More from Arts

Wednesday

Kate Chisholm

Life lessons

Talking to my dentist, as one does, we discover a mutual enthusiasm for Radio Three’s Composer of the Week (Monday to Friday) and especially its presenter, Donald Macleod. Talking to my dentist, as one does, we discover a mutual enthusiasm for Radio Three’s Composer of the Week (Monday to Friday) and especially its presenter, Donald Macleod. How does he do it? we both exclaimed. Each and every week he comes up with five hours of elegant, informative, entertaining script, interspersed with carefully chosen nuggets of music from major and minor figures in the classical world. It’s like listening to an audio encyclopaedia.

Andrew Lambirth

Forgotten wonders

Byzantium 330-1454 Royal Academy, until 22 March 2009 In his excellent book Portrait Painters, written more than half-a-century ago but still full of wisdom and stimulating observations, Allan Gwynne-Jones includes a note on the character of English art. He has been discussing the great glories of the medieval school of manuscript illumination in Britain, often forgotten when an assessment is made of our contribution to the visual arts. Yet between 1000 and 1300 the English school was the finest in Europe without a doubt. Gwynne-Jones writes: ‘In order to understand English art one must study its source. English art is Byzantine in root, the Byzantine tradition having found its way to Durham and thence to Winchester by way of Ireland. It is a very austere tradition.

Stephen Pettitt

A perfect cadence

This year, on 11 December — and I wish more people knew about it than actually do — the American composer Elliott Carter celebrates his 100th birthday. This year, on 11 December — and I wish more people knew about it than actually do — the American composer Elliott Carter celebrates his 100th birthday. At a time when far too many composers — more anxious about audience numbers than they are about the quality of the music they produce — have often compromised themselves in the cause of immediacy and accessibility, Carter has remained true to himself and to the tough, multilayered, multitextured, multicoloured language in which he writes, investing his always highly organised music with an overriding feeling of lyricism.

Saturday

Giannandrea Poesio

Depth to the dynamics

Triple Bill Royal Opera House According to a tacitly shared, unwritten code of common professional practice, critics ought not to divulge their opinion before being published. Which is why I felt terribly guilty when, at the end of Wayne McGregor’s Infra, I gave my first impressions to a BBC interviewer. True, I did not say that much. Surprised by the camera, I waffled. The sole cogent thing I managed to utter was ‘visually stunning’. Which it was. McGregor is indeed an intriguing figure of modern-day dance-making. Unlike some of his contemporaries, who are mainly preoccupied with challenging the ballet idiom, he prefers to focus on how the five-century-old art can effectively interact with technological ideas that are not normally associated with it.

Kate Chisholm

Here’s an idea . . .

I really, really wish I could change places this week and become a TV critic. Nothing on radio has quite matched the drama of that extraordinarily necessary BBC2 documentary, The Fallen, which in three long hours commemorated each and every one of the British soldiers who have died in the conflicts in Afghanistan and Iraq. Or, in fabulous contrast, the sheer laugh-ability of John Sergeant on Strictly Come Dancing. The SCD factor is a throwback to an earlier era, a sequinned equivalent of the dinosaurs at the Natural History Museum. It takes families back to the Ovaltineys, when parents and children were pictured sitting round a shiny brown box in the living-room, sharing the moment. SCD is not designed for any age-group, gender, relationship, creed or colour.

Alan Judd

Due discretion

During the two previous recessions it was not unknown for Rolls-Royce and Bentley owners to replace their cars covertly. Proprietors were reluctant to be seen to trade in their two-year-old Shadows or Turbo Rs for brand new ones while staff were being laid off. They still bought the new models but they specified identical-looking cars and either transferred the number plates or bought personal registrations. Thus, money changed hands, the economy functioned and staff at Crewe, its suppliers and dealerships were not laid off. Such discretion is doubtless still available to embarrassed proprietors who survive this shipwreck (there’s certainly no shortage of cars) but I can suggest a further element of concealment: the Bentley Continental Flying Spur Speed.

Wednesday

Andrew Lambirth

Unlimited beauty

Paths to Fame: Turner Watercolours from the Courtauld Courtauld Institute, Somerset House, WC2, until 25 January 2009 This is the first full display of the Courtauld’s holding of Turner watercolours, recently enriched by nine paintings from the Scharf Bequest. The exhibition is further enhanced by loans from the Tate, and offers a splendid introduction to one of the greatest English artists. Despite a lifetime of almost ceaseless travel, J.M.W. Turner was very much a Londoner. Born a barber’s son in Covent Garden in 1775 he showed early promise and the unflagging industry to put his talent to best use. He was ambitious as well as hard-working, travelling England to record notable architecture and natural scenery.

Lloyd Evans

Change of tack

Gethsemane Cottesloe State of Emergency Gate There’s a massive hole in the middle of David Hare’s new play. It’s called Iraq. What an issue that was. What a best-seller. Talk about box-office. For two or three years it seemed that Hare had single-handedly won the Iraq war but his victory proved tenuous and short-lived. Once the killing tailed off and the issue slithered down the news agenda, he was left without his worldwide smash-hit subject. A terrible loss. In Stuff Happens and The Vertical Hour, the Iraq issue set Hare’s mind ablaze and he produced thrilling bursts of political analysis and polemic.

Michael Tanner

Power struggle

Boris Godunov English National Opera La rencontre imprévue Guildhall School of Music and Drama The new production of Musorgsky’s most important work Boris Godunov, at English National Opera, raises more questions than it answers. It is an impressive achievement, showing a seriousness of commitment to the work on the part of everyone involved, and yet there can have been few people in the audience on the first night who didn’t feel that it was teetering on the verge of tedium, if never quite lapsing into it. Given that ENO had decided to do the so-called ‘original’ version of 1869, that is without the Polish Act and thus without any major female role, it was wise to perform it without an interval.

Deborah Ross

Could do better | 19 November 2008

Body of Lies 15, Nationwide Body of Lies is the latest film from producer/director Ridley Scott and it is an espionage thriller set mostly in the Middle East — Iraq, Jordan and Syria — featuring espionage, counter-espionage, counter-counter-espionage and, if you can keep up, which I didn’t, there is probably a considerable amount of counter-counter-counter-espionage in there too. In short, it is unlikely that you’ll come out of the cinema saying, ‘Well, that was a little light on the espionage, wasn’t it, dear?’ It’s one of those films where, part of the way through, you even start to think, do I actually care enough to follow all this? Is it even possible to follow this? (It is vexingly complex.

Simon Hoggart

Winning formulas

Andy Hamilton was an exceedingly welcome panellist in the days when I did The News Quiz, so I’m biased. Andy Hamilton was an exceedingly welcome panellist in the days when I did The News Quiz, so I’m biased. But I genuinely found his sitcom, Outnumbered (BBC 1, Saturday), co-written with his long-time collaborator Guy Jenkin, terrifically funny. It is set in a well-worn situation — the family — and the first episode was a cliché plot, the wedding where everything goes wrong, but that didn’t matter. I watched it on my portable DVD player during a crowded train journey. People miserably standing, propped upright only by each other as we bounced over the points, watched in resentment as I sat curled up and cramped, laughing my head off.

Ursula Buchan

Glorious gadgets

Is Christmas creeping up on you, unawares? Again? Have you found yourself, even at this late hour, facing a nil-all draw as far as presents bought, and presents asked for, is concerned? Never mind. When, finally, you can no longer ignore what is happening all around you, at least you can be comforted by the knowledge that your gardening friends and relations are easy to buy for. Little twiddly gardening gadgets are the very stuff of mail-order catalogues, and thus available without you leaving your hearthside to sit in a traffic jam. If a paving stone weeder doesn’t quite fit the bill (although, trust me, they are very useful) you could consider a garden vacuum. I know fashion bullies think they are really naff, but take no notice, for they are brilliant.

Saturday

Deborah Ross

Horribly powerful

The Baader Meinhof Complex 18, Key Cities The Baader Meinhof Complex is, well, just horrible really. Horrible, horrible, horrible and for those of you who are slow out there — and I know who you are; don’t think I don’t — it is horrible; just horrible. It is brutal, relentless, nihilistic, violent, terrifying, relentless, psychopathic, and yet — and this is quite a big ‘and yet’, so do try to concentrate, even those of you who find it a struggle — it is so powerful, so explosively febrile, it compels you to watch and keep watching. It’s like being caught in a current taking you way out to sea. You want to get back to the safety of the shore, and you may even thrash about for a bit (‘help, help!

Charles Spencer

Taking risks

I had what reformed alkies call a moment of clarity last week. On one of my regular trawls through the Amazon website, I clicked the One-day 1-Click button and ordered the first CD in what I felt in my guts was going to be an expensive and enjoyable binge. But instead of the usual response thanking me for my order there was a problem. My credit card had expired. All I had to do, however, was enter the details of the new one, already activated, signed and tucked away in my wallet, and we could immediately get back to business as usual. Instead I decided enough was enough and let my account lapse.  About six months ago I bought a new shelving unit that comfortably holds 200 CDs. It is already almost full.

Giannandrea Poesio

No surprises

Romeo & Juliet, On Motifs of Shakespeare Mark Morris Dance Group Barbican Like child prodigies, enfants terribles do not last forever. As both epithets imply, there is always a fairly traumatic moment in which they stop being children. True, enfants terribles normally outlive child prodigies, at least because the label is never so strictly related to their physical age, particularly in the arts world. Yet, they too, like most common mortals, grow up and age. Take the formidable dance maker Mark Morris, who has long remained an exquisite enfant terrible and the one who regaled us with many a provocative work informed by a mischievously Peter Pan-ish approach to the tenets of high art.

Kate Chisholm

Communication breakdown

There’s been a lot of huffing and puffing about the BBC’s World Service in the past week as cuts were announced in the Russian service. Isn’t it a bad time to reduce the BBC’s output in the Russian language when relations between London and Moscow are so frosty? Surely it should be broadcasting more of its impartial, informative news and current affairs to the peoples ruled by President Medvedev’s increasingly authoritarian government, not less? But the World Service has had to face up to a bit of real-economick. The service is funded not by the licence fee but by the Foreign & Commonwealth Office (a hangover from the days when it was known as the Empire Service), and has been told that the pot of gold is not bottomless.

Wednesday

Andrew Lambirth

Up close and personal | 12 November 2008

Miró, Calder, Giacometti, Braque: Aimé Maeght and His Artists Royal Academy, until 2 January 2009 The role played by dealers in modern French art seems to exceed that of their English counterparts. Perhaps this is because the French were more bombastic and self-serving, but we remember the names of the great dealers such as Vollard or Durand-Ruel. Actually, I think it is because they played a crucial role in the nurturing of the artists they represented which was perhaps more personal and involved than the subtle and retiring English. Aimé Maeght (1906–81) was just such a dealer who, ably supported by his wife Marguerite (1909–77), founded a commercial art gallery in the dark days towards the end of the second world war.

Michael Tanner

Thrills amid the gore

Elektra Royal Opera House For You Linbury Studio The revival at the Royal Opera of Strauss’s Elektra in the production by Charles Edwards, who is also responsible for the sets and lighting, is so drastically modified from 2003 as to amount to a fresh start on the piece. It is still modernised, set in a 20th-century no man’s city, with a crumbling classical wall and a dislocated revolving door, the latter perhaps suggestive of a Viennese coffee house. Given Strauss’s sophisticated primitivism combined with snatches of schmaltzy waltzes and other pre-echoes of Der Rosenkavalier, there may be some justification for uprooting the drama from its moorings in time and place, but the result is confusing.

Lloyd Evans

Blast of real life

Yard Gal Oval House Lucky Seven Hampstead Last week I saw a little-known play, Yard Gal, which I’m pretty sure is a classic. Written ten years ago by Rebecca Prichard and revived with scintillating and furious energy by Stef O’Driscoll, the play follows the lives of two drug–whore teenagers, Boo and Marie, living in the badlands of Hackney. The girls exist in a boozed-up whirl of crappy nightclubs, tainted coke and rough sex with strangers. An early scene gives the flavour. Marie fellates a bent copper in a squad car and when he fails to pay up she exacts revenge with her teeth. ‘Smallest meal I ever ate.’ The plot is slender. Boo falls out with a rival gang member, there’s a bust-up, a stabbing and a prison conviction. All fairly predictable.

James Delingpole

Russian revenge

You’re a middle-class Pole living in modest bourgeois comfort in a detached house in the handsome Austro–Hungarian city of Lwow in 1939 when there’s a knock at the door. Two officers from the newly arrived Soviet army of occupation have come to tell you that from now on all bar one of the rooms in your house are theirs. Everything in the house belongs to them too, including all your mother’s lovely clothes which you’ll soon see being flaunted by the Soviet officers’ vulgar wives. Or maybe you live in a fine old country house and your father is one of the war heroes who saw off the Russians in 1920. Big mistake that, because one of the Russians your father beat was Stalin and he’s had a chip on his shoulder ever since.