Arts Reviews

Melancholy is a peculiarly English malady; almost you might say a national characteristic, born out of our long, dark nights and grizzly, indecisive weather. That dampness of the soul and ambient miserableness is almost like a national uniform; just think of late-Seventies rock or the Jacobean poets, the Brontë novels or Francis Bacon. The Swinging Sixties, those bouncy lyrics and bright, clear, linear fashions, were not a true expression of English character. Quite the reverse; they were an aberration, the exact opposite of what we’re really and truly comfortable with being. The heartless sophistication of that super-hyped new TV series Mad Men, could only have come out of America; our

Mark Glazebrook talks to Sandy Nairne, who explains why the NPG is part of the life of London David Piper, director of the National Portrait Gallery 1964–67, was a brilliant historian and museum director who, while writing a book called The English Face, found that there’s no such thing. It vanished like the smile on Lewis Carroll’s Cheshire cat. Piper himself was disinclined to mastermind the much-needed radical reform of a musty old institution — a challenge successfully embraced by his young colleague and successor, Roy Strong. Strong’s Cecil Beaton show, a first for photography, drew previously undreamed of crowds. Today, attendance figures have risen to 1.6 million per annum.

Alexander Rodchenko: Revolution in Photography Hayward Gallery, until 27 April There’s a whole separate exhibition in the downstairs galleries of the Hayward. It’s called Laughing in a Foreign Language and is supposed to explore the role of laughter and humour in contemporary art through the work of 30 so-called international artists. As an exhibition, it’s a total failure. It’s not just that humour doesn’t easily translate, even in this ghastly era of globalisation, when we seem to want to reduce everyone to the same set of responses and desires. It’s also that so many of the exhibits are striving to be knowing and clever. Laughter is a sacred gift, the

Quick Oscar** thought: no American actor or actress won an Oscar this year. The four acting awards went to: Tilda Swinton (Scotland), Javier Bardem (Spain) Daniel Day-Lewis (England/Ireland) and Marion Cotillard (France). Have the Americans ever been shut out like this before? Does it mean anything beyond the fact that the Oscars are an increasingly international event (as, indeed, the Academy becomes an increasingly international event)? Perhaps it’s just a small sample size and perhaps it doesn’t mean anything at all, but it seems like a pleasing development to me. Still: how long before the Democratic presidential contenders deplore the outsourcing of American acting jobs to foreigners and call for

Toby Jones on how theatre is being used in Malawi to help stop the spread of Aids The interior designer charged with decorating the IT suite probably didn’t have theatre in mind. I am staring at the pastel carpeting, Venetian blinds and the useless plug dangling from the overhead projector: we could be anywhere. The sex worker casually hands me her baby and takes to the carpet. As I rock the baby to sleep, I watch the mother and several of her sex co-workers acting out the moment a colleague of theirs declared herself HIV-positive. We are sitting in the British Council offices in Lilongwe, Malawi, where we have spent

Anyone with a taste for schadenfreude can tune in to BBC1 Question Time tonight, where yours truly will be in Newcastle extolling the virtues of the free market in the home of Northern Rock. Other panellists are Ruth Kelly, Vince Cable and Alan Duncan.

Peter Doig has aroused much passion in recent months for the prices his paintings have started to fetch in the world’s salerooms. For many, he is not only the acceptable face of contemporary British painting, but also a buoyant export and bright international star. Even those who dislike painting and prefer less demanding forms of art such as installation and photography are prepared to make an exception for Doig, perhaps because he is easy on the eye. Ten years ago he enjoyed a fairly prestigious show at the Whitechapel, now he’s been given the main galleries at the Tate’s Millbank branch. The Whitechapel show left me unconvinced of his virtues