Arts Reviews

The good, bad and ugly in arts and exhbitions

Hot spot

It was extremely difficult to get a flight to Budapest last weekend. I had promised my friends the Karolyis, who have been a feature of this column, that I would attend an opera they were giving in the grounds of their house at a place called Föt. Yet Hungary seems to have become the most extraordinarily popular tourist destination. The plane was packed like a bag in the Harvey Nichols sale. It was full mostly with English. I asked a group of young men why they had decided to spend their summer holiday in Hungary. They responded that they had heard that it was now a hot destination. This was

Mingling with the mighty

There I was standing in a room with the word ‘Service’ painted on the door, in the Gellert hotel in Budapest. I was attempting to iron a pair of trousers for the first night of Phantom of the Opera, which was to be the biggest stage production Hungary had ever attempted. Only the Gellert had no valet service so I was pressing my clothes myself in the maids’ room. A crease had just been enlarged when a woman knocked and opened the door. She was evidently a hotel guest and addressed me in English. She demanded peremptorily, ‘I want my clothes ironed.’ As a friend said later, I should have

Watch out, Lenny

This year is the 60th anniversary of the release of Casablanca. Poor old Humphrey Bogart didn’t make it into even the top 20 of Channel 4’s boringly bizarre list of the 100 greatest movie stars. Al Pacino number one? Eh, what? But then what else could one expect, I suppose, from a lot of pundits and voters who couldn’t even speak proper English. But Casablanca has more lines than even the dumb can sort of remember than any other film ever made, even if they sort of remember them incorrectly and claim that Bogart said, ‘Play it again, Sam.’ So ingrained are certain scenes in so many consciousnesses that when

Rod Liddle

Why is the BBC so scared of the truth?

Let us imagine for a moment that you are a visitor from the Planet Zarg, a civilised and agreeable world somewhere near the great gaseous star Proxima Centauri. Your spaceship landed here a few weeks ago as part of an interplanetary inclusive outreach scheme funded, on your own planet, by a sort of sophisticated private-finance initiative. Your mission is to observe Earth and its multifarious political and cultural doings, and so, with that in mind, you park your ship on Shepherd’s Bush Green, just down from the delectable Nando’s chicken franchise on the Uxbridge Road. And you start to observe. By now, week four, you are deeply confused and befuddled.

Style of contradictions

Art Deco is the style that succeeded Art Nouveau, enjoying a surprisingly long global life, stretching from 1910 to 1939, and from Europe to America, India and Australia. As the curators of this vast exhibition (over 300 exhibits) maintain, Art Deco was ‘arguably’ the most popular style of the 20th century, affecting everything from skyscrapers, night-clubs, cocktail bars and cinemas, to handbags, shoes and letterboxes. It was a style of contradictions, an inter-war hold-all which was modern without being Modernist (though the two fruitfully overlapped, as in the Modernist icon, Lubetkin’s Highpoint One building in Highgate), frivolous in some manifestations, austere in others, hand-crafted yet industrially moulded and mass-produced, universal

Hovering between fact and fantasy

I had the strangest experience at the ballet in Dresden: all perfectly pretty onstage, the company well schooled but I couldn’t believe the orchestra. I’ve never heard a ballet orchestra playing with such love for the music – beautiful phrasing, elegantly balanced winds, seamless ensemble, the right notes all the time, in tune…I had to pinch myself. Of course, this was no ordinary ballet band; at the Semper Oper in Dresden, the Staatskapelle, with a 455-year-old reputation to guard, has the longest record of continuous work of any bunch of musicians. The orchestra did first performances for Wagner and Weber, nine premieres for Richard Strauss, his dream team. It was

Hepworth’s silent classicism

Barbara Hepworth died in a fire in her St Ives home in 1975 and, although her reputation has not diminished since then, it has hardly risen. Rather, perhaps, it has spread, at least among visitors to her studio and garden in St Ives, where she lived the last 26 years of her life, or to Wakefield, where she was born in 1903 and near where her nine-piece group ‘The Family of Man’ stands magisterially on a grass slope in the Yorkshire Sculpture Park. She was much honoured in her lifetime and much relished the recognition, since she was always very conscious of her status as the first internationally famous woman

An artist for our times

If faith can be said to have fashions, then it has been worn loosely for several seasons. The Christian belief that underlies the great religious paintings of the Renaissance is for many people an alien concept: it can appear, to modern eyes, too structured, too certain, too sentimental. At this time of year in particular, surrounded by painted-by-the-yard Nativities, the faith that brought them into being seems as distant as the age in which they were created. The German painter Caspar David Friedrich, 1774-1840, is perhaps a type of artist more suited to our times. His Christianity is not insistent but comes wrapped in another – more widely practiced –

Toby Young

From Festival to Fringe

The big play at Edinburgh this year – the one with Tim Robbins and Susan Sarandon in it – was The Guys, a heartfelt tribute to the ‘ordinary’ heroes of 11 September. Written by a journalist called Ann Nelson, it tells the story of her encounter with a New York fire captain who asked for her help when he was landed with the task of composing eulogies to the eight men who died under his watch. I didn’t manage to get a ticket to The Guys so I’ve no idea how Nelson handled this assignment, but it sounds like a walk in the park compared to covering the Edinburgh Festival.