The good, the bad and the ugly in books, exhibitions, cinema, TV, dance, music, podcasts and theatre.
It has to be Glen Campbell this week what with the announcement that, on account of Alzheimer's, his forthcoming tour will be his last. So here he is with a lovely stripped-down (no bloody strings!) version of Wichita Lineman.
It’s the small things that drive you mad. It’s the small things that drive you mad. Every so often I start worrying about the big stuff — God, or lung cancer or early-onset Alzheimer’s — but a cigarette and a cup of coffee usually puts me right, even if it makes cancer a little more likely. What reduces me to a quaking heap is losing a bank statement or rushing off to work and discovering I can’t find my car keys. Such minor inconveniences make me feel as though my whole life is collapsing into chaos and the universe itself is out of joint. Cue whimpering self-pity. Just occasionally, however, I am able to summon up a manly rage, as happened the other day when I was contacted by the Today programme on Radio 4.
I bumped into a restoration expert last week. ‘What’s new in heritage these days?’ I asked him. ‘Oh, same old, same old,’ he told me. I bumped into a restoration expert last week. ‘What’s new in heritage these days?’ I asked him. ‘Oh, same old, same old,’ he told me. In similar vein, London has been enjoying a spate of classic revivals on stage. At the Donmar a production of Schiller’s Kabale und Liebe (Intrigue and Love) has been barmily retitled Luise Miller. This promotes a minor character to the protagonist’s role. It incorrectly suggests the atmosphere of Romford roundabouts and roaring hen parties.
Bridesmaids isn’t directed by Judd Apatow, the reigning champion of American comedy, but it might as well be. Bridesmaids isn’t directed by Judd Apatow, the reigning champion of American comedy, but it might as well be. In addition to establishing himself as Hollywood’s leading comedy director — The 40-Year-Old Virgin, Knocked Up, Funny People — he is the industry’s most prolific auteur producer, having overseen a string of recent hits including Superbad, Forgetting Sarah Marshall and Get Him to the Greek.
All eyes will be on Andy Murray this week and perhaps next, but 50 years ago it was British women tennis players who were on top, with two of them fighting for the trophy in the final at Wimbledon. Christine Truman lost by a narrow margin but only after she fell and hurt her ankle. The victor, Angela Mortimer, afterwards declared, ‘Well, I knew I must make her twist ...It’s not a nice thing to do ...but I knew that if she has an injury I must exploit it.’ It was 1961. Who would have thought a woman could be so mercilessly competitive back then, years before the Pill and The Female Eunuch?
I watched Rory McIlroy win the Open Golf last weekend (it was on Sky, so there was no Peter Allis and his reminiscences of clubhouse banter past; to my surprise, I missed him). What sportspersons need is ANF — attraction to non-fans. You might be a great admirer of, say, Ashley Cole, but his ANF-rating is near zero. Whereas David Beckham and George Best are way up there, appealing even to people who hate football. We try to like Andy Murray, but his ANF is poor, whereas Roger Federer is a near-perfect ten. Muhammad Ali had a terrific ANF, something no other boxer can approach.
Better still, it's only three minutes long! Sadly the video can't be embedded so you'll have to hop over here to watch and enjoy it. Norm, mind you, was ahead of the game as far back as 2007. Previous Curtis-sniping here. *Not to be confused with that other Adam Curtis of course.
James Hamilton says that regional art galleries are as evocative as local landscape It is always a cause for celebration when a new art gallery opens. There is something about the existence of its galleries that indicates a nation’s state of health. Lively galleries demonstrate that a nation is not so caught in the imperative to pay for schools and hospitals that it can’t, in the worst of times, present the fruits of the difficult lives and hard-won insights of painters and sculptors. In Wakefield, following the Turner Contemporary at Margate, the Hepworth opened on 21 May. That two relatively small towns in the English regions should be so blessed with expensive new kit in difficult times is wonderful to see.
It’s so rare I want to shout about anything from the rooftops but I do want to shout from the rooftops about The Ruby Dolls and their latest show, Rubies in the Attic, which takes cabaret and shapes it into something so original that if you can catch it you must. It’s so rare I want to shout about anything from the rooftops but I do want to shout from the rooftops about The Ruby Dolls and their latest show, Rubies in the Attic, which takes cabaret and shapes it into something so original that if you can catch it you must. The Dolls, whom I caught at the Riverside Studios in Hammersmith, are four women — Jessica Sedler, Tara Siddall, Jenny Grove and Susanna Fiore — who dress glamorously in the Forties style (oh, if only I could wear red lipstick like that!
Leighton House, studio-home of Frederic, Lord Leighton (1830–96), is one of my favourite museums, and always a treat to visit. Leighton House, studio-home of Frederic, Lord Leighton (1830–96), is one of my favourite museums, and always a treat to visit. This small but informative exhibition about the architect George Aitchison (1825–1910) who built it is a well-timed adjunct to the V&A’s great survey of the Aesthetic Movement, in which he is also included. Leighton House is Aitchison’s monument, for there are few other buildings to his name, apart from imposing warehouses; certainly no churches or country houses.
If the atmosphere in Tokyo at the moment is relatively radiation-free — it is said to be less than in the cabin of the aircraft which flew us here — the mood among the local population is one of getting on with life. If the atmosphere in Tokyo at the moment is relatively radiation-free — it is said to be less than in the cabin of the aircraft which flew us here — the mood among the local population is one of getting on with life. Apparently, they collectively held their breaths (and stopped drinking the water) for about 24 hours at the time of the earthquake, and then turned what was left of their attention to abusing the Tokyo Electric Power Company. One of the things they have got on with is attending concerts of Western music.
Life in a Day is one of those films that shouldn’t work at all, and actually doesn’t work on paper. Life in a Day is one of those films that shouldn’t work at all, and actually doesn’t work on paper. On paper, it sounds boring as hell. Person One: ‘Shall we go and see the film that’s essentially a collection of YouTube clips?’ Person Two: ‘No. It sounds boring as hell.’ And yet it isn’t boring as hell, or boring at all. Instead, it is fascinating and moving and funny and uplifting and satisfying and such a stunning love letter to humankind it will truly warm the cockles of your heart, should they need warming. (Mine do, even in June.) This is, apparently, the largest crowd-sourced art project in history — see?
Two weeks ago, the unsettling proximity of a perfectly sculpted naked male butt with my nose made me think again about the critic/artist relationship. I am talking, of course, about Dave St Pierre’s much talked about performance of Un peu de tendresse bordel de merde! at Sadler’s Wells, the raunchiness of which attracted and dominated the interest of various media for a few days. Chastely translated into ‘a little tenderness, for crying out loud’ — although a more appropriate translation would be ‘a little tenderness, for fuck’s sake!’ — the 2006 work, like many other examples of modern day dance- theatre, relies considerably on shock values, although it also includes some excellent choreography.
Here’s the thing. This box-set business. Do you get it? I tried. I failed. But everyone else goes stark raving mad about these fictional treasures. Once you’ve sampled a box set (or boxed-set?), you’re hooked. Here’s the thing. This box-set business. Do you get it? I tried. I failed. But everyone else goes stark raving mad about these fictional treasures. Once you’ve sampled a box set (or boxed-set?), you’re hooked. You won’t be seen again until you’ve visited every corner of the dream kingdom encased within its magical walls. Didn’t happen to me, though. I sat through the first six minutes of The Wire in total bafflement.
It must be a fix, surely? The list of tunes voted online ‘by the nation’ as the eight favourite ‘discs’ we would like to be marooned with on a desert island is the dullest, most unoriginal, least controversial combination we listeners could possibly have come up with. It must be a fix, surely? The list of tunes voted online ‘by the nation’ as the eight favourite ‘discs’ we would like to be marooned with on a desert island is the dullest, most unoriginal, least controversial combination we listeners could possibly have come up with. The organisers of the poll as they studied its results must have been rueing the meeting when they came up with the idea of turning Desert Island Discs into an internet quiz.
A few years ago, my at-the-time-quite-impoverished screenwriter friend Jake Michie told me about this brilliant new children’s TV series he’d dreamed up about the Knights of the Round Table. A few years ago, my at-the-time-quite-impoverished screenwriter friend Jake Michie told me about this brilliant new children’s TV series he’d dreamed up about the Knights of the Round Table. All the male leads would be young and pretty with boy band haircuts; Arthur would be a bit of a rugger-bugger lunk, while the real hero would be a younger Merlin who would use his magic to get his pal out of all sorts of scrapes; and obviously there’d be monsters and demons and suchlike to stop the kids getting bored. I was appalled.
I met a Distinguished Old Rock Critic at a party recently, and was delighted to find that the obvious acronym didn’t apply. I met a Distinguished Old Rock Critic at a party recently, and was delighted to find that the obvious acronym didn’t apply. We chewed on this and that: CDs vs downloads, the blackboard-scraping quality of Chris Martin’s voice, and the unending need to hear the wonderful new music we know is out there somewhere but can’t seem to find. He is my senior by some years but the bug is still in his system, which I found encouraging. I met a Distinguished Old Rock Star recently, too, and he admitted he couldn’t give a monkey’s about any of it, and listened to as little as he could get away with.
This year, the sequence of galleries has been subtly altered, and for a change we enter the fabled Summer Exhibition (sponsored by Insight Investment) through the Octagon rather than Gallery 1. This brings the visitor straight into the heart of the show, and it’s quite a good idea at this point to turn right into the Lecture Room for a gallery dedicated entirely to RA members, hung by that éminence grise, Michael Craig-Martin. Of course this is Craig-Martin’s choice, so the more traditional practitioners are excluded, but the Lecture Room nevertheless looks better than it has done for years. A big tattooed head by Tony Bevan keeps company with Humphrey Ocean’s ‘Windscreen’, a roughly massed urban landscape.
The J.B. Priestley flame is kept alive today by his son Tom, who resides in the same Notting Hill flat he has lived in for more than 50 years. His father — novelist, dramatist, scribe, broadcaster, socialist (who died in 1984) — was glad that Tom, now 79, hadn’t chosen the same life. ‘The only time he came here to the flat he said, “Don’t be a writer. Dreadful business.”’ Tom is a retired film editor who manages the literary estate. He is the offspring of J.B.’s second marriage to Jane Bannerman, the divorced wife of the humorist writer Bevan Wyndham Lewis. There was one more Mrs Priestley after her — Jacquetta Hawkes, the distinguished but flinty archaeologist.
Laura Gascoigne on how the Venice Biennale is searching for its place in art history Picture one of the world’s largest private yachts moored at the quayside of the Riva dei Sette Martiri, protected by a metal perimeter fence and a security detail. Now imagine two battered sea freight containers dumped in the shape of a tau cross on the quay just out of spitting distance of the security fencing. One is Roman Abramovich’s 115m superyacht Luna; the other is a Haitian pavilion showing Vodou-inspired sculpture by the Grand Rue Sculptors from the slums of Port-au-Prince. Welcome to the opening of this year’s Venice Biennale (until 27 November), bigger than ever and more deeply riven with contradictions.
DAC has written some dreadful and awful songs but also some mighty fine ones.
Puccini’s last, incomplete opera Turandot is a work that I usually find disgusting and boring, so much so that it is one of the very few repertoire works that I avoid seeing. Puccini’s last, incomplete opera Turandot is a work that I usually find disgusting and boring, so much so that it is one of the very few repertoire works that I avoid seeing. However, having loathed Christopher Alden’s production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream so intensely a fortnight ago, I couldn’t resist the opportunity to see Turandot done by Welsh National Opera in his production of 1994, now revived, and I wasn’t disappointed: I found it disgusting and interesting. Alden and Turandot are made for one another.
I’ll say this for DreamWorks: when it latches on to a concept it doesn’t let it go. I’ll say this for DreamWorks: when it latches on to a concept it doesn’t let it go. There have been four Shreks (with a spin-off, Puss in Boots, due in November), it’s preparing a third Madagascar, it has begun work on a sequel to How to Train Your Dragon and now this, Kung Fu Panda 2, and so should any of these films feel like more of the same, it’s probably because they are more of the same. As it happens, I didn’t see the first Kung Fu Panda — God must have been feeling kindly towards me that week — but this still feels like more of the same. How does that work?
It’s all in the voice. It’s all in the voice. Whether or not the person speaking is seeking to engage the listener, or just saying what comes into their head without much thought of what they are trying to get across, or of who they are talking to and why they might want to listen. I reckon it’s not easy. Clare Balding has a gift for it, taking us along with her every step of the way as she walks the country for her Ramblings series on Radio 4 (Saturdays). Dominic Arkwright and his guests on Off the Page (Thursday) never got further than the studio mike. They were discussing what it means to be ‘foreign’, that feeling of being a stranger — not unwelcome, just different. When did you first realise that not everyone was like you?
The Duke at 90 (BBC1) was another engagement in Prince Philip’s ongoing war against the media. The Duke at 90 (BBC1) was another engagement in Prince Philip’s ongoing war against the media. As usual, he won this skirmish. There was a difference between this programme, presented by Fiona Bruce, and the earlier ITV effort with Alan Titchmarsh, who had decided that constant fawning was the way to the Duke’s heart, as he had done last year with the Prince of Wales. Presented with Sir Walter Raleigh’s problem he would not have laid his cloak down for the Queen, but would have placed himself in the puddle, a human duckboard. The Duke attracts stories. Take the media party at Windsor Castle held nine years ago to celebrate the Queen’s 50th Jubilee.
Can a documentary ever be as entertaining as a fictional feature film? And, if it can, does that mean it cannot be a serious contribution to public debate? Inside Job, director Charles Ferguson’s Oscar-winning account of the origins of the US subprime mortgage debacle and the 2008 banking crisis, is a case in point. It is compelling viewing — and as a guide to why the financial world went mad, it is more vivid than any screen drama I’ve seen (though the BBC’s The Last Days of Lehman Brothers felt pretty authentic), and easier to absorb than any of a shelf full of books on the subject. But that doesn’t mean it is an even-handed account of what happened: far from it.
In the Mellon Gallery of the Fitzwilliam is an unashamedly rich and demanding exhibition of Italian drawings, ranging from the 15th to the 20th century. I say ‘demanding’ because you need to look closely and with attention at these works — not simply to decipher what is going on (the narrative component), but to appreciate how it has been achieved (the formal aspect). So much of the stuff that is produced under the name of art today is easy on the eye and mind, with as much aesthetic nourishment as used air. Real art solicits the spectator’s involvement: it’s not a variant on wallpaper, it requires interpretation and response, intellectual as well as emotional.
From high in the sky over Cappadocia Susan Moore looks down at part of the largest contemporary land art project in the world There are few artists whose work is best seen by hot-air balloon. There are even fewer whose works can only be photographed in their entirety by satellite. To describe the Australian Andrew Rogers as a land artist on an epic scale seems something of an understatement. Over the past 13 years he has masterminded the construction of 47 monumental structures in 13 countries spanning seven continents and involving some 6,700 people. The more remote a site, the better it suits his purpose. Rogers has a penchant for wilderness, desert and plateau, favouring culturally resonant sites that are often barely accessible, and not flinching from challenging extremes of climate.
Been a while since we saw some Merle around here. Too long.