I don’t write much about TV round here, and certainly never anything approaching a review, for obvious reasons; a bit too close to home, and not very collegial. But having lamented the decline in quality of TV drama in a letter to the paper the other week, it would seem churlish not to hang out the bunting when something excellent and important is made.
‘Five Daughters’ set itself the extremely delicate task of dramatizing the events leading up to, and including, the murder of five women in Ipswich in December 2006. You remember, the prostitute murders- because of course, that’s how the story was told to us at the time. Indeed, when some reports dropped the p word, in favour of calling the women ‘sex workers’, columnists such as Richard Littlejohn fulminated against namby-pamby liberals and political correctness gone mad. These women were prosititutes, he insisted, and should be referred to as such. Have a look on YouTube for Stewart Lee’s magnificent response to that article; I won’t spoil it for you, but if ever I write a line even half as good as ‘One wonders what lengths Richard Littlejohn will go to in his quest for the accurate naming of dead women’ I’ll be a happy man.
Anyway, you probably, like me, remember vague details. There was the blonde on the train, caught on CCTV. There was the dark haired one, the youngest, who lived at home. One of them was pregnant. One had an unusual first name. And they were all drug addicts, of course.
The huge achievement of ‘Five Daughters’ is to take these half-remembered half-truths and gently to question and correct them, while at the same time showing us where the women came from, what made them tick, how they ended up standing on dark streets in the freezing cold in the knowledge that a killer was on the loose. To separate them from each other, and the one tragic fact they have in common. A note about the dramatization of the kerb-crawling scenes- they are unflinchingly unglamorous. Never mind Billie Piper swanning around in beautiful dockside penthouses, we’re all used to a certain shabby chic being applied even to images of street prostitution. The halo of sensual streetlighting, the sexily dressed girl in the impossibly high heels leaning into the car, a seductive smile playing on her lips… ‘Five Daughters’ shows us shivering, frightened women in parkas and fleeces, on quiet, empty, soulless streets, steeling themselves as the headlights creep towards them then muttering the word ‘business’ through the open window. It brings home the fact that, even when there isn’t a serial killer behind the wheel, the best possible outcome- the best- is that the sex will be quick and the man, kind.
But, in talking about that aspect of the series, I’ve fallen into the same trap as the media did at the time of the murders. This isn’t a drama about prositution, it’s a drama about desperation. The desperation that leads the women to the streets; the desperation of their families, both to communicate and to protect; the desperation of their friends when calls go unanswered for first hours and then days; the desperation of the police and outreach workers to fight the killers, both human and chemical. I watched the first two episodes constantly on the verge of tears (I’m being very previous publishing this today- the third episode is on this evening and may be terrible rubbish for all I know. I somehow doubt it though.).
The film-making and the screenwriting are excellent, then; but the quality of the acting is mindblowing. A glance at the cast list raised hopes- Sarah Lancashire, Juliet Aubrey, Anton Lesser, Martin Compston, Ian Hart, Jaime Winstone, Natalie Press, Eva Birthistle, Sean Harris. But scene after scene crowds into my memory, insisting on a mention. Lancashire helplessly demanding that she be allowed to collect her absent daughter’s methadone prescription, then begging, then accepting exhausted defeat. Press, as Paula Clennell, heartbreaking in her brave, guilty disappointment when her mother cancels a planned visit on a flimsy pretext. Aubrey, unbearably stoic, almost matter of fact, as she prepares to view the body of her murdered daughter, and then breaking down, her face collapsing in on itself. Aubrey also played her part in one of the most remarkable scenes I’ve seen on TV for years. We had seen Anneli Alderton (Aubrey was playing her mother, Maire) on the verge of making a new life for herself. Released from prison after serving a sentence for drug offences, she had a plan to become a mobile hairdresser. Maire and son Tom noted with relief that there was no sign of ‘blonde Anneli’. Then Anneli’s best friend Gemma disappeared, sending her into a spiral of fear, guilt, and self loathing. In the scene I refer to above, she turned up at Maire’s house out of the blue and gave her the kind of needy hug a child gives to a parent she knows she is about to hurt. Disappearing into the bathroom, she returned to her mother’s kitchen with hair dyed an aggressive, steely blonde, scraped back in challenge. Her eye make up was a declaration of war and, chillingly, she had reverted from her normal lower-middle class accent into a heightened, combative rude-girl backchat. Aubrey and Winstone were just phenomenal in this scene, the mother trying to assert her authority over a child she knows she has somehow lost, and the daughter using bravado and aggression as a mask for terror. Winstone gave a masterclass in playing the subtext, and Aubrey’s resigned but devastated expression as she emerged from behind a cupboard door to see the front door open and her daughter gone will stay with me for a long time. The wonderful, encouraging thing about all these outstanding performances is that they were achieved with restraint, with a kind of direct truthfulness borne of underplaying. After twenty-five years of exposure to the high-decibel histrionics of EastEnders and the like, it was a welcome illustration of the power of acting rather than the self-indulgence of ACTING.
The first two episodes will be available on iplayer, to viewers in the UK, and the third airs on BBC1 at 9pm tonight. Unsurprisingly, I urge you to watch, not just for its excellence but for what it has achieved. Steven Wright and the tabloids between them turned these five human beings into dead prostitutes. This dignified, honest, honourable, annihilating drama turns them back again.
Tuesday, 27 April 2010
Tuesday, 13 April 2010
It might be worth having a little look at the lyrics.
CHANGE. HOPE. FAMILIES. DECENT HARD-WORKING TAXPAYERS. CHANGE.
In the light of that 'message', being fridgemagneted and madlibbed by all three of the major parties in the run-up to the election, the choice of Keane's 'Everybody's Changing' for the launch of the Tory manifesto must have seemed like a brilliant idea. Firstly, it's totally cutting edge (it was released as recently as 2004!) plus, also, CHANGE. Everybody's changing, see? Like, changing their vote to David and his team of DECENT, HARDWORKING, FAMILY TAXPAYERS for CHANGE?
It's a shame, of course, that nobody asked Keane- whose drummer has already expressed his horror via twitter. But, if the Tories have paid their PRS money, they can play whatever they like. What's a real shame is that they didn't bother to work out that songs have lyrics as well as titles.
'You say you wander your own land
But when I think about it
I don't see how you can'
Not bad so far, I suppose. Bit BNP-ish, I suppose- 'CAN WE EVEN CALL BRITAIN OUR ROYAL LAND ANY MORE?' and all that, but otherwise neutral enough. Oh- maybe they're talking about right to roam, though? Let's see what's next.
'You're aching, you're breaking
And I can see the pain in your eyes
Since everybody's changing
And I don't know why. '
Great start to this verse, for Honest Dave and co. The country is Broken Britain- it's aching, breaking, and in pain. For a bonus, there's almost an echo of the great Billy Ray Cyrus, too. And look- Everybody's Changing! There we have it. CHANGE! HOPE!
Oh, I've just seen the last line of the verse. Surely the Tories ought to know WHY Everybody's Changing? I do hope they're not confused. Well, only one way to find out:
'So little time
Try to understand that I'm
Trying to make a move just to stay in the game
I try to stay awake and remember my name
But everybody's changing
And I don't feel the same. '
New, tough choices for a Brighter Britain. Or a description of someone having a nervous breakdown?
I can't think of a better example of the poverty of our national debate than the party which is likeliest to form the next government co-opting a song on the basis of two words, and not even thinking to check what else it said. Soundbites, kids. That's all we're going to get.
In the light of that 'message', being fridgemagneted and madlibbed by all three of the major parties in the run-up to the election, the choice of Keane's 'Everybody's Changing' for the launch of the Tory manifesto must have seemed like a brilliant idea. Firstly, it's totally cutting edge (it was released as recently as 2004!) plus, also, CHANGE. Everybody's changing, see? Like, changing their vote to David and his team of DECENT, HARDWORKING, FAMILY TAXPAYERS for CHANGE?
It's a shame, of course, that nobody asked Keane- whose drummer has already expressed his horror via twitter. But, if the Tories have paid their PRS money, they can play whatever they like. What's a real shame is that they didn't bother to work out that songs have lyrics as well as titles.
'You say you wander your own land
But when I think about it
I don't see how you can'
Not bad so far, I suppose. Bit BNP-ish, I suppose- 'CAN WE EVEN CALL BRITAIN OUR ROYAL LAND ANY MORE?' and all that, but otherwise neutral enough. Oh- maybe they're talking about right to roam, though? Let's see what's next.
'You're aching, you're breaking
And I can see the pain in your eyes
Since everybody's changing
And I don't know why. '
Great start to this verse, for Honest Dave and co. The country is Broken Britain- it's aching, breaking, and in pain. For a bonus, there's almost an echo of the great Billy Ray Cyrus, too. And look- Everybody's Changing! There we have it. CHANGE! HOPE!
Oh, I've just seen the last line of the verse. Surely the Tories ought to know WHY Everybody's Changing? I do hope they're not confused. Well, only one way to find out:
'So little time
Try to understand that I'm
Trying to make a move just to stay in the game
I try to stay awake and remember my name
But everybody's changing
And I don't feel the same. '
New, tough choices for a Brighter Britain. Or a description of someone having a nervous breakdown?
I can't think of a better example of the poverty of our national debate than the party which is likeliest to form the next government co-opting a song on the basis of two words, and not even thinking to check what else it said. Soundbites, kids. That's all we're going to get.
Monday, 15 March 2010
Possible reason for the departure of the sheep
Everyone with a blog, from time to time, does the 'weird search terms that brought people here' post. This is mine.
I wonder what the person searching for 'lil bow peep big cock' made of what he or she (let's face it: he) found?
And, more worryingly, I wonder why google pointed here?
I wonder what the person searching for 'lil bow peep big cock' made of what he or she (let's face it: he) found?
And, more worryingly, I wonder why google pointed here?
Tuesday, 9 March 2010
As everyone's mother said, if you can't say... ahh, you know the rest.
Ten years ago, almost to the day, I performed in the press night of a production that wasn’t very good. This wouldn’t necessarily have been a problem, except that the production was at the Old Vic so people took quite a lot of notice of how not very good it was. The ladies and gentlemen of the press, in particular, used some of the English language’s most potent words for ‘not very good’ in their reviews.
That’s the first time I’ve said in any public space that it wasn’t very good, that production. And in fact, in the intervening ten years the only person involved that I’ve seen publicly acknowledge its failings was its director, once in an article and once in a book (he blamed us). People wouldn’t have been very interested in my opinion, it must be admitted. ‘ASSISTANT STAGE MANAGER WITH TWELVE LINES SLAMS BADLY-PACED PRODUCTION OF PROBLEMATIC SHAKESPEARE PLAY’ isn’t a headline which would have sold many papers, even in 2000. I suppose I could have stood on the Cut handing out flyers, but it was a particularly cold spring and I’ve noticed that a lot of drivers aren’t very careful how they take that corner.
I wouldn’t have done, of course. In fact, at the time, I didn’t want to be reminded that it wasn’t very good. The very small audiences in the very big theatre (after the interval the audiences tended to get smaller, which tended to make the theatre seem bigger) were doing that nicely enough. I liked the director, I liked nearly all of my colleagues, I was acting- well, saying twelve lines, anyway- at the Old Vic. Those friends of mine who came to see the show and subsequently wanted to expound at length on how it hadn’t been the best 225 minutes of their lives received pretty short shrift from me; that was the one thing that had been rammed home to me forcibly enough by that point. That, and that going to bed at 5am doesn’t always make for great matinees.
That’s why I was surprised and a little disappointed to hear about the Samuel Ramey kerfuffle. For those of you who don’t know, Ramey is one of the greatest operatic basses around, is by all accounts a thorough good egg gentleman type, and is coming to the end of a deservedly glittering career. He’s also playing a small part in ATTILA, the Met’s first ever production of a rarely-heard Verdi opera.
He thinks it’s a ‘fiasco’, and that the director paid insufficient attention to the concerns of the cast. We know this because he said so- this is where the story takes a bit of a twist- in the comments section of a review of the production on the website of a Dallas newspaper. Disclaimer- we can’t be entirely sure that this comment was left by Mr Ramey, although better-informed people than I am have insisted that it was, so let us for the sake of argument assume that it was.
There is of course nothing at all wrong with a performer expressing disappointment in a production, or in a director. A dear friend of mine was in a film a few years ago which was a great deal less good than he had hoped, a fact which he, ahem, occasionally mentions. And the substance of Ramey’s objection- a lack of attention from the director- is not too controversial either. If the phrase ‘I just haven’t been given any direction’ were banned from the language, coffee and lunch breaks in rehearsal rooms across the world would fall uneasily silent. No, what makes this particular situation noteworthy is that ATTILA didn’t close ten years ago, and is not a film which is done, dusted and distributed; it’s live and it’s still running.
I’m not about to tell someone as distinguished as Samuel Ramey (or indeed anyone) what he can and can’t say, so let’s leave aside the rights and wrongs of that for a moment. What has been noticeable, and dispiriting, in following the story online is his adoption as a kind of Mr-Valiant-For-Truth by people who hated the production, as if this kind of behaviour were an admirable blow struck for artistic integrity. By all accounts, the production stinks. But for that to be said in public by someone who is still appearing in it may strike you as unprofessional, vain and petulant (it may strike you that way; I couldn’t possibly say). You may think it would have been worth waiting three or so weeks until the production had closed, out of respect for an audience who has paid a lot of money and wants to believe that everyone in the cast is straining every sinew in the cause of an artistic event to which they are totally committed (I’m not going to say whether I think that or not). You may even think that somewhere in that cast, among the chorus, perhaps, or the extras, is someone in the same position as I was ten years ago; someone who is aware of the failings of the production but nonetheless has had enough of hearing about them, someone who might feel let down that his or her highest-profile colleague has added to the noise. Getting ready to go on stage in a production you know to be bad is a disconcerting and weird experience, as I know only too well. You may think- it’s a free country- that every other member of the ATTILA company has had that experience made more disconcerting and yet weirder by the senior pro.
It’s one of the more annoying facts of life as a performer that expressing any opinion in public beyond the bland and anodyne is usually met with derision by our dear friends from the fourth estate. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve read some journalist sneering at an actor or singer for daring to have an opinion about politics or current affairs. There’s the Private Eye column ‘Luvvies’, for the moments when actors have trouble describing the difficult-to-describe process by which a performance comes into being (or even when they don’t; a recent edition featured Robert Downey Jr expressing the hope that Arthur Conan Doyle would have smiled upon the film of ‘Sherlock Holmes’ Downey was appearing in- what a wanker, eh, readers?). And the Guardian’s dolt-in-residence recently followed a slagging of Melvyn Bragg’s v/o of a historical documentary by saying that ‘at least it was voiced by someone who knows what he’s talking about rather than an actor’, a comment which caused some consternation among the actors I know who, unlike Lord Bragg, have history degrees. It’s a shame that when, for once, a performer is being near-universally praised for speaking up, it’s for doing something which so threatens to break the unspoken contract he has with the audiences who have yet to see his performance, and the colleagues with whom he will be giving it.
That’s the first time I’ve said in any public space that it wasn’t very good, that production. And in fact, in the intervening ten years the only person involved that I’ve seen publicly acknowledge its failings was its director, once in an article and once in a book (he blamed us). People wouldn’t have been very interested in my opinion, it must be admitted. ‘ASSISTANT STAGE MANAGER WITH TWELVE LINES SLAMS BADLY-PACED PRODUCTION OF PROBLEMATIC SHAKESPEARE PLAY’ isn’t a headline which would have sold many papers, even in 2000. I suppose I could have stood on the Cut handing out flyers, but it was a particularly cold spring and I’ve noticed that a lot of drivers aren’t very careful how they take that corner.
I wouldn’t have done, of course. In fact, at the time, I didn’t want to be reminded that it wasn’t very good. The very small audiences in the very big theatre (after the interval the audiences tended to get smaller, which tended to make the theatre seem bigger) were doing that nicely enough. I liked the director, I liked nearly all of my colleagues, I was acting- well, saying twelve lines, anyway- at the Old Vic. Those friends of mine who came to see the show and subsequently wanted to expound at length on how it hadn’t been the best 225 minutes of their lives received pretty short shrift from me; that was the one thing that had been rammed home to me forcibly enough by that point. That, and that going to bed at 5am doesn’t always make for great matinees.
That’s why I was surprised and a little disappointed to hear about the Samuel Ramey kerfuffle. For those of you who don’t know, Ramey is one of the greatest operatic basses around, is by all accounts a thorough good egg gentleman type, and is coming to the end of a deservedly glittering career. He’s also playing a small part in ATTILA, the Met’s first ever production of a rarely-heard Verdi opera.
He thinks it’s a ‘fiasco’, and that the director paid insufficient attention to the concerns of the cast. We know this because he said so- this is where the story takes a bit of a twist- in the comments section of a review of the production on the website of a Dallas newspaper. Disclaimer- we can’t be entirely sure that this comment was left by Mr Ramey, although better-informed people than I am have insisted that it was, so let us for the sake of argument assume that it was.
There is of course nothing at all wrong with a performer expressing disappointment in a production, or in a director. A dear friend of mine was in a film a few years ago which was a great deal less good than he had hoped, a fact which he, ahem, occasionally mentions. And the substance of Ramey’s objection- a lack of attention from the director- is not too controversial either. If the phrase ‘I just haven’t been given any direction’ were banned from the language, coffee and lunch breaks in rehearsal rooms across the world would fall uneasily silent. No, what makes this particular situation noteworthy is that ATTILA didn’t close ten years ago, and is not a film which is done, dusted and distributed; it’s live and it’s still running.
I’m not about to tell someone as distinguished as Samuel Ramey (or indeed anyone) what he can and can’t say, so let’s leave aside the rights and wrongs of that for a moment. What has been noticeable, and dispiriting, in following the story online is his adoption as a kind of Mr-Valiant-For-Truth by people who hated the production, as if this kind of behaviour were an admirable blow struck for artistic integrity. By all accounts, the production stinks. But for that to be said in public by someone who is still appearing in it may strike you as unprofessional, vain and petulant (it may strike you that way; I couldn’t possibly say). You may think it would have been worth waiting three or so weeks until the production had closed, out of respect for an audience who has paid a lot of money and wants to believe that everyone in the cast is straining every sinew in the cause of an artistic event to which they are totally committed (I’m not going to say whether I think that or not). You may even think that somewhere in that cast, among the chorus, perhaps, or the extras, is someone in the same position as I was ten years ago; someone who is aware of the failings of the production but nonetheless has had enough of hearing about them, someone who might feel let down that his or her highest-profile colleague has added to the noise. Getting ready to go on stage in a production you know to be bad is a disconcerting and weird experience, as I know only too well. You may think- it’s a free country- that every other member of the ATTILA company has had that experience made more disconcerting and yet weirder by the senior pro.
It’s one of the more annoying facts of life as a performer that expressing any opinion in public beyond the bland and anodyne is usually met with derision by our dear friends from the fourth estate. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve read some journalist sneering at an actor or singer for daring to have an opinion about politics or current affairs. There’s the Private Eye column ‘Luvvies’, for the moments when actors have trouble describing the difficult-to-describe process by which a performance comes into being (or even when they don’t; a recent edition featured Robert Downey Jr expressing the hope that Arthur Conan Doyle would have smiled upon the film of ‘Sherlock Holmes’ Downey was appearing in- what a wanker, eh, readers?). And the Guardian’s dolt-in-residence recently followed a slagging of Melvyn Bragg’s v/o of a historical documentary by saying that ‘at least it was voiced by someone who knows what he’s talking about rather than an actor’, a comment which caused some consternation among the actors I know who, unlike Lord Bragg, have history degrees. It’s a shame that when, for once, a performer is being near-universally praised for speaking up, it’s for doing something which so threatens to break the unspoken contract he has with the audiences who have yet to see his performance, and the colleagues with whom he will be giving it.
Tuesday, 16 February 2010
The First Thing We Do Is Kill All The Tenors
So, I know all the reasons not to like Michael Moore, but I think there are a lot of things to admire about him too. In amongst the vanity, the sometimes-misleading agitprop, and the harrassing of receptionists and security guards, I do think there is someone who largely thinks the right things and says them loudly and insistently.
But there was one image right at the beginning of his fascinating and entertaining new film 'Capitalism: A Love Story' that really pissed me off. The film opens with an old newsreel about the fall of the Roman Empire, intercutting the images of togas and corruption with images of fatcattery, war and poverty in our own age. And there, among the latter, in the film's first minute, is an image of the Metropolitan Opera House. Enron, Katrina, subprime, the Goldman bailout, and the Met. Just as I was deciding that it was maybe not a deliberate attempt to connect an art form with the excesses and injustices of the free market, Moore removed all possible doubt with some footage of a spiffed-up audience in an opera house under a discussion about the gap between the world's richest and its poorest.
Now, I know that opera is expensive and it's undeniable and regrettable that the audiences of most major opera houses are made up largely of the rich and the very rich. But it is disingenuous in the extreme to try and put even any of the blame for the world's injustices on the arts. It's the same as the tired, spurious old right wing argument that money for the arts means less money for schools and hospitals; it is surely the role of a government in a civilised country to make sure there is room for both. But Moore prefers the cheap populism of saying 'look, an opera house. That's why you're poor.'
Yes, of course I'm partial as an opera lover. But I can't stand ballet, and believe equally passionately in its importance to public cultural life. Besides, if Moore really wanted to use a cultural icon to illustrate sharp practice, greed and an obscenely-paid powerful elite, he could surely have used the Hollywood sign as a much more relevant example. I wonder why he didn't?
But there was one image right at the beginning of his fascinating and entertaining new film 'Capitalism: A Love Story' that really pissed me off. The film opens with an old newsreel about the fall of the Roman Empire, intercutting the images of togas and corruption with images of fatcattery, war and poverty in our own age. And there, among the latter, in the film's first minute, is an image of the Metropolitan Opera House. Enron, Katrina, subprime, the Goldman bailout, and the Met. Just as I was deciding that it was maybe not a deliberate attempt to connect an art form with the excesses and injustices of the free market, Moore removed all possible doubt with some footage of a spiffed-up audience in an opera house under a discussion about the gap between the world's richest and its poorest.
Now, I know that opera is expensive and it's undeniable and regrettable that the audiences of most major opera houses are made up largely of the rich and the very rich. But it is disingenuous in the extreme to try and put even any of the blame for the world's injustices on the arts. It's the same as the tired, spurious old right wing argument that money for the arts means less money for schools and hospitals; it is surely the role of a government in a civilised country to make sure there is room for both. But Moore prefers the cheap populism of saying 'look, an opera house. That's why you're poor.'
Yes, of course I'm partial as an opera lover. But I can't stand ballet, and believe equally passionately in its importance to public cultural life. Besides, if Moore really wanted to use a cultural icon to illustrate sharp practice, greed and an obscenely-paid powerful elite, he could surely have used the Hollywood sign as a much more relevant example. I wonder why he didn't?
Tuesday, 26 January 2010
Lemon juice out of stock: replacement, jif lemon cleaner
In the manner of an online supermarket failing to fill an order, I find that I am sadly fresh out of things to say about Der Rosenkavelier, despite having previously promised/threatened to post about it. However, I did come home from Turandot the following night and write screeds and screeds about it, so have that instead.
The Opera Gods are very clear on the matter. If you have a chance to go see live opera, whatever your misgivings, you should go. I nearly disobeyed this immutable law this evening- I was comfy in my hotel room, there were a few movies I fancied seeing, I wasn't keen on the idea of standing room and I wasn't panting to see, or especially to hear, Guleghina. But even a bad night at the opera is illuminating; and this wasn't one.
I should start with a few disclaimers. Firstly, every time I go to the Met this particular Brit's heart starts thumping before I even leave the subway at Columbus Circle. I have very fond memories of learning about opera at Covent Garden, but the Met is something else. The building, the atmosphere, the historical significance- I don't know what it is, but I'm pretty sure it's my favourite place on earth. This may lead to a rose-tinted view of things. Also, given that I earn some of my modest crust as an actor, I'm naturally predisposed to be on Team Performer. God knows I have heard some singers perform roles they had no business attempting, but if someone is wholeheartedly giving their all in the service of their art, even if the results are underwhelming there's a kind of honesty there I respond to. Finally, I don't get to see live opera as much as I'd like, for reasons of simple economics. A seat in the Covent Garden equivalent of Family Circle costs about as much as a Dress Circle seat at the Met and alas, I don't have that kind of monetary clout. So going to the opera is rare enough to make me determined to enjoy myself. All this means that I may be a little more lenient on some of the drawbacks of tonight's performance than others might. Was it a golden age performance? Well, no. But Nilsson and Bjorling and Corelli and Tebaldi are dead, alas- and we still want to be able to see Turandot, don't we?
See is the operative word. Most of you will know that the Met's Turandot is a triumph for Zeffirelli the designer. It looks wonderful, and the reveal in the second act is a genuine coup de theatre. Zeffirelli the director fares less well. I had to surpress a giggle during 'Gira la Cote' because the production's intentions were so clear. 'Look! Tumblers! A dragon! I know it's only the chorus but DON'T BE BORED'! Even allowing for the fact that this production is on its umpteenth revival, there were some real clunkers in the staging of the first act. 'Lasciatemi passare' sang Calaf, to three people who were in no way blocking his path, and with his back to them. The poor old Prince of Persia took a pointlessly long back-and-forth route to his death (admittedly, this kind of illogicality had been present in Act 3 of the previous night's Rosenkavelier- is Sophie in the damn room or isn't she? And if she is, why does everyone insist on going the long way round and using the door?). What was frustrating is that all this extraneous stuff was so unnecessary, as the dramatic structure of that first act is so tight. The storytelling is brisk- the curtain rises, the chorus sets the scene, Timur falls, reunion, Prince of Persia, Signore Ascolta, gong. Jenufa is just about the only opera I can think of which gets through its exposition with so little fuss.
Musically this was probably the most successful act. There may be a better opera house chorus in the world than the Met's; if so I should like to hear it. As far as the principals go, Maija Kovalevska did a grand job on 'Signore, Ascolta' but it was pretty rather than moving. Interestingly, she was much, much more successful in Act 3. This was a Liu who was much more comfortable in defiance and action than in passive pleading. The voice is better suited to the heavier stuff late on, as well. Where the first aria was professional, technically strong, and all those other underwhelming words, the voice became more interesting the more was asked of it. 'Tu che di gel' had precisely the right mix of steel and melt, and reminded me of Gallardo-Domas back when she was, you know, still good. She brought the best out of Hao Jiang Tian's Timur, as well. In the first act he had been acceptable, workmanlike; after Liu's death he was genuinely moving.
I've been unlucky with tenors at the Met. The first time I went, in 2006, I saw Walter Fraccaro as an instantly forgettable Cavaradossi. Then, back in April, Mario Berti oscillated so wildly between the brilliant and the filthy that it seemed he was cramming the ups and downs of an entire career into one Trovatore. What I got tonight from Salvatore Licitra was my first Met taste of tenorial vocal glamour- something in the tone which excites and relaxes simultaneously. He doesn't use the voice with as much artistry as is ideal- nothing much happens below mezzo forte, and his phrasing can be a little rustic. Actually, the one time he dipped the volume below 7 something rather interesting happened. His challenge to Turandot on 'Il mio nome non sai' felt intimate, something for her ears only, a seduction. I've not seen that before, and it works. 'Nessun Dorma' was delivered with a swagger- this is the aria you're here for, he was saying, and listen to how well I pull it off. Relatively well, is the answer- came off that C pretty darn quick, didn't we, Sal? Still, on tonight's evidence, if he's not a great singer, he's nonetheless a good one. If I could offer him one word of advice, however, it would be to be less wimpish about his gong-work. The music isn't really asking for a careful underarm tap.
He wasn't the only tenor on display, of course (although Bernard Fitch as Altoum wasn't on display to me- his throne isn't visible from Fam Circ standing, and neither, annoyingly, is Turandot's first appearance), since we also have two thirds of the Ping Pongs. Zef the designer has a lot of fun with these three, and their bold colour scheme in among the pastels is another of the design elements that really works. Vocally, the highest praise I can give Joshua Hopkins, Tony Stevenson and Eduardo Valdes is that they bore comparison to the dream team on that odd Karajan recording- Araiza, Hornik and Zednik (yeah, the Niks rule). For once I could see the point of their scene at the top of act two, a section which reminds us that this opera was written a quarter of the way through the twentieth century. It almost feels more like a musical theatre number than an operatic trio- Sondheimish, even, and I mean that as a compliment to both composers.
That's the whole cast, isn't it? Oh no, I missed one. The uncharitable would say that Maria Guleghina has no business singing Turandot at this point; the overly generous would point to the fact that she got through it with no glaring mishaps. On the positive side the voice, although nobody could claim it to be in anything near its prime, has retained its impressive size. But then, 'never mind the rest, it's so BIG' is a credo that has got better men than I am in trouble, in, ah, all sorts of contexts, so we can't just leave it at that. There are some parts where, if not ideal, a little vocal insecurity can at least be dramatic. Tosca, say, or Norma are in extremis, so we can excuse a wobble or a shriek as a character point. But Turandot when we first meet her is powerful, triumphant, impermeable, and the singing of 'In questa reggia' and the riddles should reflect that. Guleghina sounded like what she was, which was a soprano carefully navigating her way through a role which isn't in her voice any more. There's little point in the climax of 'In questa reggia' if the top C arrives late, squalls, and then is abandoned as soon as is respectable. In Act Two she was cranking out the decibels, but the tone was centreless; and when she tried something more caressing, it was touch and go as to whether it would work. At the top of the register, the vibrato has widened and spread into what is undeniably a wobble, and a big one at that- one of those 'which note, precisely, are you singing?' wobbles which always spells trouble. On the plus side, she fared a great deal better in the less demanding music that makes up most of Act 3, especially an almost gorgeous 'Del Primo Pianto', and she made some interesting dramatic choices, at least from the far distance of standing room. In the 'figlia del cielo' section - where that mp3 clip of the other night's performance had revealed her to be drowning- she evinced a real, believable vulnerability. By the way, Andris Nelsons had seemingly learned his lesson there, and he hurried it along at a significantly faster tempo than before; in fact, he didn't put much of a foot wrong all night. But to return to Guleghina, between the generous and the uncharitable lies a middle ground, summed up in a couple of questions. Can she sing Turandot? Yes, just about. Should she? Probably not.
See? There's always plenty to say about a night, any night, at the opera. I'm glad I listened to the Opera Gods- I'd have missed, ooh, about two-thirds of a treat, otherwise.
The Opera Gods are very clear on the matter. If you have a chance to go see live opera, whatever your misgivings, you should go. I nearly disobeyed this immutable law this evening- I was comfy in my hotel room, there were a few movies I fancied seeing, I wasn't keen on the idea of standing room and I wasn't panting to see, or especially to hear, Guleghina. But even a bad night at the opera is illuminating; and this wasn't one.
I should start with a few disclaimers. Firstly, every time I go to the Met this particular Brit's heart starts thumping before I even leave the subway at Columbus Circle. I have very fond memories of learning about opera at Covent Garden, but the Met is something else. The building, the atmosphere, the historical significance- I don't know what it is, but I'm pretty sure it's my favourite place on earth. This may lead to a rose-tinted view of things. Also, given that I earn some of my modest crust as an actor, I'm naturally predisposed to be on Team Performer. God knows I have heard some singers perform roles they had no business attempting, but if someone is wholeheartedly giving their all in the service of their art, even if the results are underwhelming there's a kind of honesty there I respond to. Finally, I don't get to see live opera as much as I'd like, for reasons of simple economics. A seat in the Covent Garden equivalent of Family Circle costs about as much as a Dress Circle seat at the Met and alas, I don't have that kind of monetary clout. So going to the opera is rare enough to make me determined to enjoy myself. All this means that I may be a little more lenient on some of the drawbacks of tonight's performance than others might. Was it a golden age performance? Well, no. But Nilsson and Bjorling and Corelli and Tebaldi are dead, alas- and we still want to be able to see Turandot, don't we?
See is the operative word. Most of you will know that the Met's Turandot is a triumph for Zeffirelli the designer. It looks wonderful, and the reveal in the second act is a genuine coup de theatre. Zeffirelli the director fares less well. I had to surpress a giggle during 'Gira la Cote' because the production's intentions were so clear. 'Look! Tumblers! A dragon! I know it's only the chorus but DON'T BE BORED'! Even allowing for the fact that this production is on its umpteenth revival, there were some real clunkers in the staging of the first act. 'Lasciatemi passare' sang Calaf, to three people who were in no way blocking his path, and with his back to them. The poor old Prince of Persia took a pointlessly long back-and-forth route to his death (admittedly, this kind of illogicality had been present in Act 3 of the previous night's Rosenkavelier- is Sophie in the damn room or isn't she? And if she is, why does everyone insist on going the long way round and using the door?). What was frustrating is that all this extraneous stuff was so unnecessary, as the dramatic structure of that first act is so tight. The storytelling is brisk- the curtain rises, the chorus sets the scene, Timur falls, reunion, Prince of Persia, Signore Ascolta, gong. Jenufa is just about the only opera I can think of which gets through its exposition with so little fuss.
Musically this was probably the most successful act. There may be a better opera house chorus in the world than the Met's; if so I should like to hear it. As far as the principals go, Maija Kovalevska did a grand job on 'Signore, Ascolta' but it was pretty rather than moving. Interestingly, she was much, much more successful in Act 3. This was a Liu who was much more comfortable in defiance and action than in passive pleading. The voice is better suited to the heavier stuff late on, as well. Where the first aria was professional, technically strong, and all those other underwhelming words, the voice became more interesting the more was asked of it. 'Tu che di gel' had precisely the right mix of steel and melt, and reminded me of Gallardo-Domas back when she was, you know, still good. She brought the best out of Hao Jiang Tian's Timur, as well. In the first act he had been acceptable, workmanlike; after Liu's death he was genuinely moving.
I've been unlucky with tenors at the Met. The first time I went, in 2006, I saw Walter Fraccaro as an instantly forgettable Cavaradossi. Then, back in April, Mario Berti oscillated so wildly between the brilliant and the filthy that it seemed he was cramming the ups and downs of an entire career into one Trovatore. What I got tonight from Salvatore Licitra was my first Met taste of tenorial vocal glamour- something in the tone which excites and relaxes simultaneously. He doesn't use the voice with as much artistry as is ideal- nothing much happens below mezzo forte, and his phrasing can be a little rustic. Actually, the one time he dipped the volume below 7 something rather interesting happened. His challenge to Turandot on 'Il mio nome non sai' felt intimate, something for her ears only, a seduction. I've not seen that before, and it works. 'Nessun Dorma' was delivered with a swagger- this is the aria you're here for, he was saying, and listen to how well I pull it off. Relatively well, is the answer- came off that C pretty darn quick, didn't we, Sal? Still, on tonight's evidence, if he's not a great singer, he's nonetheless a good one. If I could offer him one word of advice, however, it would be to be less wimpish about his gong-work. The music isn't really asking for a careful underarm tap.
He wasn't the only tenor on display, of course (although Bernard Fitch as Altoum wasn't on display to me- his throne isn't visible from Fam Circ standing, and neither, annoyingly, is Turandot's first appearance), since we also have two thirds of the Ping Pongs. Zef the designer has a lot of fun with these three, and their bold colour scheme in among the pastels is another of the design elements that really works. Vocally, the highest praise I can give Joshua Hopkins, Tony Stevenson and Eduardo Valdes is that they bore comparison to the dream team on that odd Karajan recording- Araiza, Hornik and Zednik (yeah, the Niks rule). For once I could see the point of their scene at the top of act two, a section which reminds us that this opera was written a quarter of the way through the twentieth century. It almost feels more like a musical theatre number than an operatic trio- Sondheimish, even, and I mean that as a compliment to both composers.
That's the whole cast, isn't it? Oh no, I missed one. The uncharitable would say that Maria Guleghina has no business singing Turandot at this point; the overly generous would point to the fact that she got through it with no glaring mishaps. On the positive side the voice, although nobody could claim it to be in anything near its prime, has retained its impressive size. But then, 'never mind the rest, it's so BIG' is a credo that has got better men than I am in trouble, in, ah, all sorts of contexts, so we can't just leave it at that. There are some parts where, if not ideal, a little vocal insecurity can at least be dramatic. Tosca, say, or Norma are in extremis, so we can excuse a wobble or a shriek as a character point. But Turandot when we first meet her is powerful, triumphant, impermeable, and the singing of 'In questa reggia' and the riddles should reflect that. Guleghina sounded like what she was, which was a soprano carefully navigating her way through a role which isn't in her voice any more. There's little point in the climax of 'In questa reggia' if the top C arrives late, squalls, and then is abandoned as soon as is respectable. In Act Two she was cranking out the decibels, but the tone was centreless; and when she tried something more caressing, it was touch and go as to whether it would work. At the top of the register, the vibrato has widened and spread into what is undeniably a wobble, and a big one at that- one of those 'which note, precisely, are you singing?' wobbles which always spells trouble. On the plus side, she fared a great deal better in the less demanding music that makes up most of Act 3, especially an almost gorgeous 'Del Primo Pianto', and she made some interesting dramatic choices, at least from the far distance of standing room. In the 'figlia del cielo' section - where that mp3 clip of the other night's performance had revealed her to be drowning- she evinced a real, believable vulnerability. By the way, Andris Nelsons had seemingly learned his lesson there, and he hurried it along at a significantly faster tempo than before; in fact, he didn't put much of a foot wrong all night. But to return to Guleghina, between the generous and the uncharitable lies a middle ground, summed up in a couple of questions. Can she sing Turandot? Yes, just about. Should she? Probably not.
See? There's always plenty to say about a night, any night, at the opera. I'm glad I listened to the Opera Gods- I'd have missed, ooh, about two-thirds of a treat, otherwise.
Friday, 15 January 2010
I've never been to Brooklyn and I'd like to see what's good*
It strikes me that what I usually do when in This New York is write long, rambling blog posts about it. Well, I'm a creature of tradition, so here goes.
I have said before that there is no real point in describing flights, since you've been on one (unless you're *you* or *you*) and you know what it's like. But there were a couple of distinguishing features to this one. The first is that I was sitting in front of a real life sitcom character. Not an actor, one of those stock comic types who only appears in 25 minute segments with an ad break. She had an accent which made your average Miss Adelaide sound subtly underplayed, and she moaned about literally everything. We were a little late taking off and- having kvetched about everything from the location of her seat to the size of those little red blankets to the fact she had to stow her hand luggage in the overhead locker- she announced to the plane at large 'an extra hour I could have stayed in bed this morning. It's a scandal. A SCANDAL'. At this point her husband uttered the only word I heard him speak the entire time which was- I swear- 'Oy'. Just before we took off, the stewardess announced that there were a few seats available in Premium Economy on a first come, first served basis. The moment the seatbelt light was switched off Sitcomella got up and ran, actually ran, down the aisle in order to have first pick. This was impressive, given the hip troubles she has been undergoing and which we had already heard about in forensic detail.
The other aspect of the flight which bears repetition is the film 'Bandslam'. I chose it because I couldn't handle anything heavier, and it's adorable- smart, sweet and funny. It struck me as the kind of film Juno was intending to be, if less ambitious. The gags were easy and witty, without that Juno tendency to broadcast 'you didn't expect me to use THAT word, did you? I am clever and witty and ironic you see'. It also has LIsa Kudrow in it, and there is a rule round these parts that anything with Lisa Kudrow in it is good. It made me cry, but you won't because you're not as much of a wuss as I am.
So I got to JFK, and I got to my hotel which is cheap but unremarkable, in a cheap, unremarkable neighbourhood between Chelsea and Midtown. Johnnie, a university friend who lives a few blocks away, had very kindly agreed to meet up for a welcome drink, which became a welcome (in both senses) Cuban food blowout. She and I gassed for a couple of hours, ate a metric fuckton of food, and then I rolled home.
Yesterday was, as is now traditional, big walk time- this time along the High Line, through to Union Square, and then meandering around the Village before heading to Lower Broadway and the idology office for lunch and remedial computer help. A quick breather at the hotel and then into the sleazy gay underworld. Well, not really. Actually a rather nice russian-themed bar on 51st where Greg drank vodka and I drank beer. The website claimed that, since the bar was in the theater district (which it isn't quite) one might see Alan Cumming or Cyndi Lauper popping in for a drink, or Liza or Chaka dropping by to play the piano. Astonishingly, none of these things came to pass. After a couple of drinks and stuff the 'Jon eats far too much food' aspect of all my holidays took a Mexican turn with some Mole enchilladas (chocolatey sauce rather than adorably blind vermin). We topped off the evening by meandering down to Lincoln Center, where we watched a little of the night's performance of 'Stiffelio' on the foyer screens and since we didn't know the story (despite Greg having seen it just three nights before- early Verdi is like that) decided to make it up, a heady concoction involving priests in fancy dress, a burning cathedral, a Halloween party, and Sibelius.
Today was Brooklyn. Brooklyn without a map. Brooklyn without a map is lostmaking. I got off at a subway stop, walked down some nice treelined streets (I have since worked out that I was most likely in Prospect Heights) to a large arch, which subsequent research tells me is the Soldiers and Sailors arch. So, you know, well done soldiers and sailors.
Prospect Park is gorgeous, all undulating and Capability Brownish. And smaller than Central Park, which for someone who is both lazy and mapless is something of a blessing. I eventually navigated myself to a Subway stop and headed to the Bridge for some pizza (Grimaldi's, which I can announce makes the second best pizzas in New York) and then a nice high up walk back into Manhattan, during which I composed much of this post in my head, like some kind of latter-day blogging Wordsworth.
And tonight it's off to the Met, for the best Rosenkavalier cast that the year 2000 had to offer (I shouldn't be snarky- I'm expecting them to be pretty damn good ten years on). Needless to say, I shall be reporting on this in full. Whether you like it or not.
Favourite overheard comments so far:
(Man on phone, outside St Paul's Church, Fulton Street) 'All I'm saying is you gotta bring some of that fuckin' Macadamia Nut Brandy, man'
(Man in overalls outside my hotel, talking to other man in overalls) 'So he like humped my dog, and since then my dog is all, like, y'know?'
*If you read my previous NY blog posts back in April you'll know the drill by now. If you didn't, well, that isn't my fault, is it?
I have said before that there is no real point in describing flights, since you've been on one (unless you're *you* or *you*) and you know what it's like. But there were a couple of distinguishing features to this one. The first is that I was sitting in front of a real life sitcom character. Not an actor, one of those stock comic types who only appears in 25 minute segments with an ad break. She had an accent which made your average Miss Adelaide sound subtly underplayed, and she moaned about literally everything. We were a little late taking off and- having kvetched about everything from the location of her seat to the size of those little red blankets to the fact she had to stow her hand luggage in the overhead locker- she announced to the plane at large 'an extra hour I could have stayed in bed this morning. It's a scandal. A SCANDAL'. At this point her husband uttered the only word I heard him speak the entire time which was- I swear- 'Oy'. Just before we took off, the stewardess announced that there were a few seats available in Premium Economy on a first come, first served basis. The moment the seatbelt light was switched off Sitcomella got up and ran, actually ran, down the aisle in order to have first pick. This was impressive, given the hip troubles she has been undergoing and which we had already heard about in forensic detail.
The other aspect of the flight which bears repetition is the film 'Bandslam'. I chose it because I couldn't handle anything heavier, and it's adorable- smart, sweet and funny. It struck me as the kind of film Juno was intending to be, if less ambitious. The gags were easy and witty, without that Juno tendency to broadcast 'you didn't expect me to use THAT word, did you? I am clever and witty and ironic you see'. It also has LIsa Kudrow in it, and there is a rule round these parts that anything with Lisa Kudrow in it is good. It made me cry, but you won't because you're not as much of a wuss as I am.
So I got to JFK, and I got to my hotel which is cheap but unremarkable, in a cheap, unremarkable neighbourhood between Chelsea and Midtown. Johnnie, a university friend who lives a few blocks away, had very kindly agreed to meet up for a welcome drink, which became a welcome (in both senses) Cuban food blowout. She and I gassed for a couple of hours, ate a metric fuckton of food, and then I rolled home.
Yesterday was, as is now traditional, big walk time- this time along the High Line, through to Union Square, and then meandering around the Village before heading to Lower Broadway and the idology office for lunch and remedial computer help. A quick breather at the hotel and then into the sleazy gay underworld. Well, not really. Actually a rather nice russian-themed bar on 51st where Greg drank vodka and I drank beer. The website claimed that, since the bar was in the theater district (which it isn't quite) one might see Alan Cumming or Cyndi Lauper popping in for a drink, or Liza or Chaka dropping by to play the piano. Astonishingly, none of these things came to pass. After a couple of drinks and stuff the 'Jon eats far too much food' aspect of all my holidays took a Mexican turn with some Mole enchilladas (chocolatey sauce rather than adorably blind vermin). We topped off the evening by meandering down to Lincoln Center, where we watched a little of the night's performance of 'Stiffelio' on the foyer screens and since we didn't know the story (despite Greg having seen it just three nights before- early Verdi is like that) decided to make it up, a heady concoction involving priests in fancy dress, a burning cathedral, a Halloween party, and Sibelius.
Today was Brooklyn. Brooklyn without a map. Brooklyn without a map is lostmaking. I got off at a subway stop, walked down some nice treelined streets (I have since worked out that I was most likely in Prospect Heights) to a large arch, which subsequent research tells me is the Soldiers and Sailors arch. So, you know, well done soldiers and sailors.
Prospect Park is gorgeous, all undulating and Capability Brownish. And smaller than Central Park, which for someone who is both lazy and mapless is something of a blessing. I eventually navigated myself to a Subway stop and headed to the Bridge for some pizza (Grimaldi's, which I can announce makes the second best pizzas in New York) and then a nice high up walk back into Manhattan, during which I composed much of this post in my head, like some kind of latter-day blogging Wordsworth.
And tonight it's off to the Met, for the best Rosenkavalier cast that the year 2000 had to offer (I shouldn't be snarky- I'm expecting them to be pretty damn good ten years on). Needless to say, I shall be reporting on this in full. Whether you like it or not.
Favourite overheard comments so far:
(Man on phone, outside St Paul's Church, Fulton Street) 'All I'm saying is you gotta bring some of that fuckin' Macadamia Nut Brandy, man'
(Man in overalls outside my hotel, talking to other man in overalls) 'So he like humped my dog, and since then my dog is all, like, y'know?'
*If you read my previous NY blog posts back in April you'll know the drill by now. If you didn't, well, that isn't my fault, is it?
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