Angels & Demons | The Spectator

Over the Moon renders the present with an eye toward the timeless

Audiences are hard to please. Give us too much of modern life in a work of art, and we find it shallow. Give us too little, and we are prone to call it stuffy and academic. There is a sweet spot between realist exposé and classically restrained theater. This is the case with Over the Moon, a new play written and directed by Matthew Gasda. In the witty, self-undercutting, and absurdly clinical language that is the contemporary speech of the young, the play’s Generation Z and millennial protagonists navigate the confusing vagaries of love. The action remains in one place: the shared uptown Manhattan apartment of 20-something cousins Eden (Lilly Brown) and Cody (Spencer Cramer). They recently moved in together after breaking up with their boyfriends.

Clarissa Sebag-Montefiore

Viola’s Room is beguiling

What is theater? For most people it’s live performance, whether solo or in a troupe. Punchdrunk, the immersive theater company led by Felix Barrett, is not most people. Take its latest iteration now on at the Shed: Viola’s Room features no real-time actors. There is no stage and no seated audience. In this creepy gothic fairy tale, the story is narrated through headphones; the audience moves (sometimes walking, sometimes crawling) through a maze of spaces and the senses – including touch, smell, sight and sound – are as central as the script. Viola’s Room is intimate, small and contained. Every detail, every sound, every object feels intentional. Indeed, much of what makes Viola’s Room so beguiling is the rare sensation of giving up control.

Isaac Sligh

Nick Drake’s explosive creativity

Nick Drake’s debut album Five Leaves Left (1969) had so much going for it. Supported by tasteful string arrangements and a cast of noteworthy musicians, Drake (1948-74) sang with a delicate croon that sounded like Chet Baker if he’d gone to Eton, and he played some of the finest acoustic guitar this side of Segovia. Joe Boyd, the impresario who’d launched Pink Floyd and Fairport Convention, produced the album, and it bore the imprimatur of Island Records, London’s hippest label. On the cover, Drake cut a shy but handsome figure, nonchalantly clad in blue jeans and blazer, gazing wistfully out the second-story window of an abandoned house in Wimbledon.

Bethany Lorden

Eyes of the Storm revisits an era

At Eyes of the Storm, the de Young Museum’s exhibition of photographs taken by Paul McCartney, mainly on the Beatles’ first American visit, the typical viewer will be surprised to find herself empathizing more with the rock stars than the audience. In early photos, the crowds – and the band members – are eager, curious and frank. But through the months and the cities and photoshoots, the Beatles learn to pose. They soon find themselves flattened by a camera’s gaze in a way all too familiar to just about everyone today. The collection opens with the Beatles’ British tour in 1963 and residency in Paris in early 1964. “We were just wondering at the world,” McCartney writes, “just excited about all these little things that were making up our lives.

Diane Cole

Ben Shahn’s work remains as timely as ever

How can an artist express social and political dissent in a polarized, volatile time? Look no further than the sobering and rousing Ben Shahn: On Nonconformity. Throughout his decades-long career, Shahn (1898-1969) crafted paintings, murals, posters, drawings, photographs and prints chronicling the news of the world, with a focus on the suffering of society’s most wounded. This is the first major retrospective of his work to appear in the US since 1976. The country has changed, and yet Shahn’s work remains as timely as ever. His social-realistic approach fell out of fashion as critics came to prefer abstract and pop art. But Shahn remained true to his own aesthetic, as the show’s 175 works demonstrate.

Jacob Akey

Trump is right to take on the Smithsonian

The last time Republicans were this mad at the Smithsonian Institution was in 1991. Then as now, America’s national museum system was gearing up to celebrate a major date: in that case, the quincentenary of the discovery of the Americas by Christopher Columbus. Senators threatened spending cuts, accusing Smithsonian officials of having a “political agenda” with their representations of race and immigration in exhibitions. Thirty-four years later, on the eve of the semiquincentennial of the Declaration of Independence, Republicans are saying the same things. Donald Trump reworded his predecessors’ criticisms in his own style, suggesting on Truth Social that the Smithsonian museums focus too much on the negative, too little on the positive.

Oliver Soden

The Life of Violet catches a side of Virginia Woolf that has been obscured

She was Adeline Virginia Stephen, then. Signing her letter “AVS”, in August 1907 the 25-year-old who became Virginia Woolf complained to her friend Lady Robert Cecil: “The effort it is to write… I feel like one rolled at the bottom of a green flood, smoothed, obliterated, how should my pockets still be full of words?” Long before the masterpieces that would make her name, she was working on a series of literary exercises. These attempted to remold the biographical form into one that could encompass and celebrate the lives, not of famous men, but of unfamous women and combine what she called the granite and rainbow of “life-writing”: stony fact and iridescent fantasy. Her letter continues: If you keep The Life, or Myth, don’t quote it – see my vanity!

Maria Albano

Patrick Ryan’s second novel doesn’t pretend to be perfect

Patrick Ryan’s second novel is a small-town family saga that spans three generations, four wars, 11 presidents and many a watershed moment along the way. Ryan understands that big stories are made of small moments, not the other way around, and Buckeye is a fine illustration of how drawing-room tensions can fester and become matters of historical significance. In 1945, very few young men can be seen walking the streets of Bonhomie, Ohio. Cal Jenkins, a hardware store clerk with one leg shorter than the other, is one of them. The superheroes in the comic books he reads are versions of himself, but for the limp. Cal is married to Becky, whose occasional séances with her childhood friend Janice he initially brushes off as an innocuous, if slightly odd, pastime.

Olivia Downes

Patricia Lockwood’s latest novel transcends genres

In the wake of her niece’s death, a writer travels with her family to Scotland, hoping the holiday will ease their pain. After tasting water from Skye’s natural Fairy Pools, the writer starts to feel not quite herself. It must be a fairy trick, she thinks, or perhaps her grief. She loses feeling in her legs and her grasp of language, but gains an odd new power: access to other creatures’ sensations. Watching her friend eat, she feels the food “slipping spoonful by spoonful inside her,” and picking a sunflower’s petals elicits a “tug in her own flesh.” Patricia Lockwood’s latest novel, Will There Ever Be Another You, charts the protagonist’s bizarre illness and recovery.

Alexander Larman

Two wholly different but complementary ways of looking at Christianity

In Philip Larkin’s 1954 poem “Church Going,” the narrator walks into a deserted English country church, and observes that it isn’t up to much. Larkin writes that there is “a tense, musty, unignorable silence/ Brewed God knows how long,” feels a sense of “awkward reverence” and, on the way out, “Reflect the place was not worth stopping for.” It is one of the great vignettes of church-crawling, as the practice is generally known – wandering into an empty ecclesiastical space, not being wildly impressed and strolling out again, unblessed by the visit. Yet for Larkin, that it will be “A shape less recognizable each week/ A purpose more obscure” is a tragedy, even for a non-believer.

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