Arts Reviews

The good, bad and ugly in arts and exhbitions

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

Death wish

Was it a shock, Joan Bakewell was asked, when Harold Pinter showed you the script of his latest play? Bakewell was hardly going to reveal live on air to ten million listeners what she really felt about Pinter’s use of their affair as a plot device in Betrayal. She’s far too smart for that. All she would say on Desert Island Discs this week is that their long friendship of 40-plus years was far more important than their seven-year affair. Her inquisitor, Kirsty Young, still would not give up. But surely it was a curious situation for someone like you to be in? ‘We had a damned good time,’ Bakewell

Quiet art

Janet Boulton: Remembering Little Sparta Edinburgh College of Art, until 30 August Janet Boulton (born 1936) is an artist of integrity and dedication, whose principal subject is still-life. She paints in watercolour, that most demanding of media, and eschews drama of subject or treatment. She has chosen a difficult path, and one which attracts little attention, particularly in an art world dominated by sensationalism. Boulton’s is a quiet art, its aim residing in the subtlest differentiations of tone and placing. She paints exquisite compositions of glass vessels, making of their reflective surfaces a fitting subject for contemplation, a modern vanitas. She is also a passionate gardener, and one of her

Rich rewards

Tristan und Isolde Glyndebourne Wagner’s Tristan und Isolde is a work of stark oppositions, which are overcome, or seem to be, in the final bars, as Isolde sinks lifeless over Tristan’s body, in a state of (her last words) ‘unconsciousness, highest bliss’. Well, which? you might ask. If you’re unconscious you can’t be in a state of highest bliss, and vice versa. But it is essential to this work that that central paradox is maintained throughout. Passion must lead to death. It undermines all civilisation and the concepts on which it is based and with which we work, and the lovers, a highly intelligent and speculative pair, think through, so

A close engagement with music

Sean Rafferty tells Henrietta Bredin how an abbot persuaded him to make his first recording Six minutes to go before the daily live broadcast of BBC Radio Three’s In Tune goes on air and the atmosphere is full of a sort of supercharged alertness, of tension expertly controlled by a small team of people who all know exactly what they are doing. The producer asks about a recording of a Handel aria she wants to play later in the programme — it’s not here yet, and may only be available on DVD, but it’s being looked for, and if it fails to materialise, she’s got an alternative as back-up. Two

Pop heaven

I have so far avoided swine flu but have caught the festival bug badly this year. Back from Glastonbury, I realised I could squeeze in a day at GuilFest, the much smaller and less intimidating festival held each year in Guildford’s Stoke Park. I have so far avoided swine flu but have caught the festival bug badly this year. Back from Glastonbury, I realised I could squeeze in a day at GuilFest, the much smaller and less intimidating festival held each year in Guildford’s Stoke Park. Brian Wilson, the song-writing and production genius behind the Beach Boys, was topping the bill and I awaited his performance with considerable apprehension. Although

War and words

‘Aggressive camping’ is how one of the characters in Andy McNab’s first play for radio describes his activities in Helmand province in Aghanistan. ‘Aggressive camping’ is how one of the characters in Andy McNab’s first play for radio describes his activities in Helmand province in Aghanistan. Last Night, Another Soldier… (Radio Four, Saturday) received a lot of advance publicity because of McNab’s reputation as a former SAS soldier whose books about his experiences at war have zoomed off the shelves faster than he can write them. His play focuses on a platoon of riflemen engaged in hand-to-hand fighting with the Taleban, mostly young, sometimes brave, and always doomed, either to

Hooked on classics

Our monsoon season brings not only cricket delays but also a flowering of local classic-car shows. Testimony to nostalgic enthusiasm, they prompt the reflection that man is never more innocently engaged than when he values something for what it is, rather than for what he can get out of it. Not that the classic-car world has ever been immune to investors seeking to translate value in the usual way. Indeed, now may be a good time if you’ve a few thousand earning no interest somewhere. Judging by record auction prices at Brightwells, Leominster, classic cars have held up pretty well during the recession, especially at the top end (though Rolls

Lloyd Evans

World class

A Streetcar Named Desire Donmar Too Close to the Sun Comedy Kissed by Brel Jermyn Street Streetcar opens with a strange spectacle. Christopher Oram’s lovely — too lovely — design has the upper circle decked out in peeling ironwork which soars across the boards and modulates into a chic spiral staircase overlooking the Kowalski’s open-plan apartment. This Manhattan-loft gesture exposes the impossibility of making the Donmar’s airy spaces look like a cramped one-bedroom flat in the wife-beating district of New Orleans. The grime, the physical claustrophobia are missing from Rob Ashford’s production but these are the only failings in this fabulous, horrible, thrilling, galling, hair-pricklingly uncomfortable show. As Stanley, Elliot

Take five

There is a word ‘deification’, but there ought to be a homophone, perhaps ‘dayification’, meaning the way daytime television spreads into the evenings. There is a word ‘deification’, but there ought to be a homophone, perhaps ‘dayification’, meaning the way daytime television spreads into the evenings. There are now only five types of daytime programming apart from films and repeats: chat, quizzes and games, food, auctions and property. I plan to get rich by combining all of them into a daytime pentathlon show, in which contestants will have to confess to standing by their husbands even after they have had sex with goats, know in which Italian city you might

Lloyd Evans

Melody maker

Lloyd Evans celebrates Tennyson’s miraculous musicality ‘He had the finest ear of any English poet,’ said W.H. Auden. ‘He was also, undoubtedly, the stupidest.’ This famous jibe aimed at Tennyson (whose bicentenary falls on 6 August) is revealing in its shrill and almost triumphant bitchiness. Every age rejects the one before and it’s no surprise that Auden, a gay, left-wing, pacifist democrat, was keen to advertise his contempt for the uxorious, High Church, monarch-loving imperialist. But the severity of his scorn and its blatant falsehood (Tennyson knew half a dozen languages and was famed for the brilliance of his conversation) suggest that Auden’s real feelings may have been more complex

Give me Kraftwerk

In the course of a long listening career, records tend to come and go. I look back at old columns and marvel at the enthusiasm I once felt for records I no longer remember owning, let alone enjoying. Some records come and go and come back again, of course, and a few stay for ever: the 30 or so albums you’d be buying tomorrow on Amazon if your house burnt down today. And just occasionally there’s an album you think has gone for good but which returns, better than ever before, and you wonder, was it always this good? Was I not paying attention? Shall I play it again right

Talking too much

The Fairy Queen The Proms Gluck double bill Wigmore Hall Purcell’s The Fairy Queen has been a big success at Glyndebourne this year, in a production by Jonathan Kent, and with William Christie conducting. I decided to wait till it came to the Proms, where it was presumably a very different experience. In the Royal Albert Hall you’re almost bound to be so far away from the singers that you have to look at their mouths to see which one is performing, especially if, as here, all the sopranos seemed, for much of the time, to be emulating the bird-like tones of Emma Kirkby. Nor was any of the scenery

James Delingpole

Get a grip

Being a right-wing columnist under New Labour’s liberal fascist tyranny is a bit like being a South Wales Borderer at Rorke’s Drift: so many targets, so little time. Being a right-wing columnist under New Labour’s liberal fascist tyranny is a bit like being a South Wales Borderer at Rorke’s Drift: so many targets, so little time. And just when you think you’ve got ’em all covered — Harriet Harman, ‘Dame’ ‘Suzi’ ‘Leather’, windfarms, George Monbiot, dumbing down, Mary Seacole studies — another one pops up unbidden from the veldt to torment you with his bloody assegai. Take this new Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) epidemic. Did you know there was

Revolutionary road

We’re still living with the fallout of the Iranian Revolution back in 1979 — and we still don’t really understand how the West got its reaction to events so wrong, or what could have been done differently. We’re still living with the fallout of the Iranian Revolution back in 1979 — and we still don’t really understand how the West got its reaction to events so wrong, or what could have been done differently. The fall of the Shah and rise of the Ayatollah is an object lesson in the powerlessness of Western might against cool-headed strategic thinking, and the negative impact of non-intervention. On the BBC World Service there’s

Alex Massie

Burning Issue: Does Hogwarts Have A Drinking Problem?

Lord knows there’s almost no idea too dumb to appear in a newspaper, but this recent effort from the New York Times is a cracker: Does Hogwarts have a drinking problem? As Harry Potter fans crowd movie theaters to catch the latest installment in the blockbuster series, parents may be surprised by the starring role given to alcohol. In scene after scene, the young wizards and their adult professors are seen sipping, gulping and pouring various forms of alcohol to calm their nerves, fortify their courage or comfort their sorrows…recreated on the big screen, the images of teenage drinking are jarring. Previous Harry Potter movies have shown drinking, but this

Face to face

British Self-Portraits in the 20th Century: The Ruth Borchard Collection Kings Place Gallery, 90 York Way, N1, until 29 August This makes self-portraits fascinating documents but not always easy to live with. Self-communing can be a very private matter, and if the artist has used the painting to exorcise devils, the results can be deeply disturbing. Nevertheless, Ruth Borchard (1910–2000), a refugee from Hitler’s Germany, decided to concentrate her collecting entirely on the self-portrait, citing the fact that her taste in literature was introspective and confessional — towards diaries, letters and autobiographies — and that she should collect paintings on a similar theme. To this end, she wrote to a