balance, what do we have? At least 8,000 years of painting and a miserable 114 years or so of cinema. Nothing in cinema has not already been essayed in still images in painting at one time or another. So I think it a very good idea to have a dialogue between painting and cinema.’ The occasion

Barenboim becalmed

Fidelio; Samson The Proms The visits to the Proms of the West-Eastern Divan Orchestra under their co-founder and conductor Daniel Barenboim have become, already, something more than an artistic event — or, this year, four artistic events in two days. It is immensely moving to see young people from endlessly embattled states making music together, and doing it with such panache and precision. By the time of the last concert, an unstaged performance of Beethoven’s Fidelio, with a starry cast of soloists, it was possible to feel, however, that Barenboim’s hyper-Gergievean rate of work was taking a toll, both on him and on his orchestra. Not that they had lost

Touch of darkness

J.W. Waterhouse: The Modern Pre-Raphaelite Royal Academy, until 13 September Supported by Champagne Perrier-Jouet Just what is it that makes John William Waterhouse (1849–1917) so different, so appealing? (As Richard Hamilton might put it.) And in what way is he so modern? It certainly isn’t an off-putting or radical modernity, for the exhibition in the Sackler Galleries has been doing brisk business, and the day I visited it was scarcely possible to view the pictures for the crowds. The shires must be empty these days, and indeed I hear that the only place to recapture the old peaceful museum experience of actually being able to see art in a public

Lloyd Evans

Charisma unbounded

The Mountaintop Trafalgar Studios Hello Dolly! Open Air Theatre, Regent’s Park Meet the black Elvis. A man who got up on stage, a man who ‘sang’, a man who was adored by millions, a man who was King. Katori Hall’s play, The Mountaintop, is set in a Memphis hotel on the eve of Martin Luther King’s assassination. I feared this would be an official court portrait, a stiff and reverent depiction of flawless martyrdom. The play’s opening device is thunderously inept. King orders a tray of refreshments which arrive in the hands of a sexy young maid and, hey presto, they fall into a complex and revealing relationship. The maid’s

An ‘intelligent spectacle’

Henrietta Bredin talks to David Pountney about running the Bregenz Festival Back in the days when David Pountney was director of productions at English National Opera, his so-called office was a tiny broom cupboard of a space carved out of a backstage cranny of the London Coliseum, with a single grubby window overlooking a narrow passageway known as Piss Alley for obvious and strongly smelling reasons. He now, as artistic director of the Bregenz Festival in Austria, occupies a lavishly appointed sort of control tower, with floor-to-ceiling windows looking out across Lake Constance and giving a direct hawk’s-eye view of the stage built out into the lake, which is the

Lloyd Evans

Northern exposure

Edinburgh is a flashers’ convention. Edinburgh is a flashers’ convention. Everyone wants exposure. They come to build their brand, to raise recognition levels among the oblivious, to smuggle themselves into your brain while you’re not looking. So don’t feel obliged to buy a ticket. Your attendance is sufficient reward. Performers know the fringe is a gamble and they risk only what they can afford to lose: most of August and most of their savings. If you want comedy you’ll find numerous free venues listed at freefringe.org.uk. The best of these, by some distance, is The Canon’s Gait located at the lower end of a road known to the entire world

Proms profusion

Grasping the content of the Proms these days has become a bewildering business. The best image I can give is of a contrapuntal web, teeming with themes, in which the principal subjects stand out against the detail, but where the detail nonetheless clamours for attention and the sheer profusion of it can seem overwhelming. When the planners inform their followers that the ‘highlights’ of the Proms Literary Festival ‘include’…one quickly realises that here is a festival which has moved on from being a simple series of orchestral concerts. The press are furnished with two publications at the beginning of the season: the standard prospectus, which lists all the concerts in

Street life | 22 August 2009

I expected to dislike Walk on the Wild Side (BBC1, Saturday), fearing sub-Johnny Morris, anthropomorphic, animals-say-the-darndest-things whimsy. Instead it turned out to be funny, inventive and even acerbic. The notion is that comedians take genuine footage of animals from natural-history programmes, and voice-over short routines matched to the creatures’ movements, often with surreal effect. It’s hit and miss, but the hits compensate for the misses. The meerkat, for example, boasting to other meerkats about his success as an actor (they might have seen him, he says grandly, in the ‘compare the meerkat’ commercials, as his bored audience falls over). Sharks on the ocean floor sing Queen hits, and I loved

Brewing up

One minute we were in Brent Town Hall witnessing a Citizenship Ceremony, as a group of Somalis, Sri Lankans and Iraqis were welcomed as fully paid-up (to the tune of £2,500-plus) British citizens, the next in a beekeeper’s garden in Acton, west London. One minute we were in Brent Town Hall witnessing a Citizenship Ceremony, as a group of Somalis, Sri Lankans and Iraqis were welcomed as fully paid-up (to the tune of £2,500-plus) British citizens, the next in a beekeeper’s garden in Acton, west London. On the way we called in at a Blood Donor centre, the Bushey Tea Dance club and the Peace Hospice in Watford. What did

Alex Massie

Ukraine’s Got Talent

Perhaps you’ve already seen Kseniya Simonova’s performance on Ukraine’s Got Talent. But if you haven’t, watch how she recounts the horrors of Ukraine’s experiences during the Second World War. With sand. It’s one of the most remarkable, moving, beautiful pieces I’ve seen in ages. Since the video has already been seen 900,000 times  I suppose she counts as a “Youtube sensation” but that term seems absurd and cheap when applied to this sort of thing. So too does any comparison with our own Susan Boyle. Take eight minutes from your day and watch this. You won’t regret it. The final words mean, I gather, something like “You are always with

Close to the Bone

Sir Muirhead Bone: Artist and Patron The Fleming Collection, 13 Berkeley Street, W1, until 5 September The Fleming Collection mounts loan exhibitions of artists represented in its permanent collection, its focus on Scottish artists a strength rather than a limitation. (Would there were an institution in London which just showed American artists. Perhaps then we’d get decent exhibitions of Wayne Thiebaud, Nancy Graves or Martin Puryear.) In recent years the Fleming has shown James Pryde and Joan Eardley to good effect, and now the great etcher Muirhead Bone is given the same treatment. The chronological survey begins in the downstairs gallery, where a fine drypoint portrait of Bone by his

Lloyd Evans

Credit-crunch festival

Lloyd Evans goes in search of culture on the rain-soaked streets of Edinburgh The crunch. That damn credit crunch. It hurt Scotland hardest of all. A worldwide reputation as a financial powerhouse? Gone. Dreams of independence? Severely truncated. Last year the Edinburgh Festival bore prophetic signs of imminent poverty, of homelessness, of doom. Free shows abounded. Bribes of wine, whisky and sandwiches were being proferred to choosy punters. This year I’m here on an austerity awayday, a recession quickie, a pared-down and stripped-back three-day in-and-outer. My accommodation meets the brief superbly. I’m in a dive, of the deep-sea variety. You have to hold your breath. The showers are communal. So

Standing Room | 15 August 2009

Oh dear. Nearly 80 years ago Dorothy Parker wrote a bleak poem entitled ‘Resume’. Back then she must have thought she’d been fairly comprehensive in covering all possible self-inflicted exit routes. Razors pain you; Rivers are damp; Acids stain you; And drugs cause cramp. Guns aren’t lawful; Nooses give; Gas smells awful; You might as well live. Times have changed — as indeed has the toxic cocktail of doom. Were Ms Parker alive today and living in England she might have felt the need to add a few revisions that attempted to embrace the withering wheels of misfortune that now precipitates not just our demise, but threatens to blight our

Lloyd Evans

Playing the game

The Girlfriend Experience Young Vic Helen Globe Who exploits prostitutes? Men, of course. And women, too. In particular those feminist politicians, always at panic stations, always posing as moral redeemers, who promote the myth that there’s only one type of hooker in this country — the crackhead Albanian rape-slave living in an airing cupboard — and that her only hope of rescue is a No. 10 policy statement. The truth is more complex and less alarming. Alecky Blythe’s verbatim piece gives us the authentic low-down on the skin trade. ‘Verbatim’ means Blythe spent weeks recording live testimony from a group of aging prostitutes which she then shaped into a dramatic