Culture

The competition must be pretty stiff for ‘World’s worst airport to be caught with drugs in your baggage’: Bogota? Miami? Singapore? Ciudad de la Paz? Gatwick? But Moscow would surely have to be a strong contender. I’ve been detained there myself, only for an hour. But you’re never told why you’re being kept waiting, how much longer it will be, or whether this is routine or serious. The young men and women in those oversized peaked hats are perfectly civil but apart from the impenetrable language barrier you’re dealing with several centuries’ worth of culturally-inbred opacity and bureaucracy. And the prisons don’t bear thinking about.

Birds do not sing. They bleep and rattle and buzz like a dial-up modem. That we consider what comes out of those pointy mouths as synonymous with natural beauty and the highest achievements of melody is all down to a musical sleight of hand – centuries of gaslighting and free PR from classical music. The first composer to level with us, to faithfully transcribe the monstrous noises that these creatures actually make, was Olivier Messiaen. His music is stuffed with this fabulous fax-machine weirdness. It reaches an apotheosis in his massive opera Saint François d’Assise (1983) – six hours with intervals.

No ballet dancer has been a ‘household name’ in Britain for more than a generation now – even mention of Darcey Bussell would draw a blank on the Clapham omnibus were it not for her post-retirement stint as a judge on Strictly. The days when the likes of Margot Fonteyn and Moira Shearer were splashed over front pages have long gone. But Marianela Nunez and Carlos Acosta seem to have enough traction in the metropolis to sell about 11,000 seats each for week-long seasons at Covent Garden showcasing their artistry. (In other words, they could just about fill Wembley Arena once.) Both are without question enormous talents, celebrated internationally, their Hispanic origins reflecting a global trend in ballet demographics.

You’re not going to like this and it pains me to say so but Gomorrah: The Origins is not in the same league as Gomorrah. The wardrobe is more stylish, the characters are more approachable, the dialogue is more expensive, the locations are more attractive, the plotting is more comprehensible, and the mise-en-scène is lusher, more cinematic and less spare. But in the context of the original, these qualities aren’t so much a virtue as a capitulation. Gomorrah (or Gomorra – La Serie, as it was in Italian, so one can never remember whether or not to include the ‘h’) ran on Sky Atlantic for five seasons from 2014 to 2021. This was a period where Anglo-American TV had long since begun its inexorable decline into glib, shallow and predictable diversity-cast wokedom.

Plenty of critics have mocked Trainspotting – the musical (with lyrics and music by Irvine Welsh and Stephen McGuinness, respectively) but the producers know their audience’s mind. They want to see live theatre without taking the risk of a new play, which might be gruesome, and they prefer a dead-safe replica of a glamorous movie to something by Chekhov or Pinter. Reviewers admire novelty and inventiveness so they tend to punish theatre-makers who reheat leftovers. The show follows the book more closely than the film, where Renton was the central figure, and here he blends in with the community of wasters and criminals who mope around Edinburgh trying to raise cash for smack. The characters are reduced to simplistic gestures, as easy to read as hand signals. Begbie is a cocky thug.

If you’re interested in how words work with music, the collected lyrics of Stephen Sondheim are an investment you’ll never regret. But Sondheim isn’t infallible, and when he writes about his mentor Oscar Hammerstein II he’s often plain wrong. Sondheim mocks one particular lyric from The Sound of Music: ‘Like a lark that is learning to pray.’ ‘Wait a minute – a lark praying?’ he snarks. But the character who sings those words is a devout young Austrian woman with a head full of Schubert and folksongs. Hammerstein is writing as Maria, not himself. It’s an art that Sondheim never quite mastered, which is why his characters – whether Swedish aristocrats or East End cannibals – all sound like New Yorkers in therapy.