It's entirely possible - and this is still sinking in, some three weeks after the event - that this might've been the last Beckett of the year. Heavens. It had to end somewhere, and the failure to secure tickets for Harold Pinter's performance of Krapp's Last Tape in October means that it probably ends here. In many ways, that's perfect: it seems absolutely inconceivable that Pinter could find any way to improve upon John Hurt's Krapp, perhaps the most monumental of all the centenary's peaks. And it'd be such a shame to end this journey with a sense of anticlimax.
Besides, this is just right. Back at the bookshop, a triple bill of female roles offers both conclusions and fresh beginnings. In a way, it feels as if we've finished, as if there's a firm underlining and a solid full stop on the end of the sentence. All done. It feels like that watching Footfalls, a piece that - and this is rare, contrary to perception - is just a bit obscure, a bit inaccessible. A bit difficult. Somehow, it doesn't have the clarity and purity of Beckett's finest writing, and there's visible effort in Virginia Byron's performance as a consequence.
It isn't helped, perhaps, by the context. Some of these plays have taken on a wonderfully intimate warmth in this little backroom...but this is a ghostly world that seems to require a bigger, emptier space. It needs distance, for things to hang in the air, for footfalls to echo, for breath to become mist. As if to emphasise the point, Rockaby immediately shows us that intimacy, that warmth...and it suddenly all works beautifully again. The most musical of Beckett's plays, it's nudged gently along by a reserved, conservative reading from Tamara Hinchco...and that's a genuine compliment, for these are lovely, familiar, cherished words that require nothing more than to be let out of the box from time to time. We briefly wonder whether the addition of an echo on the key phrase - "Time she stopped..." - falls into the category of unnecessary fiddling; we decide that it does, and yet that it just about works. Just about. But, really, when it comes to Rockaby, you will never be wrong if you play it safe. It ain't broke.
Which, after a short interval, leaves us with Enough, and one last revelation for the road, the dot-dot-dot to open up that sentence once more. Because this is why it seems impossible to tire of Samuel Beckett, why there's always something to revive your interest. Why it's never really finished. A quiet, understated performance of an unfamiliar prose piece in the back room of a bookshop...and it simply takes your breath away.
Alison Stillbeck perches on the edge of the stage, almost within touching distance, and politely implores us to understand her relationship with a mumbling, crippled, belligerent other. She does so with captivating energy, eyes shining with love, face beaming with the desire to communicate; it's more than an expressive reading, it's a striking and brilliant piece of characterisation. Apart from a brief stumble, writing and performance are in complete harmony: one, deft and subtle, with shades of humour, love and, somewhere in the background, the darkness of cruelty and abuse; the other, letting the words cascade and flutter around the room, as if re-living the most contented times. Wherever you choose to spend your evenings, you could not possibly wish to see anything finer.
The last Beckett of the year, then. Which ought to be the occasion for grand conclusions and so on and so forth...and sod it, there's no conclusion, for there's no end. This is writing that lives...sparkles and fades and always lives. Maybe that won't be so forever; maybe there'll come a time when it's not possible to find something new and surprising in Samuel Beckett's work. Then, it'll be time for conclusions. For now....
25 September 2006
06 September 2006
Howard Hodgkin at Tate Britain
You're already too late. Sorry. Howard Hodgkin's life-spanning exhibition at Tate Britain finishes this very day; come the morning, the moment will have passed. One imagines that it won't be the last time that a significant body of his work is exhibited in this space; one hopes, at the same time, that it won't happen again for a while.
Because he hasn't finished yet, quite clearly. One of the most striking aspects of a genuinely joyous experience is that Hodgkin's most recent paintings, gathered together towards the end of this chronological collection, have the same vitality as those from what would generally be considered to be the peak of his career. Indeed, they offer a couple of mighty highlights to send you on your way: "Come Into The Garden, Maud", clusters and swirls of petal-like colours on a bare wooden frame, is particularly breathtaking.
But it is not alone. There is almost too much here, certainly too much to describe in detail. There are too many paintings that ask politely for your time and reward it many times over; from the very first room, in which Hodgkin enthusiastically starts to evolve his distinctive style, this is a wonderfully conversational exhibition. Some paintings shout and scream, others hang silently and indifferently. But Howard Hodgkin's paintings talk to you: they're intelligent and literate, sure, but they're also funny, kind, dramatic, and occasionally a bit rude. In short, they're great company...and I still haven't tired of them after two loops around the exhibition.
Of course, his colours dazzle most. They're bold and yet subtle, full of thought and feeling...and, just once, they're removed altogether to leave something black-and-white-and-grey, a bolt from the blue. Tellingly, the catalogue cannot capture any of this: it tells us what the paintings look like, but it doesn't tell us how they feel...and how they feel is what they are.
Above all, it's the range of which Hodgkin is capable that really astonishes. His style evolves gradually over time, but it's a means to an end...or to a number of ends, more accurately. Few painters can reach so far: this is a body of work that covers all manner of subjects, moods, thoughts, and yet never feels in any way compromised. Each painting is something different: a tranquil garden, perhaps, or a passionate love affair. A heartfelt tribute to a close friend, or the memory of a quarrelsome dinner. A room, a city, a landscape. Each time, the title gives a gentle hint to help you get along, and then you're left in the company of the work itself.
In the end, it comes down to this: it made me smile and laugh and gasp and frown and raise an eyebrow and mutter to myself in a slightly deranged way ("My God, that's fantastic!"), and I went around on my own. It filled me with innocent, teenage enthusiasm. It made me want to share it with anyone who'd listen, immediately.
My New Favourite Painter.
Because he hasn't finished yet, quite clearly. One of the most striking aspects of a genuinely joyous experience is that Hodgkin's most recent paintings, gathered together towards the end of this chronological collection, have the same vitality as those from what would generally be considered to be the peak of his career. Indeed, they offer a couple of mighty highlights to send you on your way: "Come Into The Garden, Maud", clusters and swirls of petal-like colours on a bare wooden frame, is particularly breathtaking.
But it is not alone. There is almost too much here, certainly too much to describe in detail. There are too many paintings that ask politely for your time and reward it many times over; from the very first room, in which Hodgkin enthusiastically starts to evolve his distinctive style, this is a wonderfully conversational exhibition. Some paintings shout and scream, others hang silently and indifferently. But Howard Hodgkin's paintings talk to you: they're intelligent and literate, sure, but they're also funny, kind, dramatic, and occasionally a bit rude. In short, they're great company...and I still haven't tired of them after two loops around the exhibition.
Of course, his colours dazzle most. They're bold and yet subtle, full of thought and feeling...and, just once, they're removed altogether to leave something black-and-white-and-grey, a bolt from the blue. Tellingly, the catalogue cannot capture any of this: it tells us what the paintings look like, but it doesn't tell us how they feel...and how they feel is what they are.
Above all, it's the range of which Hodgkin is capable that really astonishes. His style evolves gradually over time, but it's a means to an end...or to a number of ends, more accurately. Few painters can reach so far: this is a body of work that covers all manner of subjects, moods, thoughts, and yet never feels in any way compromised. Each painting is something different: a tranquil garden, perhaps, or a passionate love affair. A heartfelt tribute to a close friend, or the memory of a quarrelsome dinner. A room, a city, a landscape. Each time, the title gives a gentle hint to help you get along, and then you're left in the company of the work itself.
In the end, it comes down to this: it made me smile and laugh and gasp and frown and raise an eyebrow and mutter to myself in a slightly deranged way ("My God, that's fantastic!"), and I went around on my own. It filled me with innocent, teenage enthusiasm. It made me want to share it with anyone who'd listen, immediately.
My New Favourite Painter.
14 August 2006
Samuel Beckett: Ohio Impromptu / The Old Tune
Back to the bookshop, mercifully rather less stifling than last time. And back to the start, for Ohio Impromptu was one of the pieces that kicked off this Beckett marathon at the Barbican back in March.
The first of many highlights, in fact: Harry Towb and Peter Cadden's rendering of an old, firm favourite was genuinely sublime, reaching deep into the heart of the writing to find something mournful and musical. To expect similar things of a small-scale production in the back room of a shop would be unreasonable, I suppose. And yet. And yet....
It is patently absurd that a very simple, very sparse play which, including stage directions, barely covers four pages of its creator's collected works should continue to reveal itself on, from memory, the fifth viewing. Absurd, and true. Even more absurd is that Ohio Impromptu doesn't feel especially elusive: it is an enigmatic piece of work, certainly, but it's also one of Beckett's most visually striking stage paintings, and it leaves a strong impression after just one viewing.
In many ways, this returns us to one of those old, tired clichés: that by being so specific in his instructions, Samuel Beckett left no room for anyone to interpet his work. That's utter nonsense: he just didn't let them interpret his work by messing about on the margins, rearranging the furniture and changing the costumes. Instead, there is enormous scope for any actor who concentrates on the language, finds how it works with their own voice, discovers where the music can take them. These are subtle variations, of course...but great writing means that such variations can be deeply significant, deeply felt.
Here, Michael Howarth, whose tones are rich and peaty, takes the role of reader and Peter Marinker is the silent listener. The whole thing is so familiar that I could pretty much recite it along with them...and yet. And yet, they've found something distinctive, another layer down. The variation is typified by what we refer to as "the joke", a little piece of gently twinkling humour amid the general sobriety. Here, though, it appears to be something quite different: a moment of genuine intimacy and shared kindness as the listener stays the hand of the reader as if to spare them both the pain of remembrance. Such a tiny detail, yet it reverberates through the performance. A sombre, sad performance, full of pauses that seem to allow the air to thicken and gather closer in the gloom. A truly memorable performance.
After which, The Old Tune, Beckett's adaptation of a Pinget play, provides an interesting but probably unnecessary counterpoint. Beginning with, and punctuated by, the lunatic seesawing of a broken fairground organ, it offers occasionally amusing thoughts on the passing of time, and a particularly daft moon-based gag that, without knowing any better, one is tempted to attribute to the adapter rather than the adaptee.
That's the problem, in essence: without knowing the original work, it is impossible to see where Robert Pinget ends and Samuel Beckett begins. So, we're left with a fairly ordinary, generally unremarkable play, one whose essentially conservative style contrasts extraordinarily with the main attraction. Crucially, you discover this: that Pinget's play deals solely with externals, with dialogue and scene-setting and character. Its only memories are shared: old friends, family, remembered and misremembered names. And that's partly why Beckett is still so precious and still so powerful: for his capturing of internal spaces, of the bit between your ears and the bit behind your left breast. The bits that really matter, when it comes down to it. The essentials.
The first of many highlights, in fact: Harry Towb and Peter Cadden's rendering of an old, firm favourite was genuinely sublime, reaching deep into the heart of the writing to find something mournful and musical. To expect similar things of a small-scale production in the back room of a shop would be unreasonable, I suppose. And yet. And yet....
It is patently absurd that a very simple, very sparse play which, including stage directions, barely covers four pages of its creator's collected works should continue to reveal itself on, from memory, the fifth viewing. Absurd, and true. Even more absurd is that Ohio Impromptu doesn't feel especially elusive: it is an enigmatic piece of work, certainly, but it's also one of Beckett's most visually striking stage paintings, and it leaves a strong impression after just one viewing.
In many ways, this returns us to one of those old, tired clichés: that by being so specific in his instructions, Samuel Beckett left no room for anyone to interpet his work. That's utter nonsense: he just didn't let them interpret his work by messing about on the margins, rearranging the furniture and changing the costumes. Instead, there is enormous scope for any actor who concentrates on the language, finds how it works with their own voice, discovers where the music can take them. These are subtle variations, of course...but great writing means that such variations can be deeply significant, deeply felt.
Here, Michael Howarth, whose tones are rich and peaty, takes the role of reader and Peter Marinker is the silent listener. The whole thing is so familiar that I could pretty much recite it along with them...and yet. And yet, they've found something distinctive, another layer down. The variation is typified by what we refer to as "the joke", a little piece of gently twinkling humour amid the general sobriety. Here, though, it appears to be something quite different: a moment of genuine intimacy and shared kindness as the listener stays the hand of the reader as if to spare them both the pain of remembrance. Such a tiny detail, yet it reverberates through the performance. A sombre, sad performance, full of pauses that seem to allow the air to thicken and gather closer in the gloom. A truly memorable performance.
After which, The Old Tune, Beckett's adaptation of a Pinget play, provides an interesting but probably unnecessary counterpoint. Beginning with, and punctuated by, the lunatic seesawing of a broken fairground organ, it offers occasionally amusing thoughts on the passing of time, and a particularly daft moon-based gag that, without knowing any better, one is tempted to attribute to the adapter rather than the adaptee.
That's the problem, in essence: without knowing the original work, it is impossible to see where Robert Pinget ends and Samuel Beckett begins. So, we're left with a fairly ordinary, generally unremarkable play, one whose essentially conservative style contrasts extraordinarily with the main attraction. Crucially, you discover this: that Pinget's play deals solely with externals, with dialogue and scene-setting and character. Its only memories are shared: old friends, family, remembered and misremembered names. And that's partly why Beckett is still so precious and still so powerful: for his capturing of internal spaces, of the bit between your ears and the bit behind your left breast. The bits that really matter, when it comes down to it. The essentials.
30 July 2006
Elsewhere, round-about and suchlike
On The Deckchair - a new site for reading and writing about Brighton and Hove, built using the CommunitySites software - you can read my thoughts about the myriad eccentricities that clutter up the streets of the town. Elsewhere on the site, you can find out which books I'd save from the waves if the contents of my shelves were about to be swept out to sea.
Words are very much my thing (what, you noticed?), but I've also just bought myself a new camera, with inevitable consequences. Among them, the renewal of my long-standing graffiti obsession, although I've slightly lost touch with who's who since that obsession was at its peak. But I've been experimenting with other subjects too, and some of the results are really not that bad. Especially if you're a fan of bumble bees.
23 July 2006
Samuel Beckett: A Piece of Monologue / The Expelled
There's no escaping it: it's bloody hot. Filthy hot. London is melting all around us, stinking and sweaty; the Underground appears to be disintegrating...and, frankly, it has my sympathies. Back when we booked all of this, another evening of Beckett shorts at the Calder Bookshop seemed like a splendid idea. Come the time, and come the oppressive heat, leaving behind the merciful sea breeze to get on a train to the capital is akin to pouring away a bottle of water in the desert.
Still, we're here, survival kits and all. If it's bad for us, it must be nigh on unbearable for the actors: Peter Marinker spends the twenty-ish minutes of A Piece of Monologue stock-still in his nightgown and socks, probably cursing Beckett's lack of foresight in failing to include any brow-mopping opportunities in the stage directions. Heroically, he appears to lose himself in the character entirely; the key is letting the writing do the work, something that, I imagine, appears very much easier than it is. Especially in these conditions.
But once you let the music play, it takes you to some wonderful and some terrible places. A Piece of Monologue is as I recall it from several years ago: longer than you'd like it to be by a few minutes. As back then, I suspect that it's not accidental. The drawn-out end is intensely sombre and bleak and not at all comfortable; Marinker delivers it beautifully, stirring up little eddies of emotion at key moments that contrast with the sedate pace elsewhere. The imagery is gloomy, thunderous. Torrential rain. My God, now that you mention it, some torrential rain would be really nice....
A short and welcome interval, and we have The Expelled, one of a cluster of very fine post-war short stories that form some of Beckett's most accessible and entertaining work. It's a terrific piece, enormous subtlety and profundity hidden behind some belting comedy; it rewards you richly for digging into its depths, finding its stumbling sense of displacement. It hides a lot of sadness, I think.
But it already has a voice in my head. And it's not Anthony Jackson's voice, frustratingly. There's a coarseness missing, somehow. We both feel it. Much as Jackson gives it plenty of gusto, his rather thespian tones never really suggest that he's actually been kicked out of his lodgings into the gutter, hat following behind. Or any of the rest. We saw John Hurt perform a few snatches of this a few weeks ago and you believed him. That's an unfair comparison, I know. But an unavoidable one.
We escape into the air. It isn't any cooler, really, but there's a hint of a breeze for the sake of form. This series of productions is already proving to be much more than a mere footnote to the Beckett centenary. More than just a product of laudable enthusiasm too. Small-scale, sure, but that fosters its own sense of intimacy, of being in the same place. As A Piece of Monologue proves, the magic is just at home here as anywhere else, lifting the evenings beyond curiosity and interest and other faint praise.
A venture that's worth supporting, then. Perhaps starting with a collection to fund some air conditioning....
Still, we're here, survival kits and all. If it's bad for us, it must be nigh on unbearable for the actors: Peter Marinker spends the twenty-ish minutes of A Piece of Monologue stock-still in his nightgown and socks, probably cursing Beckett's lack of foresight in failing to include any brow-mopping opportunities in the stage directions. Heroically, he appears to lose himself in the character entirely; the key is letting the writing do the work, something that, I imagine, appears very much easier than it is. Especially in these conditions.
But once you let the music play, it takes you to some wonderful and some terrible places. A Piece of Monologue is as I recall it from several years ago: longer than you'd like it to be by a few minutes. As back then, I suspect that it's not accidental. The drawn-out end is intensely sombre and bleak and not at all comfortable; Marinker delivers it beautifully, stirring up little eddies of emotion at key moments that contrast with the sedate pace elsewhere. The imagery is gloomy, thunderous. Torrential rain. My God, now that you mention it, some torrential rain would be really nice....
A short and welcome interval, and we have The Expelled, one of a cluster of very fine post-war short stories that form some of Beckett's most accessible and entertaining work. It's a terrific piece, enormous subtlety and profundity hidden behind some belting comedy; it rewards you richly for digging into its depths, finding its stumbling sense of displacement. It hides a lot of sadness, I think.
But it already has a voice in my head. And it's not Anthony Jackson's voice, frustratingly. There's a coarseness missing, somehow. We both feel it. Much as Jackson gives it plenty of gusto, his rather thespian tones never really suggest that he's actually been kicked out of his lodgings into the gutter, hat following behind. Or any of the rest. We saw John Hurt perform a few snatches of this a few weeks ago and you believed him. That's an unfair comparison, I know. But an unavoidable one.
We escape into the air. It isn't any cooler, really, but there's a hint of a breeze for the sake of form. This series of productions is already proving to be much more than a mere footnote to the Beckett centenary. More than just a product of laudable enthusiasm too. Small-scale, sure, but that fosters its own sense of intimacy, of being in the same place. As A Piece of Monologue proves, the magic is just at home here as anywhere else, lifting the evenings beyond curiosity and interest and other faint praise.
A venture that's worth supporting, then. Perhaps starting with a collection to fund some air conditioning....
16 July 2006
Samuel Beckett: Eh Joe
In which Samuel Beckett hits the big time. Or, to be more precise, our Samuel Beckett hits the big time. The Beckett of Waiting for Godot and Endgame is no stranger to the West End, to names in lights, to being part of a proper, dressed-up night out, albeit a slightly left-field one. But to find our Beckett - sparse and minimal and very much not everyone's cuppa (which is not-everyone's loss) - at the distinctly swanky Duke of York's theatre, quotes from newspaper reviews plastered all around, is odd indeed.
There's a glossy programme with staples and everything, for heaven's sake. Three quid too, purchased for its novelty value more than its content. And there's an elegant bar, which, absurdly, is open for an hour before...a performance that lasts for only half that time. And there are people in...well, the word "frocks" springs to mind, and it has never done so at any other point in this Beckett season. We make our way up to our seats in a state of considerable bewilderment, and the culture shock isn't greatly soothed by a precipitous drop from the front row of the circle. It's an awfully long way down. We spend the minutes until kickoff hanging on for dear life and praying that no-one tries to squeeze past us.
Then the lights dim, and the opening isn't promising. On stage, all is fine: Michael Gambon sits in gloomy silence for a couple of minutes and then potters around his room, checking for ghosts behind the doors; the scenery, only visible in this opening sequence, shows a lovely attention to detail. But there's too much distraction as a packed theatre settles in for the duration; behind us, glasses are collected at the bar, people fidget and cough, and you wonder whether this simply won't work in the context. Perhaps such intimate, still writing requires a similar setting.
And then, magic. Penelope Wilton's voice - so perfect for Beckett, as previously noted - strikes up, and the words fill the gigantic space. She has the pace just right, the rhythm and the music, and you don't need anything more than that; you're drawn in as you always are. This being our Beckett, nothing's happening; there's nothing to look at except the detail of Gambon's face, enlarged on a stage-front screen, as he sits on his bed, haunted by the memories that haunt so many of these characters. But, at the same time, there's everything to look at, paintings on the mind's eye that could be the work of nobody else.
It is compelling drama, and the silence crystallises into something clear and concentrated as that voice torments poor, beaten Joe with harrowing images of his lover's suicide. With images that he can't rid himself of. With images that we see as clearly as we see the face on the screen. I've seen the original television production on a couple of occasions, but this a much more painful, powerful piece than it appeared then. It leaves its mark, and it doesn't fade quickly.
And so, Beckett hits the big time...and you still sit there, focused on every word and forgetting to breathe. So does everyone else, it seems. Maybe it's not so strange, after all. Maybe it's how things ought to be, perhaps without the vertigo....
There's a glossy programme with staples and everything, for heaven's sake. Three quid too, purchased for its novelty value more than its content. And there's an elegant bar, which, absurdly, is open for an hour before...a performance that lasts for only half that time. And there are people in...well, the word "frocks" springs to mind, and it has never done so at any other point in this Beckett season. We make our way up to our seats in a state of considerable bewilderment, and the culture shock isn't greatly soothed by a precipitous drop from the front row of the circle. It's an awfully long way down. We spend the minutes until kickoff hanging on for dear life and praying that no-one tries to squeeze past us.
Then the lights dim, and the opening isn't promising. On stage, all is fine: Michael Gambon sits in gloomy silence for a couple of minutes and then potters around his room, checking for ghosts behind the doors; the scenery, only visible in this opening sequence, shows a lovely attention to detail. But there's too much distraction as a packed theatre settles in for the duration; behind us, glasses are collected at the bar, people fidget and cough, and you wonder whether this simply won't work in the context. Perhaps such intimate, still writing requires a similar setting.
And then, magic. Penelope Wilton's voice - so perfect for Beckett, as previously noted - strikes up, and the words fill the gigantic space. She has the pace just right, the rhythm and the music, and you don't need anything more than that; you're drawn in as you always are. This being our Beckett, nothing's happening; there's nothing to look at except the detail of Gambon's face, enlarged on a stage-front screen, as he sits on his bed, haunted by the memories that haunt so many of these characters. But, at the same time, there's everything to look at, paintings on the mind's eye that could be the work of nobody else.
It is compelling drama, and the silence crystallises into something clear and concentrated as that voice torments poor, beaten Joe with harrowing images of his lover's suicide. With images that he can't rid himself of. With images that we see as clearly as we see the face on the screen. I've seen the original television production on a couple of occasions, but this a much more painful, powerful piece than it appeared then. It leaves its mark, and it doesn't fade quickly.
And so, Beckett hits the big time...and you still sit there, focused on every word and forgetting to breathe. So does everyone else, it seems. Maybe it's not so strange, after all. Maybe it's how things ought to be, perhaps without the vertigo....
02 July 2006
Samuel Beckett: That Time / What Where
More....
It's been roughly three months since the start of the Barbican's Beckett festival, the first of several events to mark the centenary of his birth. In those young and innocent and now rather distant days, we were full of bright-eyed enthusiasm; this is our ninth production since, at the Barbican and elsewhere...and, well, we're still full of enthusiasm, even if it isn't quite so bright-eyed any more. Another four dates are already booked into the diary. Mind you, we could've seen even more if we were really hardcore.....
For the first time, we're at the Calder Bookshop, the back room of which serves as a second-hand section during the day and a theatre by night. A very small theatre: three rows of chairs, with a thin strip of stage at one end. Samuel Beckett isn't about scale, though. Here, the Godot Company is currently presenting an intriguing series of productions of short Beckett works, its contribution to the on-going celebrations. Much too good to be missed, yet again.
For the first half hour, the territory is familiar. None the worse for that, of course: That Time is one of those lovely Beckett pieces that you could listen to forever, one of those that you wish more people were aware of. Once you've cleared your mind of workaday clutter and found that essential rhythm, the writing is marvellous: a broad smudge of memories, occasionally broken by the bold blue of a sky or a golden field of wheat. Something of Van Gogh, in my mind's eye. The three voices ebb and flow, fold back and open out, until expiring with their grinning host. Lovely, as I say.
The evening's revelation, then, is second on the bill. What Where, Beckett's last play, turns out to be a quite remarkable thing, and not only because it requires energetic choreography that appears quite impossible in such a confined space. Only ten minutes long, its terse analysis of dictatorial power appears to lack depth upon first viewing, a mere breakdown of power structures into repetitive actions, everything stripped of humanity. As ever, it is fascinating to watch this most wonderful of writers - sharp of intellect, yet so generous of heart - confront something new; it feels as if something has been lost in the process, though.
As a post-performance discussion unfolds, however, it strikes you that much of Beckett is very much still here. Existence perpetuating itself through habit, ritual, repetition; existence extinguishing itself through that process. A stark loneliness, inescapable. And then, we're very kindly offered the opportunity to see it performed again...and much more is revealed the second time around, not least the gleaming precision of the analysis. The savage paranoia of fascism stripped clean, reduced to an undeniable equation. It is a remarkable piece of writing.
For a change.
It's been roughly three months since the start of the Barbican's Beckett festival, the first of several events to mark the centenary of his birth. In those young and innocent and now rather distant days, we were full of bright-eyed enthusiasm; this is our ninth production since, at the Barbican and elsewhere...and, well, we're still full of enthusiasm, even if it isn't quite so bright-eyed any more. Another four dates are already booked into the diary. Mind you, we could've seen even more if we were really hardcore.....
For the first time, we're at the Calder Bookshop, the back room of which serves as a second-hand section during the day and a theatre by night. A very small theatre: three rows of chairs, with a thin strip of stage at one end. Samuel Beckett isn't about scale, though. Here, the Godot Company is currently presenting an intriguing series of productions of short Beckett works, its contribution to the on-going celebrations. Much too good to be missed, yet again.
For the first half hour, the territory is familiar. None the worse for that, of course: That Time is one of those lovely Beckett pieces that you could listen to forever, one of those that you wish more people were aware of. Once you've cleared your mind of workaday clutter and found that essential rhythm, the writing is marvellous: a broad smudge of memories, occasionally broken by the bold blue of a sky or a golden field of wheat. Something of Van Gogh, in my mind's eye. The three voices ebb and flow, fold back and open out, until expiring with their grinning host. Lovely, as I say.
The evening's revelation, then, is second on the bill. What Where, Beckett's last play, turns out to be a quite remarkable thing, and not only because it requires energetic choreography that appears quite impossible in such a confined space. Only ten minutes long, its terse analysis of dictatorial power appears to lack depth upon first viewing, a mere breakdown of power structures into repetitive actions, everything stripped of humanity. As ever, it is fascinating to watch this most wonderful of writers - sharp of intellect, yet so generous of heart - confront something new; it feels as if something has been lost in the process, though.
As a post-performance discussion unfolds, however, it strikes you that much of Beckett is very much still here. Existence perpetuating itself through habit, ritual, repetition; existence extinguishing itself through that process. A stark loneliness, inescapable. And then, we're very kindly offered the opportunity to see it performed again...and much more is revealed the second time around, not least the gleaming precision of the analysis. The savage paranoia of fascism stripped clean, reduced to an undeniable equation. It is a remarkable piece of writing.
For a change.
18 June 2006
Book review: William Golding - The Paper Men
Now, here's a surprise. Having stumbled through a sequential reading of William Golding's novels, the signs for The Paper Men are hardly promising. Twenty years have passed since The Spire, a towering (sorry) masterpiece that appears to have left its author spent; everything that's come from his typewriter since has been patchy, messy, ragged. The Paper Men barely merits a mention in most biographies, just a minor footnote. Oddly, it turns out to be rather good.
At last, Golding's attempts to capture ordinary lives in an ordinary world bear some fruit. Previous experiments have been either tedious or hopeless; here, he finds just the right balance, slowly building up his characters to allow more florid, thickly-painted expression later in the novel. For once, it's just thoroughly readable: each chapter builds another layer onto the structure, draws you deeper into the story of a bitter, alcoholic novelist and his obsessive biographer. After so much effort, it feels comfortable and confident; while it never threatens to match the intensity of his earlier work, it shows little sign of concern for that, happy within itself instead.
Until the last line. Which is so dreadful that I'm tempted to quote it in full, just to lessen the blow for anyone who might follow in my footsteps. For two final chapters, Golding weaves a splendid conclusion, all muted sadness and uncomfortable silences; having warmed to the novel enormously during its gradual rise and fall, it feels remarkably well-judged, just right. Until the author's courage fails him and he throws in a final twist that's born of an almost teenage immaturity, a misguided need to leave the reader with a surprised gasp rather than merely a thoughtful frown. So unnecessary. Buy a copy and cross it out before you start.
At last, Golding's attempts to capture ordinary lives in an ordinary world bear some fruit. Previous experiments have been either tedious or hopeless; here, he finds just the right balance, slowly building up his characters to allow more florid, thickly-painted expression later in the novel. For once, it's just thoroughly readable: each chapter builds another layer onto the structure, draws you deeper into the story of a bitter, alcoholic novelist and his obsessive biographer. After so much effort, it feels comfortable and confident; while it never threatens to match the intensity of his earlier work, it shows little sign of concern for that, happy within itself instead.
Until the last line. Which is so dreadful that I'm tempted to quote it in full, just to lessen the blow for anyone who might follow in my footsteps. For two final chapters, Golding weaves a splendid conclusion, all muted sadness and uncomfortable silences; having warmed to the novel enormously during its gradual rise and fall, it feels remarkably well-judged, just right. Until the author's courage fails him and he throws in a final twist that's born of an almost teenage immaturity, a misguided need to leave the reader with a surprised gasp rather than merely a thoughtful frown. So unnecessary. Buy a copy and cross it out before you start.
30 May 2006
On Nikolai Gogol
For some peculiar reason - and it can only be the forbidding title of his best-known work, I guess - Nikolai Gogol appears to intimidate people. Hell, he intimidated me for long enough, and I read Beckett for a laugh.
Which is an enormous shame. Because it doesn't take more than a brief acquaintance for you to realise that he's not like that at all. Not even slightly. "Dead Souls" isn't a grave, dismal account of poverty-stricken Russian peasantry, nor is it a deathly-dull exercise in philosphical chin-scratching; it isn't even much of a forerunner for Fyodor Dostoyevsky's work, despite being widely trailed as such. It's just a ludicrous riot of florid, flamboyant prose, impossibly wayward asides and, very occasionally, when it really can't be avoided, a bit of a story; it is emphatically not what you expect it to be. It made me laugh out loud on trains, for pity's sake.
His short stories, as I've been discovering, are equally erratic and, sometimes, equally inspired. "Ivan Ivanovich and Ivan Nikiforovich", for example, features a memorable insult - "I sneeze on your head!" - that I plan to try out myself when the opportunity next arises, along with a chapter entitled "From Which The Reader May Easily Learn Everything Contained In It". And a fat bloke stuck in a courtroom doorway. You're starting to get the idea.
But let's not dismiss Nikolai Gogol as a mere eccentric. Use that as a reason to read him, by all means; you won't be disappointed. There's substance too, though: in particular, there are astonishing hints of writing that would be revolutionary decades, many decades, after his death. There's Dostoyevsky, sure; you'd expect that, I suppose. But the resemblance of certain passages - especially "The Overcoat", with its central character's futile pursuit of authority - to Kafka is quite extraordinary; at other times, there are suggestions of Nabokov, even of Beckett. These, from a Russian novelist who died in 1852.
The point is not that Gogol was ahead of his time, not at all. Rather, it's that his best writing stretches every furthest point of his imagination, conjuring up fresh invention with virtually every paragraph. It never settles, it has none of the stillness, the insight or the control of other masters. Its beauty is in the very act of creation, in which it can leap forward centuries, not by anticipating the future but by happening upon and then casually discarding inspiration, forgetting where it buried the bone. It is indeed erratic...but then, that's genius for you. And "genius" is precisely the right word.
Which is an enormous shame. Because it doesn't take more than a brief acquaintance for you to realise that he's not like that at all. Not even slightly. "Dead Souls" isn't a grave, dismal account of poverty-stricken Russian peasantry, nor is it a deathly-dull exercise in philosphical chin-scratching; it isn't even much of a forerunner for Fyodor Dostoyevsky's work, despite being widely trailed as such. It's just a ludicrous riot of florid, flamboyant prose, impossibly wayward asides and, very occasionally, when it really can't be avoided, a bit of a story; it is emphatically not what you expect it to be. It made me laugh out loud on trains, for pity's sake.
His short stories, as I've been discovering, are equally erratic and, sometimes, equally inspired. "Ivan Ivanovich and Ivan Nikiforovich", for example, features a memorable insult - "I sneeze on your head!" - that I plan to try out myself when the opportunity next arises, along with a chapter entitled "From Which The Reader May Easily Learn Everything Contained In It". And a fat bloke stuck in a courtroom doorway. You're starting to get the idea.
But let's not dismiss Nikolai Gogol as a mere eccentric. Use that as a reason to read him, by all means; you won't be disappointed. There's substance too, though: in particular, there are astonishing hints of writing that would be revolutionary decades, many decades, after his death. There's Dostoyevsky, sure; you'd expect that, I suppose. But the resemblance of certain passages - especially "The Overcoat", with its central character's futile pursuit of authority - to Kafka is quite extraordinary; at other times, there are suggestions of Nabokov, even of Beckett. These, from a Russian novelist who died in 1852.
The point is not that Gogol was ahead of his time, not at all. Rather, it's that his best writing stretches every furthest point of his imagination, conjuring up fresh invention with virtually every paragraph. It never settles, it has none of the stillness, the insight or the control of other masters. Its beauty is in the very act of creation, in which it can leap forward centuries, not by anticipating the future but by happening upon and then casually discarding inspiration, forgetting where it buried the bone. It is indeed erratic...but then, that's genius for you. And "genius" is precisely the right word.
14 May 2006
Brighton Festival's Samuel Beckett Weekend
"Tonight's performance will last for three hours...." There is an audible gasp from the audience, something approaching terror. Especially from those of us who, unwisely, have decided to wait until after the performance to eat.
Especially from those of us whose weekends have already contained a hefty, full-to-bursting helping of Beckett recitals elsewhere. Brighton Festival's Beckett Weekend, centred around three prose adaptations by the Gare St Lazare Players, certainly lives up to its name. It's not for the faint-hearted.
Indeed, even the strong-hearted, the heartfelt Beckett evangelists, might flinch from some of this. The venue for our first two portions feels perfect - sparse furniture in a dimly-lit concrete cellar, just a wooden bench and a ledge for a stage - but the choice of works is brave in the extreme. Or, perhaps, just extreme in the extreme.
These are difficult pieces, to perform and to digest. The three excerpts of Texts For Nothing, welded together to form as much of a whole as nothing can form, are deliberately hesitant and doubting. They coil back upon themselves as soon as they appear to have reached any kind of conclusion, shrinking instinctively from the light. Occasionally, a coherent image forms and is extinguished almost instantly, returning us to a lost, confusing greyness. There is some great writing here, to be sure, and it is performed with loving care by Conor Lovett. But, Jesus, it tests a faltering attention span after an extremely long day.
And then, Worstward Ho follows on the Sunday afternoon and is harsh and impenetrable even by Beckett's considerable standards. Just a few ghostly images haunting prose that's frequently an impossible maze, insistently recounted by Lee Delong. It is another fascinating hour, demanding and ultimately rewarding. It is as far as Beckett went, pretty much, and that's quite a long way further than anyone else bothered to go. I have spent more relaxing Sunday afternoons.
In both cases, acute concentration is required, and the slightest slip loses the thread entirely. It seems to me that the performances are more than partly responsible, even though both deserve immense praise for tackling such daunting territory in the first place. Somehow, the music that's inherent in so much of Beckett's prose is lost in the desire to explain, to convey meaning. There's too much effort, too much work. Too much constipation. There's none of the joy that can
be found even in Beckett's bleakest work, none of the purity and the greatness. It's all a bit of a strain.
And thus, another three hours on Sunday evening is an intimidating prospect. But, to the relief of all, Conor Lovett's performance of excerpts from the trilogy of Molloy, Malone Dies and The Unnamable is brilliant, riveting and, in comparison, the time flashes by. At last, here's the joy: the comedy of Molloy is so riotous and absurd and occasionally filthy that you could be watching great stand-up.
It's a marvellous introduction, but Malone Dies is where you find the reasons why some of us love this stuff, why it is held so close to our hearts rather than merely admired from a distance. Here, there are traces of that black, surreal comedy...but they're framed by something profoundly still, something deathly. Malone's stories disintegrate and splinter, life's flame flickering and then spluttering out. It is beautiful writing, kind and yet totally unsentimental, perfectly poised; as a consequence, it manages that most impossible thing: it is hopelessly moving, yet resoundingly intelligent at the same time.
After which, The Unnamable, perhaps the grandest of all Beckett's works, is a glorious, gorgeous after-glow. His movements echoed by an enormous shadow on the back wall, Lovett lingers in the after-life, somewhere between ghost and angel and god. Resisting the novel's classic but somewhat worn ending ("I can't go on. I'll go on."), he makes random noises into the nothingness to pass the time, before finally extinguishing the spotlight, disappearing into the void. And returning for the applause.
It's been a remarkable few weeks, really. Hours and hours and hours spent listening to Samuel Beckett's work - for you spend much more time listening than watching - and yet no sense of having exhausted it. Set aside the literary landmarks, the vast historical importance of it all, and you're left with fundamentals: that he left behind writing so full of humanity that it will always be irresistible. Too much humour, too much kindness, too much sadness, too much simple beauty. Everything that art can be, with so little of the nonsense.
Here's to you, guvnor.
Especially from those of us whose weekends have already contained a hefty, full-to-bursting helping of Beckett recitals elsewhere. Brighton Festival's Beckett Weekend, centred around three prose adaptations by the Gare St Lazare Players, certainly lives up to its name. It's not for the faint-hearted.
Indeed, even the strong-hearted, the heartfelt Beckett evangelists, might flinch from some of this. The venue for our first two portions feels perfect - sparse furniture in a dimly-lit concrete cellar, just a wooden bench and a ledge for a stage - but the choice of works is brave in the extreme. Or, perhaps, just extreme in the extreme.
These are difficult pieces, to perform and to digest. The three excerpts of Texts For Nothing, welded together to form as much of a whole as nothing can form, are deliberately hesitant and doubting. They coil back upon themselves as soon as they appear to have reached any kind of conclusion, shrinking instinctively from the light. Occasionally, a coherent image forms and is extinguished almost instantly, returning us to a lost, confusing greyness. There is some great writing here, to be sure, and it is performed with loving care by Conor Lovett. But, Jesus, it tests a faltering attention span after an extremely long day.
And then, Worstward Ho follows on the Sunday afternoon and is harsh and impenetrable even by Beckett's considerable standards. Just a few ghostly images haunting prose that's frequently an impossible maze, insistently recounted by Lee Delong. It is another fascinating hour, demanding and ultimately rewarding. It is as far as Beckett went, pretty much, and that's quite a long way further than anyone else bothered to go. I have spent more relaxing Sunday afternoons.
In both cases, acute concentration is required, and the slightest slip loses the thread entirely. It seems to me that the performances are more than partly responsible, even though both deserve immense praise for tackling such daunting territory in the first place. Somehow, the music that's inherent in so much of Beckett's prose is lost in the desire to explain, to convey meaning. There's too much effort, too much work. Too much constipation. There's none of the joy that can
be found even in Beckett's bleakest work, none of the purity and the greatness. It's all a bit of a strain.
And thus, another three hours on Sunday evening is an intimidating prospect. But, to the relief of all, Conor Lovett's performance of excerpts from the trilogy of Molloy, Malone Dies and The Unnamable is brilliant, riveting and, in comparison, the time flashes by. At last, here's the joy: the comedy of Molloy is so riotous and absurd and occasionally filthy that you could be watching great stand-up.
It's a marvellous introduction, but Malone Dies is where you find the reasons why some of us love this stuff, why it is held so close to our hearts rather than merely admired from a distance. Here, there are traces of that black, surreal comedy...but they're framed by something profoundly still, something deathly. Malone's stories disintegrate and splinter, life's flame flickering and then spluttering out. It is beautiful writing, kind and yet totally unsentimental, perfectly poised; as a consequence, it manages that most impossible thing: it is hopelessly moving, yet resoundingly intelligent at the same time.
After which, The Unnamable, perhaps the grandest of all Beckett's works, is a glorious, gorgeous after-glow. His movements echoed by an enormous shadow on the back wall, Lovett lingers in the after-life, somewhere between ghost and angel and god. Resisting the novel's classic but somewhat worn ending ("I can't go on. I'll go on."), he makes random noises into the nothingness to pass the time, before finally extinguishing the spotlight, disappearing into the void. And returning for the applause.
It's been a remarkable few weeks, really. Hours and hours and hours spent listening to Samuel Beckett's work - for you spend much more time listening than watching - and yet no sense of having exhausted it. Set aside the literary landmarks, the vast historical importance of it all, and you're left with fundamentals: that he left behind writing so full of humanity that it will always be irresistible. Too much humour, too much kindness, too much sadness, too much simple beauty. Everything that art can be, with so little of the nonsense.
Here's to you, guvnor.
29 April 2006
Samuel Beckett - Krapp's Last Tape
There's an awful lot to say about Krapp's Last Tape. An awful lot. In some ways, it's easily lost amid the numerous landmarks in Beckett's canon, bridging the distance between the surrealism of his early dramatic works and the refined, still minimalism that later became characteristic. It's neither and both, and so much more than a necessary bit of process.
Indeed, its structure - shifting memories and images from three ages of the same man, recorded, played and replayed via his taped diaries - is audacious and inspired, even by Beckett's remarkable standards. A kind of theatrical cubism, if you like. Or something. In lesser hands, this could've been an innovative shambles. These are not lesser hands, though: the effect is a portrait of a lifetime, drawn bold and harsh and yet with exquisite tenderness. It doesn't feel like an idea.
There is so much humanity here. In the opening stages, Beckett outlines his character with wonderfully gentle, kind touches: his addiction to bananas, his creaking shoes, his digestive problems, his playful toying with words. It's almost as if he allows Krapp to hold up the play until he's ready to begin...or until he's ready to go, perhaps. From all of this, something is created that couldn't possibly have been conjured up by a conventional narrative: in less than an hour, you know this old, broken man like a close friend. The parting is virtually unbearable.
There's an awful lot to say about John Hurt's performance too. His name draws a packed house to see a role that he's played many times before, but there's no sense of complacency; rather, it's hard to believe that this incredibly demanding part has ever been played with such bravery, such absolute determination. Such undeniable heart. Ghosts of great performances wander through many of Beckett's plays, often dominating new interpretations; Hurt has left another of those ghosts. He is truly, truly magnificent.
An awful lot to say, then. And yet, nothing at all to say. Beckett's work, in any form, is often wondrous, often capable of making language achieve extraordinary things. But it's rarely as emotionally raw as this, rarely as profoundly moving; here, the light goes out on Hurt with tears lining his lower lids, just held back from spilling. Christ, I'm trembling with the effort myself. There are moments when it's difficult not to look away, not to flinch from such complete heartbreak. And yet, that humanity keeps drawing you close again, reaching out to the lonely, shattered figure on the stage.
There is nothing to say, in the end. All of Beckett's genius, put into bringing one poor, frail, dying man to flickering life. Simply, it is beautiful and moving beyond all words.
Indeed, its structure - shifting memories and images from three ages of the same man, recorded, played and replayed via his taped diaries - is audacious and inspired, even by Beckett's remarkable standards. A kind of theatrical cubism, if you like. Or something. In lesser hands, this could've been an innovative shambles. These are not lesser hands, though: the effect is a portrait of a lifetime, drawn bold and harsh and yet with exquisite tenderness. It doesn't feel like an idea.
There is so much humanity here. In the opening stages, Beckett outlines his character with wonderfully gentle, kind touches: his addiction to bananas, his creaking shoes, his digestive problems, his playful toying with words. It's almost as if he allows Krapp to hold up the play until he's ready to begin...or until he's ready to go, perhaps. From all of this, something is created that couldn't possibly have been conjured up by a conventional narrative: in less than an hour, you know this old, broken man like a close friend. The parting is virtually unbearable.
There's an awful lot to say about John Hurt's performance too. His name draws a packed house to see a role that he's played many times before, but there's no sense of complacency; rather, it's hard to believe that this incredibly demanding part has ever been played with such bravery, such absolute determination. Such undeniable heart. Ghosts of great performances wander through many of Beckett's plays, often dominating new interpretations; Hurt has left another of those ghosts. He is truly, truly magnificent.
An awful lot to say, then. And yet, nothing at all to say. Beckett's work, in any form, is often wondrous, often capable of making language achieve extraordinary things. But it's rarely as emotionally raw as this, rarely as profoundly moving; here, the light goes out on Hurt with tears lining his lower lids, just held back from spilling. Christ, I'm trembling with the effort myself. There are moments when it's difficult not to look away, not to flinch from such complete heartbreak. And yet, that humanity keeps drawing you close again, reaching out to the lonely, shattered figure on the stage.
There is nothing to say, in the end. All of Beckett's genius, put into bringing one poor, frail, dying man to flickering life. Simply, it is beautiful and moving beyond all words.
14 April 2006
Samuel Beckett: Come and Go / Footfalls
Much less familiar to me than the contents of the previous double-bill, these two pieces offer sharper contrasts and harsher edges. A little closer, perhaps, to what people imagine when they think of Samuel Beckett's later drama; a little further away, possibly, from the immediate, instinctive joy that can be found within it.
Indeed, Come and Go is unusually unsatisfying. It's a visually striking piece, to be sure: three women seated in a row, wrapped in pastel shades and veiled by the shadows of their hats. It's beautifully executed too, slow and deliberate and elegant as each figure departs in turn, leaving the others to whisper secrets in their absence. But, in the end, this is an idea, not a fleshed-out play. Of course, there are many who'd level that accusation at far more of Beckett's work, but wrongly: much of its strength comes from marrying brave, stark ideas with astonishingly rich and potent writing. There is nearly always more to a Beckett piece than meets the eye; Come and Go strikes me as being a rare exception. A diverting enough exception (and a short one too), but an exception nonetheless.
Footfalls immediately proves the point. Bare and bleak to the point of parody, this is precisely the kind of miserable nonsense that'd drive quite a lot of people to complete distraction. For five or ten minutes, even I can't quite penetrate the monochromatic blankness: the dull clonk-clonk-clonk of the footfalls as a woman wrapped in rags shuffles back and forth across the stage, occasionally chided by the creaking voice of her elderly mother. Not a great choice for a first date, put it that way.
But these pieces thrive on rhythm, music as much as drama; when you find that rhythm, you can lose yourself in it entirely. From the outside, Footfalls feels awkward, staged, overdone; when you're lost inside it, its ghostly voices and haunting figures make the air seem colder, the hush seem quieter. The writing comes alive, helped by a particularly fine performance from Justine Mitchell as May, bringing a delightful touch of youthful insolence to the daughter's relationship with her mother. There's infinite sadness here...but then, there's a brash smudge of humour near the end, laughter that's immediately overwhelmed by the sadness again. A sudden flash of purple across a canvas dominated by blacks and greys.
From the outside, the appeal is elusive. When you're inside the piece, as one with its heartbeat, Beckett's writing is brave and daring and heartfelt. Its music is stirring and magnificent, even as it is utterly still and deathly. Not for the first time, I wonder: who else can write like this? Who else can draw so deeply upon simple language? Not for the last time, I conclude: it really doesn't matter.
Indeed, Come and Go is unusually unsatisfying. It's a visually striking piece, to be sure: three women seated in a row, wrapped in pastel shades and veiled by the shadows of their hats. It's beautifully executed too, slow and deliberate and elegant as each figure departs in turn, leaving the others to whisper secrets in their absence. But, in the end, this is an idea, not a fleshed-out play. Of course, there are many who'd level that accusation at far more of Beckett's work, but wrongly: much of its strength comes from marrying brave, stark ideas with astonishingly rich and potent writing. There is nearly always more to a Beckett piece than meets the eye; Come and Go strikes me as being a rare exception. A diverting enough exception (and a short one too), but an exception nonetheless.
Footfalls immediately proves the point. Bare and bleak to the point of parody, this is precisely the kind of miserable nonsense that'd drive quite a lot of people to complete distraction. For five or ten minutes, even I can't quite penetrate the monochromatic blankness: the dull clonk-clonk-clonk of the footfalls as a woman wrapped in rags shuffles back and forth across the stage, occasionally chided by the creaking voice of her elderly mother. Not a great choice for a first date, put it that way.
But these pieces thrive on rhythm, music as much as drama; when you find that rhythm, you can lose yourself in it entirely. From the outside, Footfalls feels awkward, staged, overdone; when you're lost inside it, its ghostly voices and haunting figures make the air seem colder, the hush seem quieter. The writing comes alive, helped by a particularly fine performance from Justine Mitchell as May, bringing a delightful touch of youthful insolence to the daughter's relationship with her mother. There's infinite sadness here...but then, there's a brash smudge of humour near the end, laughter that's immediately overwhelmed by the sadness again. A sudden flash of purple across a canvas dominated by blacks and greys.
From the outside, the appeal is elusive. When you're inside the piece, as one with its heartbeat, Beckett's writing is brave and daring and heartfelt. Its music is stirring and magnificent, even as it is utterly still and deathly. Not for the first time, I wonder: who else can write like this? Who else can draw so deeply upon simple language? Not for the last time, I conclude: it really doesn't matter.
10 April 2006
Samuel Beckett: Prose and Poetry
Not exactly the most high profile events in the Beckett Centenary Festival programme, these two hour-long selections of prose and poetry readings appear to exist mainly to reward the brave, prepared to take a punt and pay fifteen quid (twice) for something entirely mysterious. Blind faith tells us that we won't be listening to a jobbing actor mumbling incomprehensibly into a book for an hour, while we shift uncomfortably and gaze longingly at the exit. And blind faith is duly rewarded....
It's a shame, in many ways. Were the uninitiated present, there would be few better introductions to the lesser known reaches of Samuel Beckett's work than these relaxed, mildly jovial strolls through various novels, short stories, plays and poems...and it does no harm at all that stars of stage and screen have turned out to be our guides.
John Hurt, it transpires, looks exactly like John Hurt, to the point of caricature. If you bother to think about it, you already know what clothes he was wearing; I need not waste our time with a description. This is somehow comforting. Charles Dance is a more elegant presence, albeit therefore a slightly incongruous one; Beckett's language feels resistant to his strident, confident voice, whereas it fits the Irish tones of Alan Stanford and Barry McGovern like a battered, comfortable old shoe, and you get the impression that both have been tramping around joyously in these passages since childhood. And then, on both evenings (and in the same outfit, I note on behalf of my companion), there's Penelope Wilton. The presence of someone who's been in Doctor Who adds a certain gravitas to proceedings, in our eyes.
The beauty of the format - sixteen readings on each occasion, none out-staying its welcome - is that it allows you to feel Beckett's astonishing range, his sublime blending of comedy and tragedy at the very edges of existence. It may be black as black can be, but his humour sparkles and twinkles delightfully nonetheless; there are moments of pure, daft, for-the-hell-of-it hilarity when only the need to listen on prevents you from rocking back and cackling uncontrollably at the absurdity of it all. And then, from exactly the same pen and sometimes even within the same excerpt, come moments when silence descends and a deep sadness rushes through the room like a chill draught. Very few writers could master one of these.
Not everything works, of course. But there are countless treats nonetheless, both known and new. And there are, as so often with Beckett, a couple of utter revelations, both courtesy of Wilton's gentle, insistent delivery. There's a brief glimpse of Winnie from Happy Days, captured so perfectly - hopeful, fragile, deeply tragic - that the role could've been written for her; nothing is more wonderful than when Beckett's work suddenly comes into piercing focus, fresh and vivid and alive.
And, even better, there's an ambitious attempt at the complex, dense prose of Stirrings Still, in which Wilton pushes the limits of her homespun charm to astonishing effect. Shifting images of death, love, regret, and echoes closing in on each other, it's truly mesmerising. You forget to breathe. There's much that's great here, and even more that's splendidly entertaining. There's perfection too, momentary but unforgettable. And priceless, for the brave.
It's a shame, in many ways. Were the uninitiated present, there would be few better introductions to the lesser known reaches of Samuel Beckett's work than these relaxed, mildly jovial strolls through various novels, short stories, plays and poems...and it does no harm at all that stars of stage and screen have turned out to be our guides.
John Hurt, it transpires, looks exactly like John Hurt, to the point of caricature. If you bother to think about it, you already know what clothes he was wearing; I need not waste our time with a description. This is somehow comforting. Charles Dance is a more elegant presence, albeit therefore a slightly incongruous one; Beckett's language feels resistant to his strident, confident voice, whereas it fits the Irish tones of Alan Stanford and Barry McGovern like a battered, comfortable old shoe, and you get the impression that both have been tramping around joyously in these passages since childhood. And then, on both evenings (and in the same outfit, I note on behalf of my companion), there's Penelope Wilton. The presence of someone who's been in Doctor Who adds a certain gravitas to proceedings, in our eyes.
The beauty of the format - sixteen readings on each occasion, none out-staying its welcome - is that it allows you to feel Beckett's astonishing range, his sublime blending of comedy and tragedy at the very edges of existence. It may be black as black can be, but his humour sparkles and twinkles delightfully nonetheless; there are moments of pure, daft, for-the-hell-of-it hilarity when only the need to listen on prevents you from rocking back and cackling uncontrollably at the absurdity of it all. And then, from exactly the same pen and sometimes even within the same excerpt, come moments when silence descends and a deep sadness rushes through the room like a chill draught. Very few writers could master one of these.
Not everything works, of course. But there are countless treats nonetheless, both known and new. And there are, as so often with Beckett, a couple of utter revelations, both courtesy of Wilton's gentle, insistent delivery. There's a brief glimpse of Winnie from Happy Days, captured so perfectly - hopeful, fragile, deeply tragic - that the role could've been written for her; nothing is more wonderful than when Beckett's work suddenly comes into piercing focus, fresh and vivid and alive.
And, even better, there's an ambitious attempt at the complex, dense prose of Stirrings Still, in which Wilton pushes the limits of her homespun charm to astonishing effect. Shifting images of death, love, regret, and echoes closing in on each other, it's truly mesmerising. You forget to breathe. There's much that's great here, and even more that's splendidly entertaining. There's perfection too, momentary but unforgettable. And priceless, for the brave.
Book review: Bret Easton Ellis - Lunar Park
Going right back, I've always associated Bret Easton Ellis with the Manic Street Preachers. Perhaps - probably, in fact - they were the first to nudge my attention in his direction, part of the endless barrage of quotes, references, iconography that comprised much of their early assault on the world. They shared more than that too, maybe: a certain youthful attitude, striking poses, causing fights, burning bridges and then disappearing. You could see the mutual attraction.
The comparison still holds, pretty much. The beauty of the Manics, of course, was they'd have to grow up - well, with one notable exception - and we'd have to grow up with them. Together, we've grown a little chubbier, we've mellowed and settled and survived...and we know that we'd bore the living hell out of our former firebrand selves. That's the essence of the Manics' art, right there: youthful invective turning to sensible middle age. It's not a sell-out, it's just how things go.
And thus, twenty-or-whatever years on, we get a Bret Easton Ellis novel about domesticity, about recovery, about compromise, about his relationship with his family. About not being a twenty-something it-bloke any more. It is, naturally enough, not nearly that simple, but neither is it the taut, barbed sneering with which he made gazillions of dollars and an entirely justified reputation. It'd be brave, if it wasn't an inevitable part of the process of growing up, something unavoidable. He can't write the same novel again, much as we might wish him to.
That's fine, then. What's hard to swallow is the mediocrity. Because there's a lot of middle ground between the glassy, dead-eyed prose of Ellis' best work and the tumbling, gulping confessional that comes out of the last pages of Lunar Park. Once you've got beyond a startlingly audacious opening chapter, and before you reach that highly emotive conclusion, you have to live with one overwhelming truth for several hundred pages: Bret Easton Ellis confronting American suburbia turns out to be a whole lot less interesting than you'd imagined.
Too much of Lunar Park is filled with surprisingly weak satire and lazy, obvious observation; too much of the rest comes across as frantic horror schlock rather than, as admirably intentioned, a breakdown into surreal, delusional paranoia. Having abandoned his old voice, and quite understandably so, Ellis never finds a new, distinctive style to replace it here, and never comes close to matching the compulsive, stunning rush of his early novels. It feels uncomfortable, almost unfinished. It feels recycled. Too much time in the studio, perhaps.
And thus, we have something unprecedented: a Bret Easton Ellis novel that's merely all right. Not great, not awful, just all right. It had to happen, in the end.
The comparison still holds, pretty much. The beauty of the Manics, of course, was they'd have to grow up - well, with one notable exception - and we'd have to grow up with them. Together, we've grown a little chubbier, we've mellowed and settled and survived...and we know that we'd bore the living hell out of our former firebrand selves. That's the essence of the Manics' art, right there: youthful invective turning to sensible middle age. It's not a sell-out, it's just how things go.
And thus, twenty-or-whatever years on, we get a Bret Easton Ellis novel about domesticity, about recovery, about compromise, about his relationship with his family. About not being a twenty-something it-bloke any more. It is, naturally enough, not nearly that simple, but neither is it the taut, barbed sneering with which he made gazillions of dollars and an entirely justified reputation. It'd be brave, if it wasn't an inevitable part of the process of growing up, something unavoidable. He can't write the same novel again, much as we might wish him to.
That's fine, then. What's hard to swallow is the mediocrity. Because there's a lot of middle ground between the glassy, dead-eyed prose of Ellis' best work and the tumbling, gulping confessional that comes out of the last pages of Lunar Park. Once you've got beyond a startlingly audacious opening chapter, and before you reach that highly emotive conclusion, you have to live with one overwhelming truth for several hundred pages: Bret Easton Ellis confronting American suburbia turns out to be a whole lot less interesting than you'd imagined.
Too much of Lunar Park is filled with surprisingly weak satire and lazy, obvious observation; too much of the rest comes across as frantic horror schlock rather than, as admirably intentioned, a breakdown into surreal, delusional paranoia. Having abandoned his old voice, and quite understandably so, Ellis never finds a new, distinctive style to replace it here, and never comes close to matching the compulsive, stunning rush of his early novels. It feels uncomfortable, almost unfinished. It feels recycled. Too much time in the studio, perhaps.
And thus, we have something unprecedented: a Bret Easton Ellis novel that's merely all right. Not great, not awful, just all right. It had to happen, in the end.
26 March 2006
Samuel Beckett: Rockaby / Ohio Impromptu at the Barbican
Part one of several, because Samuel Beckett's hundredth birthday means that there's suddenly an awful lot to indulge in, for those who are partial. And it is an indulgence: far from the austere, bleak monotony of common misconception, I find the sheer brilliance of Beckett's finest work, especially his minimalist drama, to be an unutterable joy. How else can you feel but elated, having experienced these dizzying pinnacles of imagination, of artistry, of pure, spare, potent language?
So, here we are, loitering in the bizarre weightlessness (and foodlessness) of the Barbican on a Friday night, like being stuck in an airport in the early hours; here, for the first part of a lengthy season of Beckett's work, performances of Rockaby and Ohio Impromptu. Personal favourites, these...close and special, burdened with especially high expectations.
There's a unique balancing act within this work, contributing to that essential joy. That so much of it projects on your mind's eye in the absence of movement on stage means that it's instantly familiar: the same words, the same images, conjured up from the first breath. And yet, there is remarkable room for variation, for fresh interpretation and discovery. Sure, Beckett constrained the possibilities of these plays by being spectacularly prescriptive about their execution...but that only amplifies the impact of each tweaked nuance, magnifying emphasis and pause and accent to create a fresh mosaic for each performance.
Thus, even the most familiar work can yield revelations. Thus, Sian Phillips' version of Rockaby doesn't quite capture the gorgeous, deathly music in my head; it feels just a little forced, over-stressing the later passages in an unnecessary attempt to distinguish itself from classic performances. Splitting hairs, of course...but you can do that under a magnifying glass.
Thus, Harry Towb and Peter Cadden's reading of Ohio Impromptu is simply breathtaking in its understated perfection, setting the bar extraordinarily high for the rest of the festival. By the end, they've somehow managed to get so close to the sad, sombre essence of the piece that you can almost feel the long cello notes being drawn out, shivers rushing down spine. A piece that I thought I knew so well, yet had never experienced so vividly. Right there, even amid the desolation, there's majesty and magic.
That's Samuel Beckett, if you want it to be.
So, here we are, loitering in the bizarre weightlessness (and foodlessness) of the Barbican on a Friday night, like being stuck in an airport in the early hours; here, for the first part of a lengthy season of Beckett's work, performances of Rockaby and Ohio Impromptu. Personal favourites, these...close and special, burdened with especially high expectations.
There's a unique balancing act within this work, contributing to that essential joy. That so much of it projects on your mind's eye in the absence of movement on stage means that it's instantly familiar: the same words, the same images, conjured up from the first breath. And yet, there is remarkable room for variation, for fresh interpretation and discovery. Sure, Beckett constrained the possibilities of these plays by being spectacularly prescriptive about their execution...but that only amplifies the impact of each tweaked nuance, magnifying emphasis and pause and accent to create a fresh mosaic for each performance.
Thus, even the most familiar work can yield revelations. Thus, Sian Phillips' version of Rockaby doesn't quite capture the gorgeous, deathly music in my head; it feels just a little forced, over-stressing the later passages in an unnecessary attempt to distinguish itself from classic performances. Splitting hairs, of course...but you can do that under a magnifying glass.
Thus, Harry Towb and Peter Cadden's reading of Ohio Impromptu is simply breathtaking in its understated perfection, setting the bar extraordinarily high for the rest of the festival. By the end, they've somehow managed to get so close to the sad, sombre essence of the piece that you can almost feel the long cello notes being drawn out, shivers rushing down spine. A piece that I thought I knew so well, yet had never experienced so vividly. Right there, even amid the desolation, there's majesty and magic.
That's Samuel Beckett, if you want it to be.
12 March 2006
Book review: Vladimir Nabokov - The Luzhin Defence
If there were any justice in the world, Vladimir Nabokov would be insufferable. As amply demonstrated by a foreword so smug and self-satisfied that it makes you want to punch him square on the nose, his cleverness - the undoing of many a half-decent novel(ist) - is not at all easy to ignore. It crops up too often in his writing as well: little stylistic and structural connivances that shake you out of your involvement with the narrative, irritating and unnecessary.
Thing is, Nabokov The Smart-Arse is mostly forced to play second fiddle to Nabokov The Storyteller. And the less effusive, more charming Nabokov proves to be a pure, simple wonder. "The Luzhin Defence" is conceptually splendid, as you'd expect, but its realisation is where the real joy lies.
Thus, when he's not preening and posing, Nabokov demonstrates his increasing mastery of the form. The characterisation of Luzhin - instinctive chess genius, barely functional human being - is just sublime, a masterpiece of subtle shading and concealed definition. His ear for incidental fragments of dialogue is uncanny, just short of abstraction. And yet, somehow, all of this is framed by a story that bounds along eagerly; for all its marvellous artistry, it's a novel that's deeply, easily rewarding to read. And impossible to hate, from the very first page.
Thing is, Nabokov The Smart-Arse is mostly forced to play second fiddle to Nabokov The Storyteller. And the less effusive, more charming Nabokov proves to be a pure, simple wonder. "The Luzhin Defence" is conceptually splendid, as you'd expect, but its realisation is where the real joy lies.
Thus, when he's not preening and posing, Nabokov demonstrates his increasing mastery of the form. The characterisation of Luzhin - instinctive chess genius, barely functional human being - is just sublime, a masterpiece of subtle shading and concealed definition. His ear for incidental fragments of dialogue is uncanny, just short of abstraction. And yet, somehow, all of this is framed by a story that bounds along eagerly; for all its marvellous artistry, it's a novel that's deeply, easily rewarding to read. And impossible to hate, from the very first page.
Film review: A History of Violence
In the end, I just have to conclude that I don't particularly like David Cronenberg films. And yet, I also have to conclude that he keeps making films that draw me in, attract my attention, and repeat the acute disappointment. "A History of Violence" is precisely what I asked for: it's dark, introspective, brooding and, yes, pretty damn violent. And yet it's not what I wanted.
The problem is with the direction, I think. While it's possible that Cronenberg has aimed to leave a trace of the story's origins as a graphic novel, the whole thing feels artificial and staged, a plastic world with plastic people. It's not a new problem, unfortunately. The blood looks real enough, sure, but the characters who shed it don't ever seem to have beating hearts. And that undermines the whole exercise: as an intelligent study of memory, instinct, personality, it'd have a great many merits...if it contained any human beings.
So, without that vital sense of involvement, you can concentrate on all of the other flaws, right up to the absurdly hammy climax. It remains diverting to watch, of course: there's too much here to lose your attention. But you're always watching, nothing more. Yet again, Cronenberg has tempted me in, promising so much. Yet again, he's created a film that loses its essence amid stylisation and conceit.
The problem is with the direction, I think. While it's possible that Cronenberg has aimed to leave a trace of the story's origins as a graphic novel, the whole thing feels artificial and staged, a plastic world with plastic people. It's not a new problem, unfortunately. The blood looks real enough, sure, but the characters who shed it don't ever seem to have beating hearts. And that undermines the whole exercise: as an intelligent study of memory, instinct, personality, it'd have a great many merits...if it contained any human beings.
So, without that vital sense of involvement, you can concentrate on all of the other flaws, right up to the absurdly hammy climax. It remains diverting to watch, of course: there's too much here to lose your attention. But you're always watching, nothing more. Yet again, Cronenberg has tempted me in, promising so much. Yet again, he's created a film that loses its essence amid stylisation and conceit.
26 February 2006
Book review: William Golding - Darkness Visible
It takes a peculiar, remarkable talent to write a novel quite as unsuccessful as "Darkness Visible". Unquestionably, William Golding was that peculiar, remarkable talent.
It wasn't genius. Not quite that: his truly great work carries the mark of a different persona. It strains every sinew in a quest for understanding, for first-hand experience...and that's not the flighty impetuousity of genius. Still, that searching did take him to some strange, unlikely places. After a couple of lazy fizzles - "The Pyramid" and "The Scorpion God", both in the archives - "Darkness Visible" is perhaps strangest of all.
He's trying again. There is a fresh sense of purpose here, a vision to convey. In itself, that's thrilling, a reminder that this is a writer still to win the Nobel Prize, still to be lauded for that very distinctive not-genius.
But he's trying too hard. Far too hard. "Darkness Visible" is over-written to the point of absurdity, its pages strewn with ideas like an untidy office. Somewhere, perhaps inside Golding's mind, there's a unique, serious novel to match his finest. What's found its way into print, however, is a completely impenetrable muddle, lost in translation.
For other writers, it might still succeed. I have no idea at all, for example, what much of Haruki Murakami's work is about. But I don't need to know: I understand it instinctively, emotionally. It affects me, goes through me as music more than fiction. For Golding, a writer in search of physical, dense, tangible understanding, instinct is not enough. It just leaves cold bewilderment, and a novel that rises to the challenge and fails, bravely but somewhat foolishly.
It wasn't genius. Not quite that: his truly great work carries the mark of a different persona. It strains every sinew in a quest for understanding, for first-hand experience...and that's not the flighty impetuousity of genius. Still, that searching did take him to some strange, unlikely places. After a couple of lazy fizzles - "The Pyramid" and "The Scorpion God", both in the archives - "Darkness Visible" is perhaps strangest of all.
He's trying again. There is a fresh sense of purpose here, a vision to convey. In itself, that's thrilling, a reminder that this is a writer still to win the Nobel Prize, still to be lauded for that very distinctive not-genius.
But he's trying too hard. Far too hard. "Darkness Visible" is over-written to the point of absurdity, its pages strewn with ideas like an untidy office. Somewhere, perhaps inside Golding's mind, there's a unique, serious novel to match his finest. What's found its way into print, however, is a completely impenetrable muddle, lost in translation.
For other writers, it might still succeed. I have no idea at all, for example, what much of Haruki Murakami's work is about. But I don't need to know: I understand it instinctively, emotionally. It affects me, goes through me as music more than fiction. For Golding, a writer in search of physical, dense, tangible understanding, instinct is not enough. It just leaves cold bewilderment, and a novel that rises to the challenge and fails, bravely but somewhat foolishly.
20 February 2006
Film review: Downfall
This is a brave film. Almost breathtaking. It's brave in the most obvious sense, for it represents a very deliberate attempt to open some closed doors in Germany's history, and it really doesn't flinch from what it finds behind them. This is the kind of thing that can only be done by the nation itself, a process of acceptance, realisation, brave discovery.
Really, that'd be enough, and during the slightly self-conscious, theatrical opening stages, there's a sense that "Downfall" is impressed by its own existence, unsure of quite what to do next. But it becomes less tentative with each passing minute, in the process gaining the confidence to start painting in shades of grey rather than rashly splashing black and white.
Given the sensitivity of the subject matter, it's an extraordinary achievement that this is a deeply and increasingly compelling piece of cinema rather than just a praiseworthy exercise. It's bloody ugly, of course, but it's much more than that: in the midst of Hitler's downfall, and Berlin's downfall beyond the bunker door, we find all manner of human life, from blind, misguided heroism to rank cowardice.
There's an odd reticence about political detail, but that perhaps lets something more important come through: an essential humanity, even in such extremity. Remarkably, brilliantly, there appears to be no moral here, no particular point to be made...except that it happened, that these people existed, led a nation to psychopathic slaughter, and died utterly defeated. That's what it's about, in the end: defeat. Free from the victors' triumph, either in front of or behind the camera, that defeat looks rank, sordid, and savagely human. You can't look away.
Really, that'd be enough, and during the slightly self-conscious, theatrical opening stages, there's a sense that "Downfall" is impressed by its own existence, unsure of quite what to do next. But it becomes less tentative with each passing minute, in the process gaining the confidence to start painting in shades of grey rather than rashly splashing black and white.
Given the sensitivity of the subject matter, it's an extraordinary achievement that this is a deeply and increasingly compelling piece of cinema rather than just a praiseworthy exercise. It's bloody ugly, of course, but it's much more than that: in the midst of Hitler's downfall, and Berlin's downfall beyond the bunker door, we find all manner of human life, from blind, misguided heroism to rank cowardice.
There's an odd reticence about political detail, but that perhaps lets something more important come through: an essential humanity, even in such extremity. Remarkably, brilliantly, there appears to be no moral here, no particular point to be made...except that it happened, that these people existed, led a nation to psychopathic slaughter, and died utterly defeated. That's what it's about, in the end: defeat. Free from the victors' triumph, either in front of or behind the camera, that defeat looks rank, sordid, and savagely human. You can't look away.
23 January 2006
Film review: Existenz
"So, 'Existenz'. What's all that about, then?"
"Don't ask me, mate."
"What, so you didn't go and see it?"
"Oh, I saw it. That's not quite the same thing as knowing what the hell it was all about, though."
"Too clever for you, then? Eh, Mr Thicky McThickBrain?"
"Well, that's the impression that it wants to leave. It wants to confuse you so much that you're confused into thinking it's a good movie. Which isn't a bad tactic, I suppose. Unfortunately, it didn't work - not even fifty-seven levels of virtual sodding reality and vast amounts of second-rate philosophising can disguise the fact that it's basically 'The Matrix' without any of the things that you liked about 'The Matrix'. And I didn't like 'The Matrix' all that much."
"So, are you going to write a review of it for your blog, then?"
"Nah, can't be arsed."
"Don't ask me, mate."
"What, so you didn't go and see it?"
"Oh, I saw it. That's not quite the same thing as knowing what the hell it was all about, though."
"Too clever for you, then? Eh, Mr Thicky McThickBrain?"
"Well, that's the impression that it wants to leave. It wants to confuse you so much that you're confused into thinking it's a good movie. Which isn't a bad tactic, I suppose. Unfortunately, it didn't work - not even fifty-seven levels of virtual sodding reality and vast amounts of second-rate philosophising can disguise the fact that it's basically 'The Matrix' without any of the things that you liked about 'The Matrix'. And I didn't like 'The Matrix' all that much."
"So, are you going to write a review of it for your blog, then?"
"Nah, can't be arsed."
Book review: Bret Easton Ellis - Glamorama
One unavoidable fact: Bret Easton Ellis is an extraordinary writer. It takes remarkable talent to stake out fresh territory so decisively amid the modern publishing crush, and to balance such accomplishment with commercial success is more remarkable still.
This could be the work of absolutely no-one else. Its opening half-ish is astounding: austere, severe, icily cold and yet furiously readable, full of vicious wit and merciless satire. Nothing new, perhaps, merely a relocation to New York to track down old subjects amid celebrity circles, but Ellis has never written better, and his marbled prose - oddly sympathetic to Murakami's, albeit much less gentle - has never achieved more than in documenting the ghostly disintegration of Victor Ward's impossibly glamourous, utterly vacuous world.
But, unfortunately, he can't bring the same clinical composure to the novel's climax: the European scenes, following our anti-hero's involvement with a motiveless terrorist network, are somewhat over-excited, losing the beautiful, delicate thread amid the bloodshed and the pastiche. That's a shame, for it means that "Glamorama" is some way short of the masterpiece that it might've been. It's just a great novel. Another great novel, defeated by its own rather beautiful, greatly immodest ambition.
This could be the work of absolutely no-one else. Its opening half-ish is astounding: austere, severe, icily cold and yet furiously readable, full of vicious wit and merciless satire. Nothing new, perhaps, merely a relocation to New York to track down old subjects amid celebrity circles, but Ellis has never written better, and his marbled prose - oddly sympathetic to Murakami's, albeit much less gentle - has never achieved more than in documenting the ghostly disintegration of Victor Ward's impossibly glamourous, utterly vacuous world.
But, unfortunately, he can't bring the same clinical composure to the novel's climax: the European scenes, following our anti-hero's involvement with a motiveless terrorist network, are somewhat over-excited, losing the beautiful, delicate thread amid the bloodshed and the pastiche. That's a shame, for it means that "Glamorama" is some way short of the masterpiece that it might've been. It's just a great novel. Another great novel, defeated by its own rather beautiful, greatly immodest ambition.
10 January 2006
Best of 2005: Dubstep
Dubstep. Ah, dubstep, dubstep, dubstep. I've waited bloody years for something like this to happen, and I know that I'm not alone. Something with so much bass, something that still leaves space for soul, mood, movement; something that sounds like London, as jungle once did. Hood aside, it's blotted out pretty much everything this year; apart from anything else, I've spent so much money on vinyl that I simply haven't been able to afford to keep up with other stuff.
Thus far, DJ Youngsta's "Dubstep Allstars Vol. 2" set is the only officially-released compilation and, while utterly stunning, it's somewhat limited in scope; that said, the much broader tracklisting for Kode 9's follow-up in the new year looks awesome. A better and more immediate overview is gained by listening to the procession of Rinse FM sets, recorded and made available by heroic forum (http://dubstep.forumsplace.com/ ) members. The relatively small, largely unprofitable nature of the scene means that so much of this stuff is still unreleased, and every fresh set leaves another wad of mental notes, future wages reserved for essential purchases.
In the meantime, you really need to hear these, and a few others besides....
Loefah - Root / Goat Stare (DMZ)
Digital Mystikz - Neverland / Stuck (DMZ)
Digital Mystikz - Officer / Mood Dub (DMZ)
Skream - Midnight Request Line / I (Tempa)
Skream - August 05 mix (download)
DJ Distance - Fallen / Taipan (Boka)
Vex'd - Degenerate (Planet Mu LP)
Burial - South London Boroughs (Hyperdub)
Kode 9 - Kingstown (Hyperdub)
Toasty Boy - Angel / Take It Personal (Hotflush)
Scuba - Timba / Sleepa (Hotflush)
And if you can't track those down, somebody's helped you out. I hereby point you at the landmark dubstep showcase on Radio 1's Breezeblock show last night:
http://www.bbc.co.uk/radio1/dance/breezeblock/
You may choose to listen to two hours of Digital Mystikz, the utter genius that is Skream, Vex'd, Hatcha, Loefah, Kode 9 and Distance, each playing a whole bunch of tunes that have made the last year very special (and expensive) indeed for yours truly. Or you may choose a colourless, cheerless January instead.
Thus far, DJ Youngsta's "Dubstep Allstars Vol. 2" set is the only officially-released compilation and, while utterly stunning, it's somewhat limited in scope; that said, the much broader tracklisting for Kode 9's follow-up in the new year looks awesome. A better and more immediate overview is gained by listening to the procession of Rinse FM sets, recorded and made available by heroic forum (http://dubstep.forumsplace.com
In the meantime, you really need to hear these, and a few others besides....
Loefah - Root / Goat Stare (DMZ)
Digital Mystikz - Neverland / Stuck (DMZ)
Digital Mystikz - Officer / Mood Dub (DMZ)
Skream - Midnight Request Line / I (Tempa)
Skream - August 05 mix (download)
DJ Distance - Fallen / Taipan (Boka)
Vex'd - Degenerate (Planet Mu LP)
Burial - South London Boroughs (Hyperdub)
Kode 9 - Kingstown (Hyperdub)
Toasty Boy - Angel / Take It Personal (Hotflush)
Scuba - Timba / Sleepa (Hotflush)
And if you can't track those down, somebody's helped you out. I hereby point you at the landmark dubstep showcase on Radio 1's Breezeblock show last night:
http://www.bbc.co.uk/radio1/dance/breezeblock/
You may choose to listen to two hours of Digital Mystikz, the utter genius that is Skream, Vex'd, Hatcha, Loefah, Kode 9 and Distance, each playing a whole bunch of tunes that have made the last year very special (and expensive) indeed for yours truly. Or you may choose a colourless, cheerless January instead.
03 January 2006
Best of 2005: Hood
It's not just "Outside Closer", it's everything. The everything - associated clutter along with the year's best album - is important, because Hood have managed something that I'd begun to accept as impossible: to make my thirty-five yearold heart fall in love with a band again, as completely as I used to do as a teenager. "Outside Closer" is an absolutely lovely record, rich and dense and balanced just right between adventure and reality, and it's kept growing on me throughout the year. It would've been my favourite record, regardless.
But the other stuff has been more than mere decoration. Some real gems on the b-sides of singles, especially "The Lost You" EP. The unexpected treasures on the odds-and-sods CD that they were selling on tour, the way that its fragments and fiddles became a delightful, almost Clouddead-ish collage of, well, fragments and fiddles. And the live shows. Bloody hell, the live shows: rarely has a band pushed itself so damn hard to realise a vision. The records have been so intricate, so complex, so technically demanding...and yet they just refused to back down. I'll treasure those gigs always, for their sheer lack of laziness. For their joyous, life-affirming bravery.
Bless 'em. Bless their little cotton socks. Hood ended 2005 by quoting a load of grime and dubstep on their own best-of list on Boomkat, suggesting that they might wander still further from their original indie blueprint next year. But the beautiful thing is that they'll always be Hood, whatever. And that'll always be wonderful.
But the other stuff has been more than mere decoration. Some real gems on the b-sides of singles, especially "The Lost You" EP. The unexpected treasures on the odds-and-sods CD that they were selling on tour, the way that its fragments and fiddles became a delightful, almost Clouddead-ish collage of, well, fragments and fiddles. And the live shows. Bloody hell, the live shows: rarely has a band pushed itself so damn hard to realise a vision. The records have been so intricate, so complex, so technically demanding...and yet they just refused to back down. I'll treasure those gigs always, for their sheer lack of laziness. For their joyous, life-affirming bravery.
Bless 'em. Bless their little cotton socks. Hood ended 2005 by quoting a load of grime and dubstep on their own best-of list on Boomkat, suggesting that they might wander still further from their original indie blueprint next year. But the beautiful thing is that they'll always be Hood, whatever. And that'll always be wonderful.
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