Arts Archives

Life imitating art

Twitter superstar @SteveHiltonGuru disappeared with his real life namesake - the departed Downing Street policy wonk; but he's back for one week only. After teasing Westminster for months, the brains behind the spoof account of the brains behind Dave, has written for this week’s Spectator about how he did it. @SteveHiltonGuru may be gone, but he was certainly not forgotten if the real Hilton’s departure bash is anything to go by: ‘At Hilton’s leaving party, I was delighted to hear Michael Gove’s speech based on the character I had created. Steve had been true to his Hungarian roots, the Education Secretary said: half-Buddha and half-pest. I wish I’d thought of that one.

Rod Liddle

Why didn’t the full Savile story emerge sooner?

Columns

Every so often a story appears in the newspapers which, while it might seem on the surface sensational and arresting, actually leaves you feeling somewhat less than astonished, all things considered. There have been at least two of these stories recently. The first, in the Daily Telegraph, alleged that Scotland Yard was investigating suspiciously large sums of cash apparently paid into the bank account of the Labour MP for Leicester East, Keith Vaz. I bet that very few people who have ever heard the words ‘Keith’ and ‘Vaz’ used in a conjoined sense will have smacked their foreheads upon reading this story and muttered to themselves: ‘Gaw, Keith Vaz, hey — who’d have believed it?

Rachel Johnson

Sex and the city

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We don’t do burlesque here. We do bawdy, Benny Hill, end-of-pier prurience instead. Montmartre may have the Moulin Rouge, but the closest we get to saucy is John Major not ‘on’ Edwina Currie — titter — but on our tradition of music hall. As a nation we can-cannot do the can-can. So I found it intriguing that impresario Harvey Goldsmith has imported one of Paris’ most distinguished and long-running titty shows, Crazy Horse, to London’s Southbank. I went, to sit in a hot tent in the dark with a lot of mouth breathers, to watch young women without any clothes on, apart from strange pants consisting of large Band-Aids that barely covered the Hitler-moustaches painted vertically on the pubis. If that floats your boat, I suggest you go.

Kate Chisholm

No escape

Radio and podcasts

‘They were Jews with guns! Understand that...’ declares Raymond Massey, chillingly, in the final scene of The Battle of the Warsaw Ghetto, first heard across America on Sunday, 12 December 1943. Notice that date: 1943. Not 1953, or even 1945. Just six months after the Jews who had been herded into the Polish capital by the Nazis lost their battle to escape certain death, American radio fans heard the rich and unmistakable voice of Massey (Oscar-winning star of a Hollywood biopic on the life of Abraham Lincoln), playing the role not just of a dead man, which was shocking enough, but of a Jewish dead man, a rabbi who had lost his life at Warsaw. After hearing the drama there would have been no excuse for not knowing, and fully understanding, what was happening in Europe.

Olivia Glazebrook

Spy class

Television

Hunted (Thursday, BBC1) made a terrific start, but whether the first episode has set the standard for the next seven is another matter — a thriller, after all, has a duty to overwhelm, seduce and deceive with its opening gambit. This series was not conceived by fluke: anyone with half an eye on Bond, Bourne, Spooks or The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo can see its pedigree, but that is no bad thing, and if its look reminds us of last year’s Scandinavian hits then so much the better. The territory is familiar — international espionage — but we never tire of spies, and these are not the double ‘O’ kind (who save the world every week) but private intelligence ‘operatives’ (who choose which side to play for).

Lloyd Evans

Passage to India

Theatre

I’ve just come back from India. At least that’s how it feels after a double attack of subcontinental drama. Tara Arts, in Wandsworth, has relocated Molière’s The Miser to modern India and commissioned a script from the Glaswegian standup, Hardeep Singh Kohli. He brings the two cultures together with the insouciant aplomb of an experimental chef concocting a lobster and peppercorn fruit sundae. The result may not please hardcore Molière fans, who speak in reverential tones of the master’s subtlety and elegance, his satirical adroitness and his talent for intricate and charming narrative constructions. This is a show that confidently abandons all such sophistication. It aims for low-brow burlesque. And it scores a direct hit.

Michael Tanner

Realising Wagner’s power

Opera

There is no experience faintly comparable to sitting in an opera house at the opening of Wagner’s Ring cycle, knowing you will be watching and listening to the whole thing in the space of a week. The opening E flat, especially when it emerges as it does at the Royal Opera in total darkness, the pit as well as the auditorium, is thrilling beyond belief, and as the music slowly begins to move the sense of being in at the beginning and not knowing what will happen is overwhelming, however familiar you may be with the Ring. Wagner’s dynamic instructions are very specific — at no point in the prelude should the sound rise above piano, though that is a direction that no conductor, almost, obeys.

Deborah Ross

Young love

Cinema

The perks of being a wallflower are few and far between, in my experience, and I’m not even convinced you can be a wallflower if you are as ravishing as, say, Emma Watson, who modelled for Burberry whenever her Harry Potter schedule would allow, which isn’t the way it usually works for wallflowers, but what do I know, really? In fact, this being a teenage coming-of-age drama, I will now hand over to a teenager, although not a willing one, as he is anxious to escape to ‘top field’ to do ‘nothing’ with ‘just people’. Still, I have bribed him with the promise of a tenner and a lifetime supply of Lynx (Africa) and so here he is, quizzing me: What is it about? And be quick, as I have to go top field to do nothing with just people.

Peter Phillips

Night and day

Music

It is 0422, pitch black outside and pouring with rain. The candles are being extinguished one by one as the last of the congregation leave the chapel. They look tired but determined. I notice that, for the first time in my adult life when awake at this hour, I am sober. We have just sung the night Office of Lauds, which began at 0400, in the chapel of Keble College Oxford. Matins, which we sang at 0100 in Christ Church, is already a dimming memory, soon to be further overlaid by Prime, Terce and Mass, Sext, None, Vespers and Compline, each sung at its traditional time throughout the 24 hours. Since those times are spaced, punitively, at approximately every three hours for 22 hours without ceasing there is going to be little chance for sleep.

Colin Falck

October

27 September 2012

Andrew Lambirth

Beguiled by bronze

Arts feature

There are nearly 160 bronze sculptures ranged throughout the Royal Academy’s main galleries in Bronze, a glorious exhibition (until 9 December) covering a period of 5,000 years — effectively the entire history of the medium. The progression of this durable and universal art form is laid out at a relaxed pace in an exhibition that spans both grandeur and intimacy. Some people have complained about the installation, finding it difficult to follow or too competitively arranged, but I enjoyed it tremendously. This is a remarkable survey of a fascinating subject and the Academy must be congratulated on entrusting it to the capable hands of David Ekserdjian, Professor of History of Art and Film at the University of Leicester.

Alexander Chancellor

Long life | 27 September 2012

Incredible string band

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The Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain are performing at the Albert Hall: playing their tiny instruments in a very big space. There must be 5,000 people here, but the orchestra’s friendly jokes, the modesty of the ukulele sound and the familiarity of the audience make the concert seem intimate. The Ukes have been going for 28 years, and in the past half-decade or so they’ve gone mega. Their formula is a mash-up of the ridiculous and the sublime; the players poke fun at their ‘bonsai guitars’, then pluck from them a wildly diverse range of music with virtuosity and irreverence.

James Delingpole

Artificial life

Television

I was that desperate for something to watch on TV the other night that I actually sat through half an episode of Outnumbered. This is the highly rated comedy series, now in its umpteenth season, in which children say implausibly clever, sassy things much to the bemusement of their hard-pressed parents. Why do I not share in the general adulation of this comedy? First, to misquote Homer Simpson, it isn’t funny because it isn’t true. I say this with confidence having personally bred and raised two of the most brilliant, witty and incisive children ever created. Maybe once or twice in their entire lives have they said anything as clever as the kind of one-liners those smartarse — and supposedly typical — brats on Outnumbered come up with every two seconds.

Michael Tanner

Dream on

Opera

‘Tell a dream and lose a reader’ was one of Henry James’s most immediately practical if obvious pieces of advice to fellow authors. Dying in 1916, he didn’t have much chance to experience surrealism in its numerous manifestations, and one can’t imagine his responding positively if he had. For the abandonment of memory, of motive, of logic, of any of the categories by which we make sense of experience is gleefully embraced by surrealists — and by no one more thoroughly than Georges Neveux, in his play Juliette, or the key of dreams.

Deborah Ross

What’s it all about?

Cinema

Holy Motors is so mad, deranged, lunatic, bonkers, cuckoo and away with the fairies that, if you were on a bus, and saw it boarding, you’d pray it didn’t sit next to you, although, knowing your luck, it probably would. That said, maybe you shouldn’t be quite so prissy and stand-offish. This film is a wacky ride, as well as a crazy, insane and off-the-wall one, but it is also peculiarly involving, exhilarating and unforgettable. I am still picking it out of my teeth, as if it were yesterday’s lamb chop, unlike the film I saw last week, whatever it was. (Was it good? Did I like it?) This is written and directed by the French auteur Leos Carax, who hasn’t made a full-length film for over a decade, and is obviously a bit of a one.

Lloyd Evans

Weaving an artful web

Theatre

The Charing Cross Theatre has followed the trends of performance art for more than a century. It used to be a music hall. Then it put in a stint as a cinema. Now it’s a small theatre and it specialises in experimental comedies. The Man on her Mind fits the bill nicely. It opens with Nellie, a sexy young book editor, being seduced in her one-bedroom flat by her handsome lover. There’s a knock on the door. The lover hides in the bathroom. In comes Nellie’s horrible sister, Janet, and she — surprise, surprise — needs the bathroom. She goes in and the lover is discovered. But no. The lover isn’t discovered. The lover doesn’t exist. He’s a figment of Nellie’s imagination.

Damian Thompson

Panic attack

Music

If you want to make yourself unpopular with a classical musician, bring up the subject of performance anxiety. You can ask soloists how they remember tens of thousands of notes, so long as you make it sound like flattery. But don’t ask how they do it in front of an audience of strangers and critics without dying of fright. Because some of them nearly do. And they don’t like to talk about it — their own nerves, that is; other people’s are fair game. The world of classical music can be as Darwinian as the tennis circuit. Memory lapses are not forgotten. The Wigmore Hall holds a special terror, because it’s often the venue for an artist’s first big recital.

Harry Mount

Building on the past

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London was an industrial city until remarkably recently. It seems extraordinary now, but Bankside Power Station was built in 1947, by Sir Giles Gilbert Scott, to burn oil right on the banks of the Thames, opposite St Paul’s. What’s more, Gilbert Scott’s other great power station, Battersea, built in 1929, is less than a mile upstream. In the early 1970s, more than 1.1 million people in the capital — almost a third of the workforce — had manufacturing jobs. Now only 117,000 do — one in 40 workers. Still, the old industrial architecture survives in pleasingly generous quantities.

Colin Falck

World

Post It Notes

24 September 2012

Steerpike

Downton on the down-turn

Downton Abbey has come crashing down. No, it's not Lord Grantham's ruinous investments but rather the uncomfortable fact that the world has finally realised that the show is overhyped tripe. Julian Fellows and, it seemed, anyone who'd ever walked on set donned their tuxedos at last night’s Emmys. Expectations were high with sixteen nominations for ITV Drama's flagship production; but those hopes were dashed as the Americans made clear what most of us have known for ages: Maggie Smith's hilarious dowager is the only thing worth watching. She was the sole Downtonite to get a gong. Ironically, she was the only person involved not to show up.

19 September 2012

Lloyd Evans

Fright night

Arts feature

Here comes Jane Asher. She swings through the doors of a small Chelsea hotel, chucks her bag on the floor, and sits down with an expectant look. Her voluminous red hair has attractive hints of something blonder on top. Her eyes are pale blue, and extraordinarily intense, and she has a fulsome rack of plump white teeth that hint at large appetites. But her figure is as trim as a teenager’s. We meet a few weeks before she begins rehearsing Charley’s Aunt, the classic Victorian farce in which she plays a Brazilian dowager, Donna Lucia d’Alvadorez. Does she think it’ll be more fun because the script is a bundle of laughs? ‘No, there are always those technical things that are just as tricky to do. And if it’s not funny, it’d be a disaster.

Andrew Lambirth

Under the skin | 19 September 2012

Exhibitions

John Berger (born 1926) is one of the most intriguing and richly controversial figures in British arts and letters. Actually, since he lives full-time in France, he can scarcely be considered English in any meaningful way, and is indeed an international figure, widely regarded outside this country as one of Europe’s greatest intellectuals and quite often as some sort of cultural guru. Here he is thought of as a Marxist art critic, a dangerously potent broadcaster and a writer or novelist who defies categorisation. One suspects he is a bit of an embarrassment to the arts establishment, so he tends to be ignored.

Sarah Drury

The place to be

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A display of drawings by 20th-century sculptors is a welcome event, and the multi-levelled, multi-functional Kings Place provides just the right ambience, the building echoing the concept and providing a satisfying mix of enjoyment, surprise and irritation. To stage Sculptors’ Drawings (until 12 October) has been a long-held ambition of Pangolin’s Rungwe Kingdon and he has assembled over 200 works, including Eduardo Paolozzi’s ‘Collage’ (above), plus a scattering of 3D pieces. It sounds straightforward, but this being the art world, and sculpture a broad kirk, no chance to complicate has been foregone.

Giannandrea Poesio

American beauty | 19 September 2012

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Tragically, the number of ballet directors who can orchestrate good programmes and good openings is dwindling these days. Helgi Tómasson, of San Francisco Ballet, is one of the few who are still in the know, judging by the terrific bang with which his company opened last week in London. Divertimento No.15 might not be one of George Balanchine’s greatest works, but it remains a delectable compendium of all the distinctive traits dance-goers love in Balanchine’s composition. Craftily entwined with and within Mozart’s music, the 1956 dance is one of the choreographer’s many tributes to the grand old era of the Imperial Russian Ballet — whence he came.

Michael Tanner

A time for reflection

Opera

As any regular opera-goer knows, next year is uniquely one for three major operatic centenaries, two of them, Verdi’s and Wagner’s, bicentenaries, while Britten was born only 100 years ago, but seems to have been dead for a very long time. So we can expect numerous series — of performances, recordings, broadcast radio and TV features — and probably quite a few biographies and critical studies.

Matthew Parris

A lost illusion at the Last Night of the Proms

Columns

It was the last night of the Proms and the first I’ve ever attended. I’ve watched it on TV, of course, and even been to a Last Night of the Proms party, where we all watched the television, swigging sparkling wine and singing along to Rule Britannia. But to be there, actually among the audience at the Royal Albert Hall, would be something special, I thought. And it was. Ever since receiving an invitation to join a friend whose party were occupying a whole box I’d felt excited about it, and I was not disappointed. There’s something about real events — a thrill that has perhaps sharpened in an era when, thanks to information technology, ‘virtual’ attendance gets cheaper all the time.

Lloyd Evans

Underpowered Ibsen

Theatre

The tone is the thing. Ibsen is among the heaviest of the heavy-going playwrights and his masterpiece, Hedda Gabler, is an unbearably tense psychological thriller that ends with one of the biggest shocks in the theatrical repertoire. The play takes us into a doomed marriage between Hedda, a brilliant and eccentric depressive, and George Tesman, a dull-as cheesecake university lecturer. Director Anna Mackmin has read the Old Vic audience correctly. They’ve spent all day at the office, raising enough funds to buy tickets, and they’re not interested in a three-hour Nordic brain-bruiser. Instead, they want a frothy, offbeat marital comedy with a few sad bits. And that’s what they get.