How rude so'er the hand

 I like getting questions about blog postings, despite them usually being along the lines of "Why do you bother?" or "I suppose you think you're funny?". I am glad to say that I have received one which is marginally more constructive, an observant reader asking why I spelled 'gaily' as 'gayly' in the title of the previous post. Don't blame me, blame Sir Walter Scott. The quote comes from his narrative poem 'The Lady of the Lake'. I haven't read it - Scott is one of those authors who I firmly intend to read when the time is right, but as to when that time might be I can't say - but I have just been to a performance of Rossini's 'La donna del lago'.

The lady and, believe it or not, the lake

I'd never seen it before, and have read various theories as to why it isn't put on more often: either the staging and set requirements are too demanding or it's difficult to assemble the combination of voices needed seem to be the favourites. This production was a bit odd, but the music and singing was excellent and I enjoyed it thoroughly. 

The oddities included archaeologists and museums, neither of which appear to feature in Scott's original and no kilts or tartan, both of which certainly (*) did. The driver of the plot is the apparent real-life tendency of James V to wander around in disguise. He was, of course, the father of Mary Queen of Scots, but if you can guess 16th century from the pictures then you're doing better than me. The chap on the chair is the baddie, who bears the fine Scottish name of Rodrigo, and as whom John Irvin stole the show, brilliantly portraying the character's MacHeath-like psychopathic tendencies. The eponymous lady was wonderfully sung by Máire Flavin, whose Violetta for Opera North this autumn I am very much looking forward to.

* For 'certainly' read 'probably'; hard to know for sure without putting in the effort of actually reading it.

Don't Let The Door Bang Your Arse On The Way Out

"High though his titles, proud his name,
  Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;—
  Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
  The wretch, concentred all in self,
  Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
  And, doubly dying, shall go down
  To the vile dust, from whence he sprung,
  Unwept, unhonour'd, and unsung."

                      - Sir Walter Scott

“If we could learn to look instead of gawking,
  We'd see the horror in the heart of farce,
  If only we could act instead of talking,
  We wouldn't always end up on our arse.
  This was the thing that nearly had us mastered;
  Don't yet rejoice in his defeat, you men!
  Although the world stood up and stopped the bastard,
  The bitch that bore him is in heat again.”

                      - Bertolt Brecht

I met Murder on the way

"Rise like Lions after slumber

In unvanquishable number -

Shake your chains to earth like dew

Which in sleep had fallen on you -

Ye are many - they are few"

                 - Shelley

I have always enjoyed knowing something of the background to how films were made; in some cases these stories are better than the films themselves. I mentioned "Where Eagles Dare" a while ago, and while it's truly terrible, who could not be amused by the idea of Clint Eastwood having to be told that when dressed as a German officer he should refrain from twirling his Luger round on his trigger finger before replacing it in the holster? More recently featured here was the equally bad "Charge of the Light Brigade" where director Tony Richardson's antics included trying to have the Brigade of Guards dressed in blue for their assault at the Battle of the Alma because he thought it would improve the look of the thing. He also delayed and messed about so long on location that the Turkish army detachments intended to provide the extras had to go off on NATO manoeuvres, which explains why some of the climactic battle scenes look as if they had been shot using nothing but half a dozen stuntmen.

It was that last detail that occurred to me when I watched the opening sequence of the infinitely better film 'Peterloo'. It starts with a rendition of the Battle of Waterloo, the budget for which appears to have run to three men and a horse; and before anyone tells me that several horses gallop across screen from left to right, I would point out that they are all the same colour and you never see two of them together. All the money has clearly been spent on the massacre itself, which is very well done. My own experience of facing horses in that sort of situation is limited to a thankfully brief incident at the Battle of Bradford some forty years ago so I don't claim to be an expert, but it all looked very realistic to me. I especially liked the shots as the regular Hussars moved slowly in line abreast pushing back the crowd in a frightening and claustrophobic fashion. It's a very good film, telling an important story and featuring some excellent performances from such as the ubiquitous Rory Kinnear as 'Orator' Hunt. I am, naturally, writing this well after it has finished in cinemas, so it's not a very timely recommendation, but catch it whenever you eventually get a second chance.

Despite the lush cinematography, it's not meant to be taken entirely literally - Mike Leigh is definitely being a bit Brechtian - and contains points that clearly aren't historically accurate, but help convey the lesson which he wants us to learn. So one of the characters has a strange attachment to his coat, but it means we remember how quickly he has moved in society's eyes from hero to villain. Similarly Hunt is shown simply speaking very loudly at the rally, which enables us to follow his argument for democracy and non-violence, but is a tad optimistic when faced with 60,000 people or more. What would have happened is that he would have paused after each sentence so that his words could have been repeated and passed back through the crowd. You know, as shown in that other excellent, non-naturalistic film with a message 'Life of Brian':

"Blessed are the cheesemakers"
"What's so special about cheesemakers?"
"Well obviously it's not meant to be taken literally; it refers to any manufacturers of dairy products."

Art is a hammer

“The worst illiterate is the political illiterate, he doesn’t hear, doesn’t speak, nor participates in the political events. He doesn’t know the cost of life, the price of the bean, of the fish, of the flour, of the rent, of the shoes and of the medicine, all depends on political decisions. The political illiterate is so stupid that he is proud and swells his chest saying that he hates politics. The imbecile doesn’t know that, from his political ignorance is born the prostitute, the abandoned child, and the worst thieves of all, the bad politician, corrupted and flunky of the national and multinational companies.” 

                                                     - Bertolt Brecht

And so to the theatre and indeed to the opera. Much of October's fare had a more or less overt political message. Brecht's 'Mother Courage and Her Children" isn't just anti-war, but also makes the point that anyone who thinks they can profit from war without being affected by it is deluding themselves. The eponymous vivandière, played in this Red Ladder production by Pauline McLynn of 'Father Ted' fame, isn't to be sympathised with for her losses, but rather criticised for not understanding the reality of the situation in which she finds herself. If I were to offer advice to Brecht (and given that I have previously been known to point out where Mozart got it wrong then why wouldn't I?) it is that the character's name does tend to mislead the audience as to how they should view her. Brecht's trademark Verfemdungseffeckt was on this occasion achieved by it being a promenade performance around a deserted warehouse of the type much favoured by villains in the Adam West Batman TV series.

The reason for the location was that Leeds Playhouse, as it has reverted to being called, is having a year long refurbishment, which also meant that I had to trek across to York to see the latest Northern Broadsides production 'They Don't Pay? We Won't Pay!', an adaptation of the Dario Fo farce 'Non Si Paga! Non Si Paga!' by Deborah McAndrew. I've never been sure if Fo, who was certainly influenced by Brecht, was as much of a straight down the line Marxist as his predecessor, but this play leaves one in no doubt that he believed the problems of the working class to be caused by both capitalism itself and by capital's use of the state's (*) powers of coercion in order to suppress opposition and maximise profits. It's also very, very funny, drawing on verbal dexterity, physical comedy and amusingly out of context props; a coffin in the wardrobe anyone? I was also very pleased to see the false moustache given a twenty first century run out with its comedic validity emerging intact.

Coming back to state repression, this is very much the background setting for 'Tosca'. Opera North have a new production, and it's wonderful. Beautifully sung, with the orchestra on top form, if the bleak ending doesn't make you cry then you have no heart. Whilst we are all pleased to see the death of chief bad guy Scarpia (**), played here as a Gestapo/NKVD type boss, we would be advised to bear in mind another quote from Brecht: "Do not rejoice in his defeat, you men. For though the world has stood up and stopped the bastard, the bitch that bore him is in heat again.".

Opera North's 'Merry Widow' is set in a political and diplomatic milieu, but that is presumably merely because it has to be set somewhere. Even I can't pretend that there is anything substantial in it - despite the many jibes against bankers that make the audience laugh, perhaps in recognition of their own powerlessness against the forces represented by what Marx referred to as money capital (***) - but it's great fun. Let me give a special mention to Amy Freston as Valencienne for combining excellent singing with the occasional cartwheel across the stage, just to show off.


* NB 'State' in this context is not identical to 'nation state'. There are (at least) two distinct strands of Marxist analysis regarding the relationship between nation and capital: state as superstructure (e.g. as per Marx and Miliband, father rather than either son) or state as capital (e.g. as per Lenin and Bukharin). I would suggest Brecht leaned to the former in 'Mother Courage', but feel free to disagree.

** Scarpia was of course based on a real person, one who co-operated closely with the British in Naples. We turned a blind eye to his brutality because it suited us politically. Plus ca change.

*** "What is the robbing of a bank compared to the founding of a bank?" - Bertolt Brecht

We live no longer in the dusky afternoon

 “Don't let us make imaginary evils, when you know we have so many real ones to encounter.”
- Oliver Goldsmith

And so to the theatre. This time it is 'The Crucible', undeniably a classic and equally undeniably very long and very heavy, in a new production at the West Yorkshire Playhouse. The play was of course written by Arthur Miller as a response to the McCarthy show trials at which he and many others had suffered in the, er, land of the free. Current attempts in the UK to improve our human rights by taking them away shows that one can never assume that any society is immune from political repression.

The man was a genius

My own inability, a result of centuries of rational scepticism (1), to empathise with a belief  in god let alone witches rather prevented me from emotional involvement with the characters. As Bertrand Russell wrote "I would never die for my beliefs, because I might be wrong". I remember a similar problem when reading Herman Hesse's 'The Glass Bead Game' with the spurious mathematics obscuring for me the anti-oppression message. Perhaps a simple soul like me needs the directness of Brecht.


(1) And I am well aware that people continue to be executed for sorcery in, for example, Saudi Arabia; a practice and a country which I think rather prove my point.

No ifs, no buts, no disability cuts

No doubt foremost amongst your worries is whether all this work has interfered with my dedication to cultural vultureness. Fear not, I am as pretentious as ever and have been packing them in.

First up was 'The Threepenny Opera' in a lyrically updated version by the Graeae Theatre Company that was in-your-face in a way that would doubtless have been admired by Brecht and Weill themselves. This is yet another of those classics that I had somehow managed to miss previously, although we are all familiar with the opening song. Altogether now:

"Oh the shark, babe, has such teeth, dear

And it shows them pearly white"

Graeae champion 'accessibility' and they integrate deaf, blind and physically disabled performers into the action in a performance enhancing manner that doesn't make one not notice them, but actually makes one glad that's the way it is. Personally I was very taken with the way that the BSL interpreters' roles became as important as the singing main characters. Top marks to Jude Mahon in particular.

Next was 'La Boheme' in a revived Opera North production, but one which still did it for me. Classic Puccini and an opera that I would suggest for those who have never been to one. Lush tunes, nonsensical plot and it doesn't end well for the heroine; what more could one want?

And finally Bedroom Farce, another play that I had seen before, and one that reinforces the point that British farceurs regard the word sardine as inherently amusing, although in this case the fishy comestibles are - in a very minor plot point - replaced in due course by pilchards. Despite that slightly incoherent exposition of the plot you should see it when it comes your way; as it will because it is regularly revived. As with any Alan Ayckbourn play one is guaranteed several laugh out loud moments. Oh, and can I just preempt any rumours that MS Foy may be about to spread on his blog; Mr Ayckbourn is as alive as his namesake Mr Bennett.

P.S. In one of life's unaccountable coincidences, immediately after writing the above I opened the door to a furniture delivery man who was whistling 'Mack the Knife'. Spooky.

Worthy but dull

And so to the theatre. Or not, in this particular case. West Yorkshire Playhouse's third Transform festival sees them, among other things, putting on a show at Kirkgate market. I wasn't entirely sure what to expect, and so while waiting outside to be let in neither I nor anyone else was at all surprised to be waved at by someone in a giant panda suit from the top of the nearby multi-storey car park.

However, it soon became apparent that this wasn't anything to do with what we were there for, but was just one of those random surreal moments that occur from time to time. Well they do in my life anyway. In fact, it all rather brought to mind the episode that I witnessed once involving the Reverend Ian Paisley and a giraffe. Of course, now that I have got to grips with this blogging lark, I realise that one has to ration one's material and so that story will have to wait for another day.

The Reverend Ian Paisley as a child

Where was I? Ah yes, 'The Market' was a combination of sketches and tableau vivant put on by a combination of professional and community actors telling the history of the market - fires, bombs, characters, Marks & Spencers, decline - over the last one hundred and fifty years. For those not familiar with central Leeds, the market is one of the largest covered markets in Europe and some of it, especially the 1904 hall, is architecturally splendid.

So, what about the show? well, one of this blog's followers (Oh, alright, its only follower) is fond of spicing up his wargaming blog with a quick reference to Bertolt Brecht, and I could do worse than follow his example. The show was Brechtian. In fact so much did they breach the fourth wall that one of the group I was with (one was led around the market in groups from performance site to performance site) kept interrupting the actors. At first the rest of us assumed that she was part of the show, but she was simply a Kirkgate Market enthusiast. Possibly, like most British people she only goes to the theatre once a year and therefore honestly believes that all plays are interspersed with cries from the audience of "He's behind you." and "Oh no he isn't.". The art form has only been going for about two and a half thousand years so it's not surprising that some people haven't quite caught up with it yet.

The message that we were meant to take away - this was Brechtian remember - was that 'they' are going to change the market and that 'we' can like it or lump it. Which is, I suspect, what drove my fellow playgoer to repeatedly shout "There's nothing wrong with it the way it is.", even though she's clearly wrong. A French friend of mine who lives in Leeds has often complained that in France the market would be the place where everyone went as a first choice to buy food. "Listen very carefully," she says "for I will say this only once; the market is merde.". And she's right.

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