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Is there a more pathetically ineffectual phrase in current misuse than 'international condemnation'? "Oooh, how awful, listen up everyone. Our violent and bloody military coup is attracting international condemnation. We must desist immediately, apologize profusely to all concerned and give ourselves over to international justice." I don’t think so somehow.
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Henrietta Bredin visits Oslo's new opera house and finds it impressive, both inside and out Oslo is a small city, with a population of just over half a million, but it now boasts, funded entirely from the public purse, and on budget — Olympic Committee, please note — a spanking new all-singing, all-dancing opera house which has already rooted itself deeply in Norwegian affections, despite initial resistance from many quarters, especially in rural areas. Completed an impressive five months ahead of schedule, it sits on the waterfront in the old harbour area of Bjørvika like an iceberg that might slip into the fjord at any minute.
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Running is not a part of my repertoire - nobody with a bosom of even a sliver above the average size would dream of subjecting it to such horrendously jolting treatment - and I am disposed to be suspicious of anyone over the age of 12 who considers it a good way of getting around except in a case of dire emergency. I am therefore a touch dubious about Martin Creed's new work at Tate Britain, which involves runners sprinting through the Duveen Galleries - where such an activity is usually and thankfully prohibited - at 30-second intervals. All the same, it does sound slightly more sane than the activities planned in North Norfolk next weekend. More people than seems reasonable are embarking on a hideous pile-up of sporting endurance.
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Hurrah for Sir Mark Elder. A knighthood richly deserved and, many would say, long overdue. And with splendid timing he's conducting a revival of Strauss's Ariadne auf Naxos at the Royal Opera House, opening night this coming Monday. Should be a thrilling evening and his curtain call at the end could be one to remember.
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Henrietta Bredi joins in the preparations for Vaughan Williams's 'The Pilgrim's Progress' ‘Come, thou blessed of the Lord’ sing the sopranos and altos, and now the tenors and basses are joining them, with a wondrously layered swelling of sound. The hairs on the back of my neck are standing on end — this is the first rehearsal and the first music I’ve heard from Vaughan Williams’s The Pilgrim’s Progress, which will be given two performances at Sadler’s Wells, on 20 and 22 June. VW, as some people matily refer to him (personally, I wouldn’t dare), died 50 years ago, and celebrations of his life and work are abounding.
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Henrietta Bredin talks to Sally Burgess about taking on the role of Carmen Just as dancers are fortunate if they have especially long legs and strong, flexible feet, there are all sorts of different physical attributes that can help a singer to produce a good sound. But there’s a particular facial, or cranial, disposition which certain singers share and which is to do with high cheekbones and a generously sized mouth indicating a large, resonant cavity within. Renée Fleming has it and so does Sally Burgess, who uses it to produce not only a luscious singing tone but also a fabulously abandoned, down-and-dirty laugh.
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Difficult not to make comparisons between any number of world leaders and the image of a trapped but powerful figure lashing out in impotent rage, bellowing incomprehensibly, half man, half beast, viewed with a combination of terror and pity. Whether you agree or not, I'd recommend catching John Tomlinson in the title role of Harrison Birtwistle's new opera, The Minotaur, at the Royal Opera House. There's no singer more capable of expressing such raw and painful contradictions.
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Henrietta Bredin talks to the Young Vic’s David Lan and ENO’s John Berry about the joys of collaboration Walking into the Young Vic these days is a hugely pleasurable experience, and it’s even more of a pleasure to see the delight with which David Lan, its artistic director, looks around him at a theatre that has become so lively, busy and welcoming. The building recently underwent a much-needed overhaul and reopened in October 2006 — impressively on time and on budget — with three performing spaces, including two new studios, and public areas that are really appealing to spend time in.
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If this is another Black Wednesday, it has just been made blacker yet with the news of the horribly untimely death of Anthony Minghella. He was one of those rare shining people; a writer of enormous skill, a literate and musical director, a man of acute perception and understanding, deeply kind and over-flowingly generous. A bright light has been extinguished.
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Henrietta Bredin talks to Ian Bostridge about his passion for Lieder and his plans for the future On an eye-wateringly bright and freezing cold day, Ian Bostridge contrives to look svelte and leggily elegant despite the fact that he confesses to wearing a thick layer of thermal underwear next to the skin. As soon as I have divested myself of some of the rather more haphazard layers I have adopted and can once more put my arms down by my sides, we warm up with large cups of coffee and talk about Homeward Bound, the celebratory season of work chosen and performed by Bostridge at the Barbican Centre in London. ‘It’s a wonderful opportunity, partly because it goes on for such a long time.
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Opera is a good word. It means work. And if you want to experience a work that is the absolute and utter works, a shattering combination of music and drama and visual imagination, get yourself along to the London Coliseum right now and book seats for Lucia di Lammermoor. It's a triumphant return to form for English National Opera, with a cast of singing actors performing to the absolute hilt of their pretty spectacular abilities. And that includes Clive Bayley, who was so unwell that he couldn't carry on singing beyond the first scene, but continued to give an impassioned performance on stage while Paul Whelan sang for him from the wings. The atmosphere is one of stifled Victorian repression resulting in obsession, infantilism and insanity.
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The indulgences of Christmas in the forms of food and drink are fairly well represented in the operatic canon but less socially acceptable indulgences, such as smoking and even drug abuse, don’t feature quite so frequently. Hardly surprising, really, as singing doesn’t seem naturally to combine with snorting a line or the long, luxurious inhalation of nicotine-rich smoke deep into the lungs. Surprisingly, however, back in the days when smoking was considered to be positively beneficial — ‘Craven A: for your throat’s sake’ — a number of opera singers actually advertised for tobacco companies.
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Did anyone else notice a slightly alarming episode during last night’s Spectator/Intelligence Squared Iraq debate? After an air-borne (from the gallery) intervention by General Sir Mike Jackson, Tony Benn responded forcefully then leant over to his neighbour, Rory Stewart, to ask, not quite quietly enough, ‘Who was that fellow?
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I spent last weekend at the Aldeburgh Documentary Festival and it’s an event I can thoroughly recommend. It’s been going for 13 years now, with a programme devised by Craig Brown, and the roll-call of speakers it attracts is hugely impressive.
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The competitive spirit never ceases to amaze me and it was flamboyantly evident last night at a gathering in Hammersmith Town Hall to raise funds for RAPT, the Rehabilitation for Addicted Prisoners Trust. In what has now become a popular and lucrative annual event, people buy seats at tables named after different prisons - we were on HMP Parkhurst - and compete fiercely in a quiz with questions set by Judith Keppel of Who Wants to be a Millionaire fame and chaired urbanely, and occasionally quite strictly, by Trevor McDonald. Rivalry between tables was pretty fierce but frustration flared within teams as well, when people who were convinced they had the right answer were voted down by others equally sure of themselves.
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Has there been enough about Wagner in the Spec lately? Well, just one tiny snippet more. Last night at the Royal Opera House saw what was possibly John Tomlinson's farewell performance in the role of Wotan/the Wanderer in Siegfried, the third opera in the Ring cycle. Taking the place of Bryn Terfel he has proved himself resoundingly and thrillingly to be, as he has been for some years now, the great Wotan of our day. And I shouldn't be at all surprised if he doesn't relinquish that role quite yet. The reception he received from the audience at the end of the performance made the hairs on the back of the neck stand on end - there's nothing quite like the sound of sustained applause accompanied by yells of excitement and the rhythmical drumming of feet.
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Memorial services. Difficult to get right but potentially celebratory, contemplative, comforting and spiritually sustaining. Earlier today, St Paul's Covent Garden saw a gathering that was all of those things, in memory of Edmund Tracey, a wise, witty and gloriously cultivated man, Literary Manager for many years at Sadler's Wells, then at English National Opera. He worked in happier times for that beleaguered company and a splendid assembly of singers, conductors, directors and numerous others came together to celebrate him. I can think of fewer more thrilling experiences than adding one's own piping tones in 'Immortal invisible' to the soaring notes of Dames Josephine Barstow and Anne Evans, backed up by Graham Clark's Wagnerian tenor, with Martin Neary at the organ. Wonderful.
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Anyone tempted to think that opera might be a dying art only had to be at the Grand Theatre in Leeds on Tuesday night or the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden last night to discover that it is triumphantly and thrillingly alive. On Tuesday, for a performance of Madam Butterfly, I sat surrounded by a group of fabulously dressed-up 16-year olds, mostly female and every one of them chattering or texting busily until the moment the lights dimmed and the music started. From that moment they were all on the edge of their seats and silent except for the occasional sharp intake of breath or sigh of pleasure.
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I'm certainly not suggesting that any of the political parties follow this particular source of inspiration but if you want to see, terrifyingly clearly, exactly where Hitler got a great many of his ideas about military parades, civic display and how to combine an appealing brand of paganism with symbolic Christianity, look no further than the British Film Institute on the Southbank. Last night, and again on Saturday, you could see Fritz Lang's silent film Siegfried - not the Wagner version but based on the original Nibelung saga. It was made in 1924 and is quite astonishing, helped along by a brilliant improvised piano accompaniment. Also on Saturday, and again next Thursday 11 October, you can see the sequel, Kriemhild's Revenge.
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Amidst the coruscating party conference commentary might I just slip in a small musical note akin to that so enjoyed by Matthew Parris in his terrific article in this week's Spec? He was entranced by a single phrase played on the violin, cutting through the artificial flurry and tension before the transmission of a live television broadcast. On Friday night I was similarly transported by the glory that is two people making music together. In the eastern crypt of Canterbury Cathedral, as a dirty night pressed itself up against the windows and the rain sluiced down, two old friends – friends who had been choristers together in the same cathedral - played piano and flute in a programme of music they had devised and in some cases arranged between them.