Arts Archives

Close encounters

Radio and podcasts

Kate Chisholm looks forward to The People’s Passion on Radio 4 which explores the role of the cathedral in a modern, secular world ‘We began by wanting to do something about cathedrals and the life that goes on within them,’ recalls Christine Morgan, head of religion and ethics at BBC Radio. That was about 18 months ago, when not much attention was being paid to these great beacons of British history and belief. But by coincidence (or perhaps divine intervention) cathedral stories have been hitting the front pages in recent months after the tortuous attempts by St Paul’s to extricate itself from Occupy London and its battle with money, capitalism and the workings of the City.

Michael Tanner

Straying from the brief

Opera

‘Praising! That’s it!’ Rilke exclaims in one of his ecstatic Sonnets to Orpheus. It seems to be an unconditional injunction, but he hadn’t tried being an opera critic, and I’d like to see anyone even try plausibly to praise either of the two productions I saw this week. One was new and absolutely terrible, the other was old, neglected and may or may not be good — it wasn’t easy to judge. Tête à Tête is an opera company and enterprise that I have often admired and enjoyed, but its speciality is very brief works, which could hardly be staged alone, and which don’t demand of their librettist and composer that they write an extended piece with all the problems that involves.

Lloyd Evans

Old meets New

Theatre

It’s back. And I can’t believe I missed it the first time. Live Theatre’s dramatisation of Chris Mullin’s diaries has returned to Soho for a lap of honour. Richly deserved as well. The show moves unobtrusively between Mullin’s many spheres of interest. We see his home life as a father of two and as MP for Sunderland South. And we get an insider’s view of Westminster during the glory days of New Labour when parliament, and the entire country, was infatuated with its tooth-some superstar. Some of Mullin’s recollections have already acquired the status of classics. The late Tony Banks confided to him that no one ever saw Peter Mandelson enter a room. ‘There’s just a chill in the air, and suddenly, he’s there.

Deborah Ross

Defying logic

Cinema

Switch is a French action thriller starring that lumbering wooden legend of French cinema, Eric Cantona, and it’s awful, but at least it is one of my favourite kinds of awful film: so awful it’s a triumph. If I were ever invited to lecture at film school — remarkably, I have yet to receive such an invite — the first thing I’d say is: girls, boys, although your narrative shouldn’t be predictable, it must add up in terms of what has gone before. Your characters shouldn’t change personalities overnight. Also, it always helps if the plot actually makes sense. This narrative follows no known logic: not internal, not external, and not even the sort of logic that dithers out on the patio and has a smoke while trying to make up its mind.

Tim Stanley

Male order | 31 March 2012

Television

I suspect that, when men and women watch Mad Men, they see very different things. Women probably see a witty indictment of male patriarchy. I, on the other hand, see Heaven on Earth. Everything shown on Mad Men is what male dinosaurs like me expect from western civilisation: liquid lunches, beautiful secretaries, exquisite suits and witty conversation. Alas, all of this is absent from the 21st-century workplace. Nowadays, downing half the contents of a bottle of Canadian Club whiskey in the middle of a business meeting can be a sackable offence. Mad Men returned to our screens on Tuesday night (Sky Atlantic) with a two-hour special. For those who care about plot, it’s now 1966 and the Sterling, Cooper, Draper and Pryce ad agency is still in business.

Kate Chisholm

Con air

Radio and podcasts

Imagine a small room, no windows, institutional cream on the walls. Bare of all decoration except for a circle of cheap chairs and the most basic of recording equipment. A gathering of people squeeze into the space — three young men, a strained-looking couple, an official-looking woman with clipboard and notes, a man in jeans with an earpiece. There’s not much room for manoeuvre, or to opt out of what’s going on. This is Prison Radio, an outreach scheme that began in HMP Feltham for young offenders in the early 1990s. Two radio producers wanted to do something about the high rates of self-harm, and of reoffending. Why not give prisoners the chance to learn new skills at the same time as providing them with a means to share experience, consolation, communication?

Andrew Petrie

Bad habits | 31 March 2012

Cinema

When the late Ken Russell published his autobiography in 1989, he called it A British Picture. That title could just as easily describe The Devils, his 1971 adaptation of Aldous Huxley’s The Devils of Loudun, relating the true story of supposed demonic possession among Ursuline nuns in north-west France in 1634. Here is a world-class film by a British director, with British stars and crew, sets by Derek Jarman and a score by Peter Maxwell Davies. So why is it only now getting a DVD release? Combining sexual abandon, outright blasphemy and scenes of convent life unlikely to be mistaken for The Sound of Music, The Devils fought a notorious battle with the British Board of Film Censors that has been allowed to eclipse the quality of the film.

29 March 2012

Alex Massie

Earl Scruggs, 1924-2012

The man who was probably the greatest banjo player in history has died, aged 88. Steve Martin says everything that needs to be said here. Here he and Earl are performing the immortal Foggy Mountain Breakdown.

24 March 2012

Charles Spencer

Losing the plot | 24 March 2012

Arts feature

You know those sad, confused people you sometimes see, standing on street corners and shouting dementedly at passing cars. Well, the other week, that madman was me. I was in Sheffield to cover the Crucible’s Michael Frayn season, and had risen early to write my review. And then my usually reliable laptop failed to come up with an email connection. I kept trying, and failing, to get the copy across, then realised that unless I got a shift on I would miss my train. So I ordered a taxi and checked out. Only the taxi didn’t come and catching the train looked less and less likely. And it was then that I lost the plot entirely, shaking my fist at passing but occupied cabs, and shouting at God that I wished I were dead — all the symptoms of a certifiable nutter, in fact.

Andrew Lambirth

Seeing the light

Exhibitions

One of the more considerable pleasures of exhibition-viewing outside London recently was the Claude show at the Ashmolean. London exhibitions are becoming mobbed by crowds, and there is little enjoyment in shoving or being shoved in the supposed pursuit of artistic enlightenment, and absolutely no chance to contemplate individual pictures in the hurly-burly. As the devout will queue up to kiss the wizened toe of a saint, now the football fans of art will jostle to snatch the merest passing glimpse of a Leonardo or a Freud. The being there is all: the experience has very little to do with serious looking. Afterwards, you join the ranks of the blessed and tell your friends that you too were in the presence. There is apparently much comfort to be drawn from such sharing.

Will Gore

Poirot power

Arts feature

Will Gore talks to David Suchet about his forthcoming West End role and his debt to the Belgian detective The first thing I notice about David Suchet is his facial hair. It isn’t a stick-on Poirot tash, unfortunately, but a grey beard that he has grown for his latest role, James Tyrone, in the West End revival of Eugene O’Neill’s Long Day’s Journey into Night. The second thing is his smile. He greets me with a broad grin, and beams amiably throughout our time together. He has rehearsals to be getting on with, but is happy to let our scheduled 30 minutes stretch to an hour. Suchet is the most cheerful interviewee I’ve ever encountered. He’s unpretentious, too. Some actors, mentioning no names except Richard E.

Lloyd Evans

Rhythms of the Caribbean

Theatre

There should be a sign on the door. ‘Plotless play in progress.’ Moon on a Rainbow Shawl, by Errol John, won first prize in a 1957 scriptwriting competition organised by Kenneth Tynan and judged by Alec Guinness, Peter Ustinov, Peter Hall and others. The West End promoters thought the script uncommercial and never gave it a decent shot at success. They had a point. Errol John, an apprentice writer, hadn’t learnt how to shape his tale for the theatre and give it that insistent rat-a-tat-tat rhythm of twists and surprises that audiences expect. His languid drama is set in a Trinidad ghetto where a crew of washouts and wanna-bes bicker and copulate their way through a few steamy midsummer days. The grinding poverty seems quaint, and even attractive, to modern eyes.

Deborah Ross

Man and boy

Cinema

Totally unexpectedly, as I don’t like Brit gangster films particularly — so many sociopaths, so little time — I loved, loved, loved, loved, loved Wild Bill and, for those of you who are slow on the uptake, let me say four times more: I loved, loved, loved, loved it. It may not even be a gangster film proper, although it is certainly being sold as such, with a poster that’s all tattooed fist. This is a shame, as it’s actually a rather delicate and elegant piece of work combining great storytelling, a terrific script, and characters you can seriously care about, and do. It hits all the marks. You’ll laugh. You’ll cry. And you’ll love it as many times over as you can accommodate.

Michael Tanner

Fatal flaw | 24 March 2012

Opera

Judith Weir’s Miss Fortune, whose UK première was at the Royal Opera last week, has received the severest critical panning I can recall for any new opera. It is no masterpiece, but I wonder why it has been rounded on when so many new — not to mention old — pieces with no more going for them, so far as I can tell, get greeted warmly or at least tepidly. Admittedly, it takes an ambitious subject — Fate — and treats it in a largely unpretentious way. But Verdi’s La Forza del Destino takes the same subject and treats it in an utterly preposterous way, and has some dreadful passages of music, yet has survived for a century and a half.

Kate Chisholm

JAM today

Radio and podcasts

On the page a minute’s worth of words doesn’t look like much. A hundred and forty-four or thereabouts. But try spouting forth for 60 seconds on any given subject without hesitation, deviation or repetition and those 144 words become an awful lot to find, especially when they have to be summoned up at speed from some inner reservoir of thoughts and phrases. Maybe that’s the reason why Just a Minute is still such a fixture on the Radio 4 schedule. The panellists make it sound so easy that we’re always puzzled when a new, unpractised contestant struggles to survive for longer than 20 seconds. We’re puzzled but we also relish their embarrassment. We feel superior. If only we were invited on to the show, we would be able to talk, no problem.

Simon Hoggart

Of God and men

Television

Two documentaries this week made us ponder what our country, with its 1 per cent of the world’s population, exists for. How God Made the English (BBC2, Saturday) had the historian Diarmaid MacCulloch musing about the way we have believed for a thousand years that we were God’s chosen people, having taken that baton from the Israelites — thanks to the Venerable Bede. I am not sure that he made the case. Most nations have believed at one time or another that God was their principal cheerleader. When the Israelites were in the smiting business, anyone they successfully smote, such as the poor wretches who lived in Jericho, were simply in God’s bad books. When they themselves were taken into slavery, it was because they had disobeyed orders.

Kate Chisholm

Healing art

Radio and podcasts

‘It’s like acting,’ says the illustrator Quentin Blake about his latest project. ‘You imagine yourself there, in that situation. You imagine you are that person.’ The first-ever children’s laureate has been taking his acute eye for gesture, for character, into hospitals, as part of the Nightingale Project. His funny, colourful, bursting-with-life paintings are now decorating the walls of a mental health ward at Northwick Park, the Vincent Square Clinic and a maternity hospital in France, and are being celebrated in an exhibition at the Foundling Museum (40 Brunswick Square, London WC1). They reflect so accurately the experience of illness, parenting, age and infirmity that Blake has been asked, ‘How do you know that?

17 March 2012

Andrew Lambirth

Shape shifters

Exhibitions

Someone asked me recently whether I actually liked Mondrian’s paintings. The implication being that his form of geometrical abstraction was too pure — or too antiseptic — to contain the necessary germ of human warmth required to engage the emotions; and that though one could admire his work intellectually, it was difficult to be passionate about it. There’s plenty of passion in Mondrian, but it is controlled fire, banked down to burn with a white-hot flame. Perhaps it should be termed the Higher Passion, as it does not immediately affect the ordinary emotions, but inspires instead to the spiritual ecstasy of the saint.

Robert Gorelangton

Fairground attraction

Arts feature

Robert Gore-Langton talks to Professor Vanessa Toulmin about bringing the 27,000 Volt Girl and five-foot earwigs back into the public eye Vanessa Toulmin is that rare thing — an academic professor who grew up on a fair. From the age of ten she fried onions for the hotdogs, spun candyfloss, and took money for rides on the gallopers. She can remember, as a little girl, George the Gentle Giant (seven foot four) lurching home drunk with his chum Wee McGregor (two foot four) peeing on his shins. Her early life was like a Fellini circus film. As a teenager, Vanessa actually ran away from the fair to get some A-levels. Today she has a chair at the University of Sheffield and is director of the invaluable National Fairground Archive.

Marcus Berkmann

Touching the void | 17 March 2012

Music

In April, for the first time in ages, I am going to a wedding. At least it will make a change from all the funerals. The middle-aged pop fan feels this all the more deeply, because few of our favourite musicians seem to make old bones. Or, more accurately, they make old bones, but at three or four times the speed that everyone else does. Some of these rock deaths are relatively mundane: falling down stairs (Sandy Denny), car crashing into a tree (Marc Bolan), ski-ing into a tree (Sonny Bono). Others are bizarre. It was Chicago’s guitarist Terry Kath, of course, whose career came to a premature end during a boozy game of Russian roulette. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘it’s not loaded.

Michael Henderson

Spirit of Schubert

Music

Every December, for the past decade, I have laid a red rose on Schubert’s grave in Vienna’s southern cemetery. What began as a gesture has become a custom, a way of giving thanks to the most lovable of all composers. Schubert may not be as great as Bach or Beethoven, who established the musical language of an entire culture, but no musician has touched so many hearts. Blessed Franz, holy Franz, immortal Franz: nobody, not even Mozart, has inspired such love. The details of Schubert’s last days are well known. In March 1827 he walked behind Beethoven’s coffin and, upon repairing to a local inn to toast the memory of the older man, raised his glass ‘to the one who shall follow him’.

Lloyd Evans

Knock-off Chekhov

Theatre

Calling all thespians. Roll up, you theatre folk. The Hampstead’s new show is a dramatic love-in you can’t afford to miss. Farewell to the Theatre introduces us to Harley Granville-Barker, one of the greatest playwrights of the early 20th century, as he enjoys a sabbatical in Massachusetts in 1916. Everything is languid, atmospheric and high-minded. Granville-Barker is busy giving lectures and watching American productions of Shakespeare while one of his chums, a literature professor, has had a bust-up with another academic. It’s a pity this off-stage conflict doesn’t test or expose Granville-Barker at all. He just lolls around the garden of a country house making cold, lofty speeches about the theatre and generally being a didactic pest.

Giannandrea Poesio

Succulent pleasures

Redeeming creatures

Cinema

We Bought a Zoo — in which a family buys a zoo — does what it says on the tin and if you like this sort of film you will like this and if you don’t you won’t, and you have to ask yourself why you buy The Spectator every week? It’s for analysis like this which, I think you will find, is unavailable elsewhere. But do I like this sort of film? Actually, I rather do. There are no surprises. It is comfortingly straight up and down. It is heartwarming, to the extent you can buy it. There are animals: lions, tigers, a grizzly bear, and a funny little monkey. I found it a perfectly agreeable way to spend the two hours I would otherwise waste and you may feel similarly if this is the sort of film you like, but probably not if you don’t.

Kate Chisholm

Listen up!

Radio and podcasts

Life-changing moments are not always as dramatic as Saint Paul’s Damascene experience. Often they emerge from conversations that begin with mundane exchanges about last night’s Masterchef, the film you saw last week, the last time there was a drought. Then gradually the talk moves on to other, deeper matters. Something is said, some connection is made which opens up a shaft of light on a problem, a question, a source of confusion that’s been troubling you for years. You might not realise for a while that the conversation marks a change, but looking back on what was said leads you to recognise how from that moment your life has taken a different (though not necessarily dramatically different) tack.

James Delingpole

Downton on sea

Television

If Titanic hadn’t actually sunk on its maiden voyage not even Jeffrey Archer would have dared invent such a hammily extravagant plot. The passenger list — Benjamin Guggenheim, John Jacob Astor IV (Macy’s owner), Isidor Straus, the silent film actress Dorothy Gibson, inventor of the New Journalism W.T. Stead, and sundry English toffs — was just too implausibly rich and diverse. The sudden social levelling induced by disaster too neat and melodramatic. The background details — the band playing on, the lifeboat shortage, the men’s Birkenhead drill stoicism as their female loved ones and children clambered into the lifeboats (or not) — were too upsetting, maddening and moving. And the deus ex machina — an iceberg, for God’s sake?

15 March 2012

Alex Massie

Surviving the Ides of March…

I'm indebted to Patrick Kidd for unearthing this terrific advertisement for Scotsh Whisky, published in the Western Morning News in 1927. These are indeed treacherous times so it is pleasing to be reminded that March winds hold no peril for those who are fortified with Scotch Whisky. As Patrick says, what a shame the liquor industry can no longer offer sage advice like Scotch Whisky can be taken at the strength and in the volume best suited to the individual constitution, the time and the climate. Good to be reassured, too, that whisky is The safest & best drink in any climate. That said, it seems a stretch to suggest even a dram or two would have been enough to save Caesar from the conspiracy...

10 March 2012

Liz Anderson

Road to Mecca

Exhibitions

The British Museum’s latest exhibition Hajj: journey to the heart of Islam (until 15 April) sets out to explain the mysteries of this annual pilgrimage. Last year, a total of 2,927,719 pilgrims went to Mecca, Saudi Arabia, something that all Muslims should try to do at least once in their lifetime. Such huge numbers are hard to visualise, so a film, projected on to a wall, is a great help: one sees, I suppose, hundreds of thousands of pilgrims arriving in the city, and walking round Islam’s most sacred site, the Ka’ba, confined as they are to the courtyard of the Grand Mosque and surrounding areas. And because of its rather claustrophobic atmosphere, the BM’s old reading room is — for once — just the right place to hold an exhibition.

Andrew Lambirth

Spring round-up | 10 March 2012

Exhibitions

The fashion for museum-quality exhibitions in commercial galleries continues apace with two notable shows in Mayfair: Cy Twombly at Eykyn Maclean, and Julio González at Ordovas. Both galleries specialise in this kind of display, which must be more to do with impressing potential clients than with generating income, given that both are loan shows. I hope there’s also an altruistic motive here, however slight: to provide another forum for the public to view high-quality art they might not see elsewhere. Certainly these venues offer a new and welcome resource to the London gallery-goer, and should be better known.