Arts Reviews

The good, bad and ugly in arts and exhbitions

Thursday

Kate Chisholm

Time switch

It seems an astonishing statistic but 99.6 per cent of radio is broadcast live, delivered straight from the studio mike to your personal loudspeaker: 99.6 per cent! Compared with TV, which must be at least 80 per cent recorded, this is an extraordinary indicator of how radio is the on-message medium right now, able to deliver immediate content, live and interactive. Yet a lot of radio listening is not done in real time these days, but later, after transmission, via the internet, the iPlayer, podcasts and downloads. We could experience a live connection but find ourselves switching on to a recorded moment. This is all about to be revolutionised with

James Delingpole James Delingpole

BBC goes for it

Which is the worse crime, would you say: eavesdropping on celebrities’ answerphones? Or hosting and covering up for a ruthless predatory paedophile ring — led by your biggest, most heavily promoted star — over a period of four decades? Mm, me too. In fact, I’d say the Savile affair is as close as we’ll ever get to proving that God really hates the BBC. I mean, the timing is far too perfect to be coincidental, isn’t it? First we get Leveson — essentially a stitch-up by the BBC and the Guardian to entrench the power of the bien-pensant establishment, increase regulation and destroy the free market (especially Rupert Murdoch). Then,

Lloyd Evans Lloyd Evans

Racial tensions

Covent Garden, 1833. Edmund Kean, the greatest tragedian of his age, has collapsed while playing the title role in Othello at the Theatre Royal. His son, Charles, is all set to take over and has just prised the lid off a trusty tin of boot polish ready to smear dark grease all over his peachy white cheeks. But, instead, a black American actor, Ira Aldridge, is engaged to play the lead. Kean’s company are aghast by this affront to their man’s talent and authority. But his fiancée, Ellen Tree, who plays Desdemona, is smitten by the charismatic American and tries to embrace his realistic new emotional acting style. This is

Michael Tanner

No laughing matter | 25 October 2012

About two of the operas I saw in Leeds this week there is a serious question as to whether or not they are comedies. The third, Gounod’s Faust, is clearly not meant to be; I’ll be writing about it next week. The new production of Mozart’s Don Giovanni by Alessandro Talevi is jokey and fast — or, anyway, the arias and ensembles are fast, the recitatives less so — but it’s not particularly funny, and what humour there is would certainly not have been available to da Ponte and Mozart: peasants rocking and rolling in the finale to Act I, for instance. Talevi alternates the main action with Punch and

Colin Falck

B-Troop

A degree in maths might have helped. ‘Correction of the Day,’ wind charts, slide-rules, log tables, maps of the terrain, OP reports — all combined (again and again) to make four 25-pounders point the right way. B-Troop, ‘officer material,’ we learned our parts: don’t get VD; take care when choosing your friends; prefer gin and tonic; wear a hat at weekends; believe in the Empire (ignore what you know in your hearts). There was never much sense of who we were — except once, when the Colonel said ‘You gents are lucky to be here.’ Or — daily — as we lurched from the barrack-room, caps aslant, ‘chattering like monkeys,’

Tuesday

Steerpike Steerpike

Jimmy Savile Is Innocent…

Now then, now then. How is this for the most inappropriate publicity stunt going? The Bread and Butter gallery in Islington is opening an exhibition tomorrow provocatively called ‘Jimmy Savile Is Innocent‘. Artists are invited to bring works on the subject to the opening tomorrow night: ‘In an age when the dead can’t defend themselves Jimmy Savile has been found guilty. Lets remember that Jimmy is innocent and can only be found guilty by a court of law, perhaps its time for a posthumous trial?’ Trial by artistes. Is that better or worse than trial by media?

Thursday

Andrew Lambirth

Green fingers

The last time I visited Kew was to see the installation of Henry Moore’s sculptures in 2007. Moore’s monumental bronzes made an enormous impact on the botanical gardens, so much so that the gardens were in danger of becoming merely a backdrop for the sculpture. Although a good many people came to see the exhibition, it was felt by the authorities at Kew that the crowds took away a greater appreciation of Henry Moore than they did of the Royal Botanical Gardens. So, when another sculptor was invited to show at Kew, the intention was that he or she would be involved more closely with the aims of the institution.

Laura Gascoigne

Bizarre visions

If you want to see how myths arise from misunderstandings, the Tower of Babel provides a textbook example. In ancient Assyrian babilu means ‘door of God’ and thus correctly describes the Babylonian ziggurat erected to the god Marduk by Nebuchadnezzar II and later seen in ruins by Herodotus. But in Hebrew the word bâlal means ‘to confuse’, hence the confusingly different account in Genesis. In this version, men come together in the cradle of civilisation to build ‘a tower, whose top may reach unto heaven’ as a monument for posterity, lest they be ‘scattered abroad upon the face of the whole earth’ — and God, sensing that ‘this is only

Harry Mount

The hate of the new

The title of the new show at the Palazzo Strozzi is a little confusing. Most of the artists in Italy in the 1930s weren’t beyond fascism; they were in it up to their necks. They didn’t really need much persuading by Mussolini to come up with pictures like Luciano Ricchetti’s 1939 painting ‘Listening to a Speech by the Duce’: enraptured, bare-footed Italian peasants in headscarves sit dangling babies on their knees, hanging on Il Duce’s every word. Today lots of Italians still don’t like to admit it, but much of Florence, and Italy, were really rather keen on Mussolini, and Hitler, too. A fascinating little exhibition of official watercolours at

Rhalli Burton

Blurring boundaries

Each of the Buddhist monks’ faces tells a variation on the same story. One simmers with fury, another sags with despair, a third is locked in a stoical gaze. The sign they are holding is written in Mandarin — its message the latest piece of sadistic invention by the Red Guards promoting Mao’s Cultural Revolution. ‘To hell with the Buddhist scriptures, they are full of dog farts.’ This is just one tiny photograph in the Barbican exhibition Everything Was Moving (until 13 January 2013). The project takes a gargantuan bite into world affairs in the Sixties and Seventies, so that through the eyes of 12 photographers we revisit such provocative

Kate Chisholm

Serious listening

‘Shhhh! Listen!’ Peter White demands of us, his listeners. ‘You’re about to enter into a blind man’s world.’ White, who for years has presented the In Touch programme on Radio 4 on Tuesday nights and who is now a stalwart on You and Yours, has become such a finely attuned listener that he can tell whether a day is damp not by colour of the sky that he cannot see, or by smell, but by checking out what he can hear, the tick, tick, thump of raindrop on leaf as drizzle slowly envelops the street. In The Listeners (Radio 4 Extra, this Saturday) he takes us on his audio journey

Olivia Glazebrook

Falling about and apart

One of the many pleasures of television is that it allows us to forget our manners: we can treat it with an impolite offhandedness that would not be considered sociable — or sensible — in the run of everyday life. This isn’t a vicarious enjoyment of bad behaviour that we see on screen, but an actual enjoyment in loosening our own collars: when I watch television I can be fickle (a one-night stand with Downton Abbey), greedy (a Simpsons triple-bill), blunt (‘That sweater is repulsive’), or lazy (Nigel Slater’s Dish of the Day instead of the real thing) without guilt or consequence. ‘Relaxing in front of the telly’ means giggling,

Peter Hoskin

Shrub of life

You know how it is: you wake up in your knock-down corrugated shack, surrounded by chickens and dogs and pigs, before staggering out into the morning sun to press the animals against your ear, listening to their heartbeats. No, sorry, I’m getting ahead of myself. You probably don’t know how it is, and neither did I before watching Benh Zeitlin’s Beasts of the Southern Wild. But this is what this film does to its viewer right from the off. It depicts a world so vivid and immediate that two dimensions naturally become three, without the need for any fancy Hollywood stereoscopics. It is, actually, our six-year-old heroine Hushpuppy (Quvenzhané Wallis)

Michael Tanner

Dazzling Donizetti

The Met Live in HD series for 2012–13 got off to a brilliant start with a new production of Donizetti’s L’Elisir d’Amore, the most warm-hearted of comedies — in fact, a work so genial that I’m always surprised it doesn’t lapse into insipidity. This production by Bartlett Sher made that seem less of a danger than usual, because although it would be an exaggeration to say he had rethought the piece, he did make it into a more three-dimensional work than usual, Donizetti edging more towards Bellini and away from Rossini, whereas Don Pasquale is the other way round. There are fewer laughs in Sher’s production than you might expect,

Lloyd Evans Lloyd Evans

Westminster playground

Wow. This is a turn-up. Politicians and actors rarely see eye-to-eye. Thesps regard Westminster as sordid, petty, corrupt and corrupting. Politicians, for their part, like to dismiss the theatre as pretentious, irrelevant and fake. So here’s a play that brings them together. This House, written by James Graham, and directed by Jeremy Herrin, is a triumph on many levels. It takes the most squalid and depressing era in recent political history —1974–1979 — and turns it into a frothy and hilarious melodrama. James Graham’s inspirational idea is to use Labour’s fragile majority as his sole dramatic motor. We’re in the whips’ office and we watch Harold Wilson’s backroom boys as

Susan Moore

A step away from buying toothpaste

Fifty years ago it was not possible to bid at auction via the telephone — that first historic telephone bid was made for a Monet at Christie’s in 1967. Now the auction house’s Great Rooms, and indeed every other international saleroom, is lined by banks of telephones and digital screens, and absentee clients may also bid from anywhere in the world online, live through an interactive bidding portal or via iPhone and iPad apps. It seems that one moment advances in technology allowed Elizabeth Taylor to sit by her pool in Bel Air in her swimsuit and bid on the telephone for Duchess of Windsor diamonds in Geneva, the next,

Giles Waterfield

Fact and fantasy

Britain’s country houses were constantly in the news a generation ago. In 1974 The Destruction of the Country House, an exhibition at the Victoria and Albert Museum curated by Roy Strong, Marcus Binney and John Harris, offered a dismal chronicle of the houses that had disappeared in the past century. It proclaimed their importance to the national heritage, boldly urging that country house owners ‘deserve consideration and justice as much as any other group within our society as they struggle to preserve and share with us the creative richness of our heritage’. This invocation bore fruit in the mid-1980s when Kedleston Hall, Calke Abbey and Weston Park, all threatened with

Anthony Howell

Sermon | 18 October 2012

Son, never boast of the bird you have done. Masters of the art of crime never serve A scrap of time. They may shit on everyone. They keep their noses clean. A fable says, There was a crooked horse who kicked an ass For being an ass, and down the line He got stitched up by his mule.  Here’s the moral: Never disapprove, never harbour a scruple. Cater to all tastes.  One will help you rob A bank-vault if you let him rape a little boy. A ritual murder binds people together. Where’s the chick as close as an accomplice? Differentiate between being and appearance And become as far as

Thursday

Susan Moore

Back to the future | 11 October 2012

Two pop-up art fairs border Regent’s Park in London. To the south is Frieze London, an edgy fair-cum-fairground offering the thrills and spills of the latest and most innovative trends in global contemporary art. Launched a decade ago, it was unique among ambitious international art fairs in proving an instant and overwhelming success. Last year some 68,000 visitors walked through its doors. This year sees the launch of Frieze Masters, sited at the northern end of The Broad Walk, also running 11–14 October. Frieze Masters sets out to offer a fresh perspective on historical art — paintings, works on paper and sculpture — by highlighting the eternal dialogue between the

Andrew Lambirth

Picturing Dickens

In this Olympic year, when we feel less guilty than usual about promoting and celebrating all things British, it is appropriate to be lauding our greatest writers. Shakespeare is commemorated at the British Museum, but what about Dickens? Unbelievably, in what is after all the bicentenary of his birth, the Charles Dickens Museum in Doughty Street is closed. Thank goodness the Watts Gallery has had the initiative to mount an exhibition devoted to Dickens’s relationship with art — at least somewhere the spirits of Phiz, Dolly Varden and Little Nell may disport themselves with Olympic pizazz in a museum setting. That is, if you think Little Nell would be up