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.
Your bloggist is a notorious Billy No-mates, and is therefore as psychologically prepared as anyone for self-isolation. But just to be sure I have put some cultural fuel in the tank to see me through.
Opera: I saw Opera North's excellent new production of Kurt Weill's 'Street Scene'. They have a real flair for musical theatre and for his work in particular. I wish they would revive their production of 'One Touch of Venus'. I also saw OperaUpClose's 'Madam Butterfly'. It was set in modern Japan and the scenery was quite reminiscent of the poor neighbourhood in 'Parasite' if you've seen that. As usual with that company I really enjoyed the small scale and intimacy, but - and it's a big but - they changed the ending. How can you change the ending of Madam Butterfly? I also saw a concert featuring various Baroque works including Purcell's 'The Yorkshire Feast Song', which was apparently commissioned for the annual dinner of the London Society of Yorkshiremen in 1690. Clearly the bastards have been banging on about how wonderful they are for centuries; although now I've written that I don't know why I am in the slightest surprised. Also on the programme was Handel's 'Eternal Source of Light Divine', a setting of the poem by Ambrose Philips. Whilst Philips was no great shakes as a poet, he was the original 'Namby-Pamby'; don't tell me this blog isn't educational.
Theatre: I saw a very fine, very dark version of 'Oliver Twist', by Ramps on the Moon, a company which mixes D/deaf, disabled and able bodied actors in productions which build captioning, sign language and other forms of accessibility right into the fabric of the show (see here for their version of 'The Threepenny Opera' - also, satisfyingly, composed by Weill) . In a way this production was the opposite of colour blind casting, with the actors' deafness being the crucial link that held Fagin's gang together. The Artful Dodger teaching Oliver to sign was as central as teaching him to pick pockets. Bill Sykes is one of the most terrifying characters in literature and drama, and the effect is only heightened by him not speaking. Also up was a really different take on 'Pride and Prejudice' with an all female cast giving us the sweary version that one must assume Jane Austen would have written were it not for all those boring nuances of etiquette in place at the time. I won't write a review (read this one if you're interested), but it was just brilliant and laugh out loud funny all the way through.
Film: Jane Austen popped up in the cinema as well, with the current take on Emma being well worth watching. I thought that they managed to capture the essence of the characterisations - notably Mr Woodhouse's hypochondria - without reams of exposition. I mentioned it above, but 'Parasite' is obviously rather good, in an Alfred Hitchcock sort of way. Whether it's the best film of the last year or so is less clear. I also caught up with 'Rocketman' and thought it was great. It's fascinating that it and 'Bohemian Rhapsody' tell stories with some similarities of narrative and theme in such different ways.
Let's finish with some music to cheer us up. This is Townes Van Zandt and 'Waiting Around to Die':
Although clearly not at writing blog posts. Partly that is because the Seven Years War campaign is not currently happening - not dead, just sleeping - and also I have been, in a small way, engaged in trying to prove that democracy in this country is likewise merely resting with its eyes closed rather than completely moribund.
Indeed, the only thing that has appeared on here recently is a comment from Iain that 'Arms and the Man' was also set in the Balkans. I haven't seen the play for many years; in fact the more I think about it the more it seems to me that I am confusing it with 'Man and Superman' and that I have probably never seen it at all. Shaw's plays do still get produced these days - I have seen both 'Pygmalion' and 'Saint Joan' in the last couple of years - so let's hope it comes round soon.
There are a couple of tenuous connections (and you know that's the way I like them) between the play and the specific opera concerned (which was 'Idomeneo'), with a second opera as well plus a tiny, tiny bit of wargaming relevance. The phrase 'arms and the man' comes from the opening line of the Aeniad, Virgil's poem in which a member of the Trojan royal family sails off after the fall of the city to follow his fate by indirectly both founding Rome and causing the Punic Wars to take place. In Mozart's opera it is another Trojan, Aeneas' cousin Ilia, daughter of King Priam, who, having been brought back as a captive to Crete by Idomeneo, provides the romantic sub plot and causes Elettra, daughter of Agamemnon, no end of grief; although as I pointed out previously her family have already done more than enough to tip anyone over the edge.
Kurt Weill wrote an opera called 'Der Kuhhandel'. A literal translation of that is 'cattle trading', but a more idiomatic one might be 'horse trading', e.g. of the kind that politicians are prone to. Anyway, the plot about arms dealing actually does prominently feature a cow. Its original English title was 'A Kingdom for a Cow', which is, of course, a Shakespearean allusion. Opera North performed it some years ago, but changed the title to 'Arms and the Cow', a Shavian reference which rather nicely sums up what the work is all about. At the time I rather annoyed my ex-wife by going on at length about how accurate was its depiction of the world of weapon sales based on my own experiences of the same; but let's face it, if I hadn't been that which irritated her then it would have been something else.
"The important thing in life is to let the years carry us along" - Lorca
So, here we are again. In oh so many ways 2018 was a complete bag of shit; I confidently predict that 2019 will be worse still. However, let's not indulge in what Eliot termed "the conscious impotence of rage at human folly", let's indulge instead in boring everyone with what a culture vulture I am. Just a couple of months ago one woman formerly of my acquaintance described me - over her shoulder as she left - as a "passive/aggressive point scorer"; guilty as charged.
Opera: I saw twenty one this year, which is rather a lot. I'm going to vote 'Madama Butterfly' as the best, with 'Tosca' a close second; so that's a one-two for Puccini and dead heroines. Posting here has been so erratic that I think I might have to instigate an award in each category for the best performance that I didn't bother to write about. In this case I'm going for a production of 'Suor Angelica' in which clothes were kept on by nuns. So that's actually a one-two-three for Puccini and dead heroines then.
Theatre: I saw fifty three plays and musicals, increased above previous years by the pop-up Shakespeare theatre in York (returning next year I am pleased to say) and by a plethora of Great War commemoration activity. I think my favourite was 'They Don't Pay? We Won't Pay!' - it was certainly the funniest - with a special mention for both 'Journey's End' and 'Barnbow Canaries' - which were certainly the saddest. Best Shakespeare was 'A Midsummer Night's Dream' in York. Top of the unreported was 'From Berlin to Broadway', a marvellous celebration of the work of Kurt Weill.
Music: I saw thirty six bands live, probably down on the previous year if I could be bothered to check, mostly because the local blues club closed. There were some belters (King King, Walter Trout, Devon Allman, Thorbjorn Risager, etc), but top spot has to go to one that I couldn't be arsed to tell you about at the time: Gretchen Peters. If I never again hear anything as good as her version of Tom Russell's 'Guadalupe' then I shall still die a happy man.
Film: I saw sixteen films at the cinema and I think the best of the new ones amongst those was 'Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri', which as it happens was the first that I saw. Best of all was '12 Angry Men', but perhaps it's not fair to judge the others by that. Best new one that I haven't mentioned previously was 'The Florida Project', although I must confess to also really enjoying the rather more lowbrow and shallow 'Bohemian Rhapsody'. Best previously unmentioned re-release was 'The Big Lebowski', apt both because I am sure that we are just about to enter a world of pain, and because the Dude is a Stoic par excellence.
"The Dude abides"
Books: I don't actually know how many books I have read this year; shame on me, I shall start counting forthwith. The non-fiction book of the year had to be 'H.M.S. Electra', the story of the ship on which my uncle served and was lost during the Second World War; incidentally, for those who have played the first video above, Surabaya was the port from which the ship sailed on its final voyage. Best fiction book was - and I bet no one saw this coming - 'League of Spies', the fourth in Robert Merle's 'Fortunes of France' series.
Lectures: A new category for this year. I am rather controversially going to plump for the one on 'Soviet Central Asian Mosaics', which was surprisingly good although admittedly much of the surprise came from the fact that I thought I was going to a talk on 'Australian Aboriginal Art'. Worst by far was that about policing in Otley in the 1950s, which was like a UKIP party political broadcast delivered in the style of Jackanory.
Event of the Year: There was a late entrant into the field for this when only yesterday I over-toasted my pumpkin seeds (not a euphemism) and set the oven on fire. However, and after due consideration, the jury has decided to disallow it on the basis that I rather like the much nuttier flavour; all I need to do now is to find a way to reproduce it without any danger of burning the house down. As an aside, you may not be surprised to hear that at no point did the smoke alarm indicate that anything was amiss.
But back to the year that was. I am tempted by the return of running water to the Casa Epictetus and the resultant improvement in hygiene; or the camel racing at the Otley Show, which lured even me away from the Young Farmers' Ladies Tug-of-War;
or the younger Miss Epictetus' return from her travels and graphic description of skydiving at dawn into the Namibian desert, complete with outraged complaint that they hadn't allowed her to do it in flip-flops; or the elder Miss Epictetus causing an unfortunate and relatively blameless lady to knock herself out on the door of the ladies toilet of the Fountaine Inn at Linton-on-Craven (although for obvious reasons I didn't actually witness that one it did sound very funny as she told me about it while we hurriedly made our escape towards Burnsall); or even the Reiki session I had with the estimable Coral Laroc in the brief period when we were back on good terms. However, for this year it has to be the conversation with what turned out to be the goddaughter of my old ATC commander, Squadron Leader Bill Boorer, leading to the fascinating revelation of the whole story behind his rescue after being shot down in the North Sea.
And that's your lot. As Eliot also wrote: "Next year's words await another voice"
And so to the opera. I have been to see 'The Original Chinese Conjuror' by Raymond Yiu who, along with librettist Lee Warren, was at the performance, which formed part of this year's Left Bank Opera Festival.
Just to be clear, the protagonist of the opera is the not very Chinese at all chap lurking at the back of the photo. The story is that of Chung Ling Soo, real name William Robinson, an American of Scottish descent whose masquerade as a Chinese magician lasted for almost two decades without exposure (to the public at least), until he literally died on stage, and forgot himself sufficiently to expire in English. His father had been a blackface minstrel, and one could imagine all sorts of complex psychological reasons for why the family had a compulsion to impersonate other races; on the other hand perhaps they did it for the money.
I really enjoyed the piece, which musically was an effective mixture of the styles of Kurt Weill and Benjamin Britten. And despite sitting rather close to the front I was still unable to work out how the handkerchief turned into a rose and the rose into a walking stick, let alone how he managed to sing in tune at the same time. The ending contrived to be very moving despite the fact that we all knew what was going to happen, and also that the man firing the gun for the don't-try-this-at-home catching-a-bullet-in-your-teeth finale had clearly never seen a rifle before in his life.
There's an interesting discussion of the opera's inaugural production at the 2006 Aldeburgh Festival to be found here.
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.
