Arts Reviews

The good, bad and ugly in arts and exhbitions

Saturday

Deborah Ross

Dench on top form

Notes on a Scandal is a fairly nasty book and this is a fairly nasty film — very Patricia Highsmithian is the nearest I can get to it — but this does not mean you should deny yourselves the very great pleasure of it. In fact, don’t, unless you aren’t keen on seeing Dame Judi Dench at the top of her game, in which case I only have this to say to you: you are mad and not worth tuppence and go see something  with Jennifer Aniston in it, why don’t you? Possibly, there are roles Dame Judi couldn’t pull off convincingly — a bedside table, perhaps, or a piece

Simon Hoggart

Something for nothing

I caught The Antiques Roadshow (BBC1, Sunday) almost by accident the other day. It was one of those moments when you’re too lazy to turn the television off, you flip through the numbers on the remote, and there it is. Comfort viewing for Sunday evenings. It is 28 years old now, almost an antique itself. ‘You can just see where someone has added a new presenter, but it’s an Aspel, so it’s in keeping with the period. And look at the workmanship on those camera angles. You don’t often find quality like that on television these days…’ The programme became iconic 11 years after it began, when the BBC took

Saturday

Robert Gorelangton

‘Call me Larry’

Fifty years ago, the Royal Court theatre detonated its second H-bomb. The first had been Look Back in Anger, in 1956. The next was The Entertainer, John Osborne’s follow-up play, which opened 50 years ago in April. Out were blown the West End play’s French windows and in came the kitchen sink. The memorable first line of the play — ‘Bloody Poles and Irish! I hate the bastards’ — set the tone for an unsavoury evening which ushered in a whole new drama movement. Noël Coward loathed it. The shock back in 1957 was perhaps not so much the play itself but Laurence Olivier’s part in it. Here was the knighted

Andrew Lambirth

Gaudier’s genius

When Henri Gaudier-Brzeska was killed in 1915 while fighting for the French, he was only 24. It’s hard to believe that so young a sculptor could have done as much or left as large an imprint on art history. When Gaudier’s partner, the mercurial Zofia Brzeska, died intestate in 1925, it was indeed fortunate for his posthumous reputation that his entire estate arrived for assessment at the office of Jim Ede, then working at the Tate Gallery. Ede bought most of it himself, and eventually bequeathed it, the rest of his extended collection of Modern British art, and the building which housed it, to the University of Cambridge. This is

Giannandrea Poesio

Danish delight

Johan Kobborg’s staging of La Sylphide is one of the Royal Ballet’s super hits. It is thus a good and glorious thing that it is back on stage. This time, too, the brief two-acter is aptly coupled with a short piece: Frederick Ashton’s Rhapsody on some evenings and Kobborg’s Napoli Divertissements on others. While the former foreshadows La Sylphide’s tragic mood with its 20th-century dark, neo-Romantic undertones, the latter is, in my view, a more pertinent coupling. After all, Napoli and La Sylphide are the two most internationally known works by the French-born August Bournonville, the dance-maker who in 19th-century Denmark developed a unique response to the dominating modes of

James Delingpole James Delingpole

Swivel-eyed eco-loons

In the last ten years there has been (a) an alarming rise (b) a slight but significant rise or (c) no statistically significant change in global mean temperature. Actually, the answer is (c) but if the one you gave was (a) or (b) I’m hardly surprised. How could it not be when pretty much all they show on TV are programmes with titles like Climate Change: Britain Under Threat (BBC1, Sunday) and Should I Really Give Up Flying? (BBC2, Wednesday). Climate change is happening, on this almost everybody agrees. But what there is definitely not general agreement on is the speed at which temperatures will rise, nor yet on when

Saturday

Henrietta Bredin

A two-way deal

The phrase ‘English song’ is often met with suspicion, bringing with it a whiff of the morris dance, the come, follow follow and the hey nonny no — and the work of Roger Quilter, composing in the first half of the 20th century, is no exception to this reaction. However, for those with ears to hear and prejudices to shed, there are rare treasures to be  found when a new recording of his complete songs for solo voice and piano is released at the end of February, sung  by baritone Mark Stone, accompanied by the composer and conductor Stephen Barlow. ‘Quilter and I go back a long way,’ says Stone.

Andrew Lambirth

Poetic spirit

Here are two exhibitions which remind us of the richness of art, the many approaches and lines of inquiry which became available to the artist in the 20th century. Picasso, that protean genius, managed to encapsulate most of these revolutionary developments in one career and one gargantuan personality. Aubrey Williams, no slacker or shrinking violet himself, was a founder member of the Caribbean Artists Movement in the London of the 1960s, and a painter best known for his lyrical abstractions. To move from one show to the other is to experience not just a range of formal interests and preoccupations, but an emotional gamut, too. If Picasso seems to be

Lloyd Evans Lloyd Evans

Packing ’em in

Wicked is a musical based on the early life of the Wicked Witch of the West in the Wizard of Oz. So what’s wrong with it, apart from the subject obviously? Well, if you go to a musical you don’t expect to spend three hours denied the pleasure of a hummable tune, a decent gag, an engaging storyline or any attempt at an ensemble dance routine. The bald, belt-’em-out singing style doesn’t help, nor does the gaudy declarative acting. On the plus side, the scenery is spectacular, and there’s a massive articulated dragon’s head over the stage which flexes its iron neck and creaks its metal jaws while racking out

Michael Tanner

Dessay delights

Donizetti’s La fille du régiment is one of his three comedies that retain a place in the repertoire. It is mainly celebrated for its hero Tonio’s aria ‘Pour mon âme’, which has a succession of nine top Cs, a great stunt for a tenor who can pull it, or them, off, but without artistic interest. But the opera is usually revived for the benefit of a prima donna who wants to demonstrate her comic prowess, as expressed largely in reams of coloratura. The famous Covent Garden revival of 1966 was a vehicle for Joan Sutherland to demonstrate a side which she found more congenial than the droopings or rages which

Ursula Buchan

No time to hibernate

Attentive readers will recall that, in recent years, I have worried and wittered and wrung my hands in these pages about the increasing incidents of unusual weather episodes (OK, have it your own way, climate change) and, in particular, whether these ‘abnormal’ conditions are simply temporary blips or represent a definite trend. No longer. I don’t mean that I have stopped worrying, simply that I no longer believe that they are a temporary blip. Just at the moment it is winter temperatures which particularly concern me. As the result of an exceptionally mild December, on New Year’s Day I counted 20 flowers out in my garden, of which several were

Saturday

Lloyd Evans Lloyd Evans

The yes man

Here he is. One of Britain’s leading young directors. Tall, sturdily built, mid-thirties, with a mop of thick dark hair and a starter beer gut obtruding discreetly beneath the woolly slopes of his green jumper. Ed Hall, son of Sir Peter, is best known as the founder of Propeller, a company that specialises in all-male productions of Shakespeare. He takes a seat opposite me and his shiny popping-out eyes give his round face the genial eagerness of a well-fed spaniel. We tuck into our lunch and he answers my questions with rambling, effusive paragraphs of luvvie-speak which are engaging, easy on the ear and at times faintly earnest. We begin

Andrew Lambirth

Luminous serenity

Born in Gujarat, western India, in 1951, Shanti Panchal studied art in Bombay before coming to London on a British Council scholarship in 1978. He has made his home in this country ever since, with regular trips back to India, and enjoys a justly high reputation for the distinctive large-scale watercolours he specialises in. However, he produces only a few paintings a year (a large picture may take six to 12 months to complete), and has no commercial dealer to represent his work, so it is hard to see it unless on view in a museum. Panchal has been fortunate in official honours — winning the BP Portrait Award at

Lloyd Evans Lloyd Evans

Shock tactics

Until last week I was the only person on the planet not to have seen The History Boys. I now rejoin the human race in a state of wonder. Such a whopping hit, such flimsy materials. The setting happens to be familiar to me, a state school in the 1980s where a group of smart alecs are preparing to take Oxbridge. All Alan Bennett’s failings and strengths are on view here. The perfunctory storyline is made up of a few broad gestures culminating in a not-terribly-surprising surprise ending. The cast consists of straight characters who are stereotypes and gay characters who are stereotypes with knobs on. The rest is rhetoric,

James Delingpole James Delingpole

Shared hardship

If Sean Langan isn’t the bravest, best and most likeable foreign correspondent on TV, I don’t know who is. And what a bumper week this has been for his admirers. On Monday, a Dispatches documentary (Fighting the Taleban, Channel 4) about the six-day battle he witnessed in Garmser, Helmand, when a half-platoon of British infantrymen and a couple of hundred Afghanis held out against several thousand Taleban. Then, on Thursday, another one (Meeting the Taleban, Channel 4) in which he gingerly approached a Taleban/al-Q’aeda mountain stronghold and amazingly came away with testicles intact and a halfway cogent interview. The temptation for a lot of reporters, I think, would have been

Saturday

Toby Jones

The discoverer of death

Some time after 10 p.m. on 28 November 1966 Truman Capote sashayed into the Grand Ballroom of the Plaza Hotel in New York to place himself at the epicentre of New York society. All that autumn New York had speculated about the possible guest list for Capote’s Black and White ball. Capote had nurtured and edited the list as the date drew near, refining a rich blend of Hollywood stars, politicians, designers, tycoons and their wives. The eventual roll-call of 500 was described by the Post as a ‘Who’s Who of the World’: Sinatra and Mia Farrow, Lynda Bird Johnson, Lauren Bacall (of course!), J.K. Galbraith, Joe Meehan, Thornton Wilder,

Kate Chisholm

In tune with Dylan

Bob Dylan on Radio Two? Sounds like an oxymoron to me. His Bobness, the hippie troubadour and Voice of Sixties America on the Light Programme, the station for Hooverers and flu-sufferers? But Radio Two has been transforming itself in the past few years, sneaking in Jamie Cullum and Suzi Quatro alongside Cliff and Terry, Ronan and The Organist Entertains. While Bob Dylan, at 64, is rather weirdly, like all those other ageing rockers, turning into a reluctant wrinklie. Back in March last year, the American satellite station XM lured Dylan into DJing for them by promising him ‘total creative freedom’ and a national radio audience with hour-long sessions that would

Saturday

Andrew Lambirth

Visual treats for 2007

Although it must be a nightmare to administer a museum in these philistine and turnstile-obsessed times, the nation’s galleries are still doing their best to provide a service of sorts to the minds and hearts of the populace. If there is a perceptible drift towards dead-cert favourites, who can blame the institutions which now have vast bureaucracies to support, as well as lighting and heating bills to pay? So at the National Gallery, hard on the heels of the prestigious Velázquez exhibition, is a display of Renoir’s landscapes (21 February to 20 May). Well, that should keep the crowds happy, but it’s hardly nourishing fare — spiritually, intellectually or aesthetically.

Robin Holloway

Festive delight

A couple of Christmases ago I recommended in this column an exceedingly unfestive offering: Torsten Rasch’s song cycle/symphony Mein Herz brennt with its lacerating mix of heavy-metal pop and late romantic/early modern orchestral intensity, whose music wholly transcended the callow protest of its lyrics in unforgettable excoriation. This year, something at the opposite end of the expressive gamut: something charged with those rarest of qualities in the contemporary arts — joy, exuberance, happiness, delight, celebration, ecstasy; and all these without anything cheap or dumbed-out into puerility. To achieve such wide-eyed freshness without reneging upon a sophisticated modernist idiom and technique is already a paradox, and Julian Anderson’s music turns it

Patrick Carnegy

Taking the plunge

Shakespeare’s ill-advised reimagining of Falstaff as a buffoon at large in Windsor has always been fair game for adaptation. The story goes that he wrote The Merry Wives in response to Queen Elizabeth’s wish to see Sir John in love. The fee may have been a good one and the Bard actually subverts the wish (if that’s what it was) in showing the fat knight more enamoured of the wives’ money than of their good selves. Such pleasure as there’s to be had in the play has to do with its picture of life in an English provincial town (a far cry from the exotic locations of the other comedies).