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.
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.
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