Culture

Slam one down on the bar, scoop in some crushed ice and finish with a slug of grenadine. Paul is straight from the cocktail school of cinema. Which is to say, it contains a handful of familiar ingredients — the buddy movie, the road movie, Star Trek, stoner gags, granite-jawed FBI agents — all swept into the blender and spun, shaken and stirred into something that, in the end, turns out quite differently. Even by the brash standards of other sci-fi comedies, from Abbott and Costello Go to Mars (1953) to Galaxy Quest (1999), this film has chutzpah, delirious chutzpah. Most of that chutzpah, and a good slice of the deliriousness, comes from the central pairing of Simon Pegg and Nick Frost — Paul’s leading actors, as well as its authors.

Forty years ago kids assumed that when they grew up they’d fly to Mars. They didn’t expect to find a world that was too scared to turn on a lightbulb. Forty years ago kids assumed that when they grew up they’d fly to Mars. They didn’t expect to find a world that was too scared to turn on a lightbulb. Our timidity owes itself to the failure of science to devise impressive new large-scale pieces of kit. Every breakthrough these days takes place at the micro, nano and millimetric level, while up at the mega end nothing new has appeared since the jet. Space rockets are just a refinement of ballistics technology. Apollo 11 was a firework. The Shuttle is a reuseable firework. And even that seems to have run out of gunpowder.

Artistic integrity is the subject of Mieczysław Weinberg’s opera The Portrait, as it is of Gogol’s short story from which it is adapted. Artistic integrity is the subject of Mieczysław Weinberg’s opera The Portrait, as it is of Gogol’s short story from which it is adapted. And whatever one might feel about the work — and I enjoyed it a lot more than most of my colleagues seem to have — Opera North is unquestionably demonstrating artistic integrity by staging relatively or very unknown operas in productions which don’t have as their main selling point that the director has never seen, let alone directed, an opera before.

The pedants who say fly-on-the-wall documentaries are cheap, meaningless television could not be more wrong. They are the postmodernist answer to David Attenborough, the Life on Earth de nos jours. Anyone who doubts this should watch My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding on Channel 4 (Tuesdays, 9 p.m. and, if missed, on 4oD). Not since meerkats exploded on to our screens have television cameras transported us into such a rare and fascinating habitat. Those uptight commentators whingeing about the antics of the gypsies entirely miss the point. Does one watch Attenborough and afterwards complain that ‘this daft meerkat fell asleep on its feet and toppled over’? No. Personally, I felt utterly privileged to be able to witness a girl in a wedding dress inlaid with flashing light bulbs.

Bridget Riley turns 80 this year, a fact easy to forget when looking at the surging energy and contemporaneity of her pictures. She is a remarkable artist who, although imposing severe formal restraints on her work, manages continually to surprise us with the richness of her invention. Perhaps it is because of the self-limitations she endures that her imagination is compelled to delve so deeply in the narrow field she has made her own. And its very modernity is an aspect of the way her vision is directly and inspirationally linked to the art of the past. The free display in the Sunley Room at the NG, sponsored by Bloomberg, demonstrates this very effectively. The exhibition begins with Riley’s own work in company with Old Masters.