Arts Reviews

The good, bad and ugly in arts and exhbitions

Thursday

Richard Bratby

The man who can save classical music

John Gilhooly is sick of talking about the Arts Council of England. ‘Please tell me you’re not going to ask about that,’ he groans. ‘I walked into an interview last week where it was only about that, and if I’d known I would’ve declined. There have got to be broader things now.’ That’s awkward; because in the (admittedly grey) world of UK arts funding, Gilhooly’s announcement in March that he was taking the concert hall he manages – the Wigmore Hall – out of the Arts Council’s funding portfolio has been the story of the year. He’s dead right, though. We’re sitting in one of the world’s great music venues:

Michael Kurtz

Dartmoor’s forgotten painter

Asolo exhibition opened at Oxford’s Ashmolean in October 1980 that appeared to mark the belated arrival of a major new painter. ‘For an intelligent artist to paint the familiar, and clearly to enjoy painting it,’ wrote critic and dealer David Carritt in the catalogue, ‘now demands single-mindedness and courage. Jean Jones has both.’ The city’s intelligentsia arrived en masse to assess this 53-year-old’s achievements – among them her husband John who was the university’s professor of poetry and her closest friend Iris Murdoch. It looked that year as though Jones might be on her way to the upper echelons of British art. She had begun to exhibit at London’s New

Deborah Ross

I could never sit through it again: The Cut reviewed

What set this apart, I would suggest, is its deep and unremitting unpleasantness The Cut stars Orlando Bloom as a boxer who comes out of retirement for one last shot at glory. You may be wondering: how does this film about a boxer coming out of retirement for one last shot at glory differ from all the others? It’s a story that’s been told umpteen times but what set this apart, I would suggest, is its deep and unremitting unpleasantness. If I were given the choice of having to sit through it again or losing one of my limbs I would need to put some serious thought into that. Bloom

Richard Bratby

Huge Fun: Le Carnaval de Venise reviewed

Summer’s lease hath all too short a date, but there’s still time for one last opera festival. Vache Baroque popped up in 2020 during that weird first release from lockdown, but to be honest, if you were starting a new festival, late August is probably the best part of the calendar to colonise. The big boys (even Glyndebourne) have left the stage, Edinburgh is done and the Proms are the only game in town. And the place to do it would be within easy reach of the capital: in this case, a fold of the Chilterns just off the rural top end of the Metropolitan Line. Anyway, Vache Baroque seems

Graeme Thomson

Shambolic, spontaneously chaotic and combustible: the Lemonheads at SWG3 Galvanizers reviewed

I enjoyed watching the Lemonheads fall apart on stage more than perhaps I should have Nowadays, when the default setting for live music is ruthlessly choreographed efficiency, there is a queasy kind of thrill in watching a performance forever teetering on the edge of pure unprofessional pandemonium. Which is to say, I enjoyed watching the Lemonheads fall apart on stage more than perhaps I should have.  The Lemonheads are and always were Evan Dando fronting whatever revolving cast of associates are willing to put up with him. This is both the band’s great superpower and its eternal Achilles’ heel. Dando is a fine and heartful singer, songwriter and interpreter. He

James Walton

Another Traitors rip-off – and it might be even better than the original: Channel 4’s The Inheritance reviewed

Another week, another show striving desperately to become the new Traitors. So it is that The Inheritance brings a group of disparate people together in a very big house, gives them tasks that win them money and invites them to pretend to cooperate while secretly behaving treacherously. In fact, about the only surprising thing about it is that it’s pretty good. It’s also, I think, pretty knowing: aware of its possible absurdity, often quite camp, yet still going about its business with a face set resolutely to po. The premise is that the very big house’s owner has died, leaving a rather implausible will that requires 13 strangers to compete

Lloyd Evans

Mercifully short: Interview at Riverside Studios reviewed

Interview is a blind-date play. Only it’s not a blind date but a showbiz interview for a journal called the New York Chronicle. The characters (played by Robert Sean Leonard and Paten Hughes) bicker, flirt and get emotionally involved during a 90-minute conversation. Naturally it all starts badly. The interviewer, Pierre, arrives at Katya’s Brooklyn apartment and tells her straight off that he’s never seen her perform on TV or in a movie. He hates covering the lives of brattish starlets because he used to be the Courier’s ace political reporter but his career has been terminated. At least his journalistic skills are still intact and he makes her admit

Thursday

Rupert Christiansen

Picasso’s ravishing work for the ballet

Visitors to the Victoria and Albert Museum’s new storehouse in Stratford’s Olympic Park are being enthralled by an atmospherically lit chamber devoted to the display of one vast and magnificent work of art: Picasso’s 10 metre-high, 11 metre-wide drop-curtain for Le Train Bleu, a popular hit of Diaghilev’s Ballets Russes, first seen in 1924. The canvas, for many years rolled up in storage, isn’t strictly the work of Picasso himself: Diaghilev’s scene painter Prince Alexander Schervashidze had meticulously expanded it overnight from a small gouache on plywood known as ‘Two Women Running on the Beach’ (1922), but Picasso was so delighted when he saw the result that he decided to

Peter Eyre

The time Spike Milligan tried to kill me

The theatre impresario Michael White rang me one day in 1964, and said he was presenting a play at the Lyric Hammersmith, where there was a small role he thought might suit me. The play was an adaptation of the novel Oblomov by Ivan Goncharov, where the eponymous hero spends most of his life in bed, unable to see the point of engaging with the world outside. It was being put on as a vehicle for Spike Milligan, who was said to be jealous of the success of his longtime partner in The Goon Show, Peter Sellers. Sellers had recently made a seamless transition from the world of anarchic comedy

Lloyd Evans

An English Chekhov: The Gathered Leaves at Park200 reviewed

Chekhov with an English accent. That’s how Andrew Keatley’s play, The Gathered Leaves, begins. The setting is a country house where a family of recusant English Catholics meet for a weekend of surprises and high drama. The audience was on its feet, cheering and clapping, some of them in tears At first, the main conflict seems a little flimsy. William Pennington, a pompous grandee born in the 1920s, won’t forgive his children for being who they are. His daughter Alice scooted off to the south of France where she raised an illegitimate girl whom William has never met. His sons, Giles and Samuel, were sent to boarding school where Giles

Deborah Ross

Fails to outshine the original: The Roses reviewed

The Roses is a remake of The War of the Roses (1989), the diabolically funny black bitter comedy that was directed by Danny DeVito and starred Kathleen Turner and Michael Douglas as a couple who start out in love, then hate each other like poison, and once their battle is under way it’s no holds barred. You remember the dinner-party scene and what he did to the fish course? You remember him sawing the heels off all her shoes and her serving him that liver pâté on crackers? (Let’s just say: no pets were spared.) Of course you remember. Will you remember this ‘reimagining’ in 36 years? It has an

Ivo Delingpole

In defence of Notting Hill Carnival

This isn’t going to be a piece celebrating the rich cultural tapestry of London’s Afro-Caribbean community, sombrely expressing the importance of preserving its heritage and history. I just like going to Carnival. I see it as an opportunity to make the most of the last dregs of the summer. I’ll meet my friends, dance to a grizzled Rasta’s tunes with a Magnum or two (a syrupy, 16.5 per cent alcohol, Jamaican tonic wine), watch the steel drums and befeathered dancers, before decamping with a box of jerk chicken and fried plantain. There’s no £499 VIP Platinum wristband you can buy to have the premium Carnie experience I spent the first

Richard Bratby

A revelation: Delius’s Mass of Life at the Proms reviewed

Regarding Frederick Delius, how do we stand? In the 1930s, Sir Henry Wood believed that Proms audiences much preferred Delius to Holst, and most critics back then would have described him as a major British composer. Times change: if you took your music GCSE in the late 1980s, you’ll have sensed that the Bradford lad was no longer quite up there. But you might well have been taught by people who still remembered him as a giant, and there was also the legacy of that greatest of composer biopics, Ken Russell’s Song of Summer, in which Delius’s music explodes in sunbursts of passion and colour against Russell’s austere black and

Angus Colwell

The brilliance of BBC Alba

During lockdown, a friend and I moved into a flat that had a difficult relationship with the TV aerial. Ineptitude and laziness combined to ensure that the only channels we were able to watch were BBC ones via the iPlayer app. So most nights – if there was no live sport – we found that our entertainment was at the behest of the state broadcaster. And what a drag it was. Every time, we’d reject the populist crap on BBC1, the parochial crap on BBC2, the braindead crap on BBC3, the boring crap on BBC4, the insane crap on BBC News, the wrist-slashing crap on BBC Parliament. And then we’d

Friday

Deborah Ross

Loving salute to a book I wouldn’t touch: The Thursday Murder Club reviewed

Richard Osman’s The Thursday Murder Club, which is set in a retirement village and features pensioners solving murders, was a publishing sensation. (There are now four books in the series, with combined sales of more than ten million copies.) I’ve never read it. ‘Cosy crime’, as it’s called, is either your bag or it isn’t. This adaptation, however, feels exactly like the book that I haven’t and would never read. I hope Mr Osman et al. will take this as praise. In other words, the film knows what it is doing, who it is for, and fans will, I’m convinced, be delighted. It’s reminiscent of Enid Blyton’s The Famous Five,

Svitlana Morenets

Svitlana Morenets, Michael Simmons, Ursula Buchan, Igor Toronyi-Lalic, Richard Morris & Mark Mason

37 min listen

On this week’s Spectator Out Loud: Svitlana Morenets says that Trump has given Zelensky cause for hope; Michael Simmons looks at how the American healthcare system is keeping the NHS afloat; Ursula Buchan explains how the Spectator shaped John Buchan; Igor Toronyi-Lalic argues that art is no place for moralising, as he reviews Rosanna McLaughlin; Richard Morris reveals how to access the many treasures locked away in private homes; and, Mark Mason provides his notes on bank holidays. Produced and presented by Patrick Gibbons.

Thursday

Richard Morris

The masterpieces on your doorstep

I do not, if I can help it, catch a train to anywhere on a Sunday. Yet there I was at 9.14 a.m. heading out from Woodbridge in Suffolk towards Cambridge to view a painting by Walter Sickert, a work I had not seen before and whose vital statistics – what even the work was of – I had no way of knowing; its owner had refused to send a photograph or describe it over the telephone. Arriving at the owner’s address, I was met by a neighbour who told me that in the name of letting go and embracing surprise, they had decided to visit a relative in Scotland

Digby Warde-Aldam

I’ve had it with Anselm Kiefer

August is always a crap month for exhibitions in London. The collectors are elsewhere, the dealers are presumably hot on their heels, and the galleries are filled with makeweight group shows staged to hold the fort until the end of the holidays. This year, however, even events of that kind are thin on the ground: many establishments have simply shuttered for the month – and given the dire state of the art market, I’m inclined to wonder how many will reopen come September. The doom-auguring sunflower paintings here would look great on the cover of a Metallica record Still, I caught the two Anselm Kiefer shows running concurrently. Kiefer famously

James Delingpole

Alien: Earth is wantonly disrespectful to the canon

I once spent a delightful weekend in Madrid with the co-producer of Alien. His name was David Giler (now dead, sadly, I’ve just discovered) and he’d hit upon the bizarre idea of trying to get my anti-eco-lunacy book Watermelons made into a Hollywood movie. The film project never came off but I did learn an important lesson in our time together, hanging out in nice restaurants and pretending to work: if you want a happy life cushioned from financial care, the secret is to wangle yourself percentage points of a successful franchise. Another example of this is Franc Roddam, with whom I once spent an even stranger weekend in Accra,

Michael Hann

The Seeds are primitive but magnificent

I have nothing but admiration for those men who burn a candle for the music of 1966. Partly because, like them, I believe 1966 to be pop’s greatest year, but mainly because being a psychedelic hipster requires a commitment that invites ridicule. It’s one thing to be an ageing fella who likes rock’n’roll – sharp denim and a well-tended quiff can look just fine. And you can never really tell the age of a metalhead – they just look like a metalhead. But to wear your hair in an outgrown bowl cut, and to strut around in tight red trousers as Seeds singer Paul Kopf does, is inevitably to invite