I love the Tate Modern. There’s the shows, of course — the free ones from the permanent collection and the blockbusters. There’s the mysterious Tanks and the clever Artist Rooms. There’s the building, with all its curves and angles and long, long escalators, and the wonderful smooth sloping Turbine Hall. There are the people who swarm through it, who all seem happy to be there. People from many lands, with many complexions, dressed up, dressed down, dressed tastefully, dressed oddly. And children, running and rolling and skipping up and down the shiny turbine slope. Photo-ops everywhere!
The show was Picasso 1932. An argument is made that this was a pivotal year for Picasso, and it seems so. However, Picasso had many phases in a long artistic life, and there are other years that are equally important. But what does it matter?
Lots to see in 1932, particularly since Picasso had his first retrospective that year, providing an opportunity to include works from other periods. Particularly interesting was an arrangement of a group of paintings and drawings just as they appeared in the exhibition in 1932.
I’ve been looking long and hard at Picasso’s work ever since the great
Picasso and Man exhibition at the Art Gallery of Ontario when I was in high school. (“Picasso and Man” it was called, though “Picasso and Woman” would have been more appropriate. This was 1964.) He’s like an old friend. I’m always glad to renew our acquaintance.
Consent is what used to be called a “problem play”, an examination from various perspectives of a current hot topic. The topic in this case: consensual sex versus rape. The characters are almost all lawyers or lawyers wives, except for one: a woman from the working class who has been raped. Two of the lawyers are trying the case, one for the crown and the other as a defense lawyer appointed by the Crown to represent the accused, the alleged rapist. “Who’s my lawyer?” demands the victim, but the prosecutor won’t even talk to her; she’s not a plaintiff, but a witness, and he cannot be seen to be coaching her on her testimony.
The lawyers and wives engage in chit chat reminiscent of Sondheim’s Company, but we (and they) gradually learn that all is not as superficial as it seems. Infidelities and sexual power games break and rearrange the relationships, and the men (primarily) try to achieve some kind of understanding of their emotional lives. All this to the click of highballs and wine glasses. At the end of the first act, rough reality breaks in; the rape victim crashes the party and discovers that the two lawyers are friends.
In the second act, one of the wives throws her husband out. Begging forgiveness, he ignores her repeated “no” and they have sex. His friends are horrified: technically, they tell him, this is rape.
There are more facets, more issues to explore, but you get the idea. The script, by Nina Raine, is skillful, smart and sometimes funny. The issues are examined with a certain level of evenhandedness. There are no villains, just imperfect well-bred middle-class professionals doing their best to cope.
I liked the play, but I can’t overlook that it pulls its punches. We want to see those lawyers in court. We want to see a lot more of the working woman’s ordeal than we’re given. And we want to see what happens when the gentle people have their day in court. This never happens. There’s all these lawyers, and no courtroom fireworks? They just talk it out, make concessions and compromises, and life goes on. Cop out.
Grimeborn is an annual summer series of opera performances by alternative companies, held at the Arcola Theatre in Dalston. This is a chance to hear chamber versions of operas, sung up close and personal by accomplished singers, accompanied by piano or sometimes small ensembles. Sunday, August 5, it was a double bill by Opera Alegria of Donizetti’s Rita and Ravel’s L’Heure Espagnole (The Spanish Hour).
Rita is about the relationship between a harridan bar-owner (Naomi Kilby) and her downtrodden husband (Richard Belshaw). Into this non-idyllic domestic scene ventures a guest (Christopher Faulkner) who, unluckily, turns out to be Rita’s first husband, presumed dead. The current husband is delighted at the prospect of his freedom, while the first husband does his best to escape. It is silly and fun, if you overlook the domestic abuse implications. (A program note mentions that some of the content was toned down for modern sensibilities.) What is important is Donizetti at his sparkling best, sung with great verve and played with gusto on an upright piano by Lindsay Bramley.
Decades ago, right after university, I was stage director of a small opera company, and L’Heure Espagnole was one of the operas we did. I haven’t heard or seen it since, so you can imagine that I was pretty interested in how they would approach it.
The story is that there is a clockmaker whose job it is to wind the city hall clocks once a week. This provides an opportunity for his wife Concepcion (Alicia Gurney) to meet her lovers, a poet (Stuart McDermott) and a town official (Matthew Duncan). A muscular workman, Ramiro (Thorvald Blough) turns up to have his watch repaired, and both lovers end up hiding in the clocks. Ramiro carries the clocks (with their passengers) upstairs to Concepcion’s bedroom, and back down again when they prove inadequate. However, Concepcion notices Ramiro’s physique, and things work out after all.
The music is Ravel in finest form, harmonically rich with some Spanish sauce. Well sung by all.
I was naturally interested in the staging choices. Great grandfather clocks with people inside them are pretty funny in themselves, but not easy to build and not easy to carry, especially while singing. Opera Alegria solved the problem with face masks with clock faces. When a singer donned a mask, he was considered to be hiding in the clock. It was an ingenious solution.
The performance was in the Arcola’s Studio 2, downstairs and no air conditioning, or even much ventilation. London has been experiencing a record-breaking heat wave, so it got pretty stifling. Still . . . for art one must sometimes suffer, no?
Wilton’s Music Hall is our local theatre, a ten minute walk from our east-end London flat. It operated as a music hall in the 1860s and 70s, and subsequently became a Methodist Mission (1888 to 1956). It was abandoned and derelict for decades, with periodic efforts by local activists to revitalize it. Finally, in 2004, the refurbishing began, and now it’s restored to a strange and wonderful new glory, with the patina of age still evident in faded paint and old creaking stairs.
The production Thursday night was Donizetti’s comic opera, La Fille du Regiment, re-imagined in English as The Daughter of the Regiment, the Regiment in this case being a biker gang in California. The Opera della Luna production, with a new libretto by Jeff Clarke, is spritely and fun. Elin Pritchard as said daughter sings the demanding role admirably, and as a biker-lass she is completely convincing. Snatched up into society and put in a frumpy little-girl dress, she does her best to adapt, but eventually returns to the gang to find happiness in the arms of her Latino boyfriend, ably acted and sung (9 high C’s!) by Jesus Alvarez.
The Arcola Theatre, up in rough-and-tumble Dalston, is a hotbed of alternative vitality, always trying out new ideas and approaches, politically engaged, with a perspective that spans the globe. The theatre, formerly in a rambling industrial building on Arcola Street, moved a few blocks southin January 2011, a few steps from the Dalston Junction overground station.
The area has a cosmopolitan mix, with a strong Turkish presence, evidenced by many Turkish restaurants, authentic and inexpensive. The founder and Artistic Director of the Arcola, Mehmet Ergun, is Turkish, managing a dual career spanning London and Istanbul.
This provides a context for Adini Söyle / Say Your Name, a collective creation about the demonstrations in Gezi Park, Istanbul. The piece, the result of 15 weeks of effort, was performed in Turkish, with English surtitles, by a cast of thirteen.
The production, a series of vignettes, had the uneven quality that often results from group creation. There were powerful moments (two young people, surviving a tear gas attack, finding companionship), and episodes that, one might say, need more work. Two things made the evening memorable: the commitment of the company to what was being communicated and the events that were being described. Where the piece lacked polish, it substituted immediacy, the sense that the performers had rushed away from the fray to give us their report. The performers were engaging and believable, and they had something important to say to us, the audience sitting in front of them.
Afterwards, sitting in the Arcola Bar, we fell into conversation with two Turkish people, one who lives in Moscow, and the other an actor in the company. They told us how, during the protests in Istanbul, they sat in front of their televisions all day, unable to do anything else while people like them, people they knew, fought for basic rights and values. This sense of connection, of our own involvement, came across through this piece of theatre.
I am fascinated by that strange British theatrical phenomenon called the Christmas pantomime. It’s a glorious holdover from the 19th century, featuring a traditional story outrageously sent up, a “principal boy” (the hero) played by a woman in tights, one or more “dames”, played by men in dresses, candies for the kiddies, ribald jokes intended to go over the heads of the youngsters, singalong songs, nasty villains introduced by firecrackers, elaborate dance numbers, and shouts of “look behind you!” and “oh no it isn’t.”
Last night, we went to the Hackney Empire to see their version of Puss in Boots, a traditional British Christmas pantomime. Hackney has a very mixed demographic, including Blacks from the Caribbean, Turks, Kurds, Asians (many from Vietnam), and artists. In other words, the kind of community that we like.
The Hackney Empire, has deep roots in its community. Originally a magnificent Music Hall, it fell on hard times and spent a couple of decades as a TV studio and another couple as a Bingo Hall. Threatened with demolition in the late eighties, it was rescued and rebuilt as a theatre.
It has been famous for its pantos. This year, it was Puss in Boots. Puss was played by a wonderfully charismatic Jamaican actor know as Kat B. (No Principal Boy, sigh.) He insisted that whenever he said “Puss” we had to holler “in boots dem”! The entire cast was mixed, and families were too. The usurping Queen Talulah the Hoo Ha is a Jamaican momma, with a spineless white husband and a milk-white spoiled brat of a daughter, Princess Pertunia. Dame Nettie Knowall (white) has a dame daughter, Amnesia (black). Nobody worries and everyone has fun. There’s also an evil witch and an ogre, who is really a prince. My other favorites, after Kat B (the Puss) was Amy Lennox as Princess Pertunia, who had the most amazing spoiled brat body language, and Sharon D. Clarke, Queen Talulah, who can own any stage she walks on. Local references abound, starting with the Kingdom of Hackneyonia. The connection between the community and the acting company was tangible, and gave a lift to the evening. I believe that the supporting chorus was drawn from young people in the neighbourhood. Hats off to Susie McKenna, who has been writing and directing these Hackney pantos for fifteen years. (I know this, because we went on the last night, and she received flowers and made a speech.)
I was hooked on pantomime by my first panto, a smart, sassy, crisply political version of Dick Wittington performed at Theatre Royal Stratford East, Joan Littlewood’s theatre (though after she retired). Like they say about drugs, I’ve been looking for that thrill ever since. One Christmas in London, I dragged Judith to about twelve Pantos, always assuring her that the next one would be wonderful. Too often, the principal boy was a boy, usually a TV personality, and the snap and sparkle that I remembered just wasn’t quite there.
One year, we did see a remarkable play called Poppy, at the Half Moon, based on the conventions of Panto. The thigh-slapping principal boy, his lady love, and his friends go off to confront the evil Emperor of China, whom we were instructed to boo and hiss. Their mission: to compel him to reopen the opium trade. As the play goes on, it becomes harder and harder to cheer for our British heroes and boo the Emperor, particularly when the lovely heroine becomes a grotesque opium addict in a wheelchair. A brilliant deconstruction of the form, but not really a panto as such.
I’ve always wanted to try my hand at a panto, and this Christmas I pretty much got my wish. Scroogissimo at Artword Artbar had many of the elements: a send-up of a traditional story, singalongs, magic, a Dame, outrageous jokes (including some groaners). Interestingly, the main character is the villain, “Ebenezu Scrugi”. The ghosts of Past, Present and Future, all played by women, were three “principal boys”. Most people would not have noticed the association with panto, but I had some fun with it.