After something of a silence I return, boldly reaching into the deeper blogosphere.
Fortunate enough to be part of this year's official blogging team for the Edinburgh International Festival, my first assignment has been posted here. I saw mezzo-soprano Waltraud Meier (dressed in splendid pink) singing Lieder at the Usher Hall, accompanied by Joseph Breinl on piano.It was all jolly good fun.
In all, I will be seeing seven concerts at the EIF this year (some assigned, others of my own volition). The International Festival has long been my favourite of the patchwork of festivals going on in Edinburgh each summer. Look out for the reviews to see why.
Coming back for more... Thoughts on three novels, each by an author to whom I was returning for a second taste. All are fast becoming favourites.
According to Mark – Penelope Lively Eighteen months ago, I read Penelope Lively's masterful Moon Tiger, which I adored. Wanting more, I turned to this earlier book, in which married literary biographer Mark Lamming is researching writer Gilbert Strong, and soon becomes infatuated with Strong's granddaughter. Some of the most interesting aspects of According to Mark are its pre-echoes of Moon Tiger. A central chapter adopts a distinctive feature of that book's structure, retelling one vignette from separate viewpoints. The theme of historical perspective is also key, contemplating how one can consider from a distance the multiple stages of one person's life simultaneously. Mark reflects how "Strong he knew over a lifetime and all of him at once".
In Moon Tiger, this is developed even further, as the imperious Claudia Hampton writes a "history of the world as selected by Claudia". Mark struggles with his biography's subject, knowing information is missing ("lies and silences") and his perspective cannot always fit. The title provides a big clue. Penelope Lively's art is in framing all of these complex ideas within a modern, funny love story, the characters vividly etched. Perhaps According to Mark does not match Moon Tiger's perfect balance, its sensual world and elegiac romance. But it is another enjoyable, insightful novel from a completely undervalued author.
The Yiddish Policemen's Union – Michael Chabon
I next decided to revisit Michael Chabon, having read The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay some time ago. This later novel inhabits the world of Chandler and Hammett, complete with spiky dialogue and epigrams. Hard-drinking detective Meyer Landsman attempts to solve a pleasingly complex murder plot, taking in his family's past, Jewish lore and chess. Chabon's wild spin is to place the story in an alternative reality, in which the setting is the Jewish homeland, but that homeland is Sitka, Alaska. The realization of this reality is mostly convincing, sometimes contrived; the wondrous writing is riveting.
What Chabon brings to the genre is a sympathetic and complete human story. The characters struggle as much against their past sorrows as against the present criminal underworld of Alaska. The series of conversations between Landsman and his boss/ex-wife Bina are electric and absorbing. Both bantering and mournful, the relationship forms the book's core. Meanwhile, familiar from Kavalier & Clay is Chabon's irresistible technique of separating key lines of dialogue with profound, aching prose. "Sweet God, aren't you ashamed of yourself?" asks Bina. Not until after a rumination on divine intention, chromosomes and faith do we get Landsman's reply: "Only every time I see your face." The writing may be pared down, hard-boiled, but the novel is rich.
Goodbye to Berlin – Christopher Isherwood
A companion novel to Mr Norris Changes Trains, Goodbye to Berlin is also based on Isherwood's real-life experiences in Berlin during the early 1930s. As before, the city backdrop is remarkable and vibrant, from underground clubs to squalid tenements. Hidden within this backdrop, deathly poverty, neighbourly suspicion and the rise of Nazism all hum, as Isherwood presents a sequence of indelible character sketches. As the hum grows louder, so the fractured world of Christopher's circle of misfits seems set to dangerously unravel. That we know what happens next makes this possibly the darkest light read that I have ever come across.
It seems light because Isherwood's smart style is infectious and a joy to read. The portraits are funny and the relationships warm. Squabbles abound in his cramped accommodation, which he shares with his wittering landlady, a prostitute and a barman, among others. The most wonderful character of all is struggling actress Sally Bowles (on whom Cabaret is based), gleaming with make-up but vulnerably waifish. She uses gentleman friends for money and necks a never-ending series of Prairie Oysters (a concoction of raw egg and Worcester sauce – "They're about all I can afford"). Smiling on top of her sadness, Sally is flippant and careless. Painfully, we know that Berlin's smile back is fading.
As he became increasingly renowned, printmaking proved a successful way for Edvard Munch to disseminate his work. Moreover, repeated iterations provided an opportunity to alter the mood and dynamics of each print. Changing the ink and paper colours for example, or the absorbency of the paper, shifts the focus and intensity. There are many examples in the Scottish National Gallery of Modern Art's well-presented exhibition (running till September) where multiple iterations are displayed side by side. Rather than diluting the work, the vivid differences focus us more intently on the image.
The rippling anguish of Munch does not always appeal to me completely. However, new aspects were revealed in this collection, more so than by any admittedly casual glance I have given his work before. The exhibition highlights the key theme of landscape, and how Munch's wandering figures are affected by their surroundings. Loneliness pervades, as the landscape seems to either envelop or emanate from the desolate subjects. There are expanses of water, foreboding forests and swirling skies. Munch had heard a scream "coursing through nature", he said of the experience which led him to paint The Scream.
A rare print of that ubiquitous image is here, and the background landscape is repeated in the nearby Anxiety (shown in two versions). Nature screams indeed. From these prints, the figures stare intensely, hollow-eyed. The piercing eyes in Munch's work strike us throughout – take the masterly self-portrait, or Woman with Red Hair and Green Eyes. They are either weary and sunken or frighteningly desperate. Again, the variety inherent in the printmaking process subtly changes these emotive characteristics within the same image.
The exhibition, taken almost entirely from a private Norwegian collection, focuses on the short period 1895–1902, and so the style is generally unvaried. The lonely figures and the swirls are repeated from room to room. Whilst it might be even more enlightening to see the original paintings on which some of the prints were based, there is enough to engage to the end. Certain pieces stand out, including The Sick Child and the powerful Two Human Beings. Meanwhile, I was drawn to the more stylized forms of woodcuts Kiss IV and Head by Head, striking and vibrant. Nature encroaches still, through the heavy-grained texture, but here perhaps there could be deliverance from the anguish.
RidleyScotthasreturned,tocinemascreensandtogloriespast.HeoffersusPrometheus,aprequelofsortstothemagnificentAlien. The hype has been big: itremained unclearquitehowdirectlythenewfilmwouldrelatetotheold,butthetrailerwastantalizing.Onarrival,Prometheusis quite its own film. It is alsomostlyasuccess – alarge,boldandengagingaction-horror. That it misfires on several counts turns out not to matter too much. The fun outweighs the over-egged statement of themes and sketchy characters.
Fassbender-bot is not sketchy.
Intriguing archaeological discoveries are discovered. Maybe they indicate that humans originate from a distant planet – the crew of Prometheus has been sent into space to look into it. The scientific team is headed by the religious Elizabeth Shaw (Noomi Rapace). She is in a relationship with another scientist, Charlie Holloway (Logan Marshall-Green). In actual charge is Meredith Vickers (Charlize Theron), who is an important person from the company which has sent the ship out. Keeping everything running smoothly is the gloriously blond robot-butler David (Michael Fassbender-bot).
Alongside this, the story raises some big questions about the origins of humanity. Unfortunately,this develops intoPrometheus' most damaging weakness. It is very disappointing, since the film could have been lifted to impressive heights by such themes, were they handled well. But the big questions lose their impact, being repeatedly and blatantly laidoutbeforeus.
It does not help that most of the characters are not particularly interesting, with little added to the stock roles for the actors to enjoy. Rapace and Marshall-Green do not make much of an impression, the tech guys are tech guys, and Charlize Theron plays a bitchy bitch. For reasons mostly unclear, she refuses to like or help anyone in any way; it does not matter who they are or what they want or need. It is uninteresting, although Theron is good. Guy Pearce's casting, meanwhile, is simply bizarre.
But there is hope. Fassbender-botiswonderful as David. He is an android to embrace: rather too perfect, blankly charming and sinister too. Does he have his own motives? With an Aryan sheen, he consciously (and a little campily) emulates the airs and hair of Peter O'Toole in Lawrence of Arabia. I am only annoyed that the film occasionally requires him to speak in Alienese (so foreign-sounding, we are encouraged to think). But then he utters such lines as "It's quite all right," and we cheer in our seats. He's so beautifully polite! I love Fassbender-bot.
It is quickly apparent that Prometheus will not touch Alien. But the grandeur of the attempt is admirable and it does not tip into folly, despite the creakily exposed shot at loftiness. Prometheus does not quite succeed through its philosophy or humanity; ultimately, it is the spectacle and the android which make it worthwhile.
François van Heerden (Deon Lotz) is a married Afrikaans businessman, whose ordered life masks secretive homosexuality. When he meets Christian (Charlie Keegan), the handsome son of an old friend, he is fixated. But ugly prejudices and shame constrict him and theresultis confusing torment, threatening to explode. Writer-director Oliver Hermanus' film Beauty (the first Afrikaans language film to compete at Cannes) is an intimate study of repression. Obsessive behaviour, anger and bigotry are all just beneath François' bland surface. It is suggested that there have been violent outbursts in his past.
More than anything however, we pity François. Beauty is slow-paced and thoughtful, offering the time we need to sympathize whilst we despise his actions. This can come at the price of dramatic flow, and occasionally the film is in danger of halting. But Lotz's simmering performance holds Beauty together, powered by tight close-ups and a steady gaze (from both Lotz and Hermanus). It is a measured and convincing portrayal of a deeply conflicted man, thrashing out for a happiness he does not understand, as emphasized by the elegantly effective final scene.
Hermanus has a keen sense for beauty indeed and the film is carefully composed and subtly lit. Several taut scenes quietly unfurl in the evening by lamplight, in the bedroom or around a dining table; muted blues and greens dominate the screen. Sustained long shots are poised and exteriors are stark with heat. From the start, Francois' voyeurism is matched by wide, intensely focused shots, with distant dialogue unheard. The beauty is carefully underlined by a delicate musical score from Ben Ludik (alongside his Invisible Nightclub project).
There is also a dose of awkward humour. When François secretly meets with a group of middle-aged men for sex, there is an embarrassing scene of introduction and beer-drinking before they may begin. It is reminiscent of Mike Leigh, even if the milieu is a tad different. Bigotry stings all the fiercer when it comes: there is a searing flash of racism and objections against "faggots" (a defensive machismo operates here). The subsequent attempt at casual conversation is grimly funny.
Without this, Beauty's slow burningdesperation could end up simply bleak. There are moments which bear this out. A pounding club scene is potent, but almost literally sickening; cathartic sexual violence pushes us even closer to the limit. But Hermanus tackles his subject bravely and largely with restraint, as reflected in Lotz's central performance. From this restraint, Beauty gains its power.
Bela, Philip and friends (photo credit: widdowquinn)
Unassuming and droll, Philip Glass surely ranks amongst the Pleasantest Composers Ever to Have Lived. His enormous commercial success and widespread appeal has more to do with his complete lack of pretension than any surrender of integrity. This was the third time I have seen him perform live. The success of Dracula was more variable than that of the similarly presented Koyaanisqatsi (at last year's Edinburgh International Festival), but to see Glass amble onstage and applaud him starry-eyed is always a pleasing experience. I'm a fan.
This performance at the Glasgow Royal Concert Hall (another in their recurring Minimal series) featured the Kronos Quartet alongside the man himself and Michael Riesman (a Philip Glass stalwart since forever), both on keyboards. They performed Glass' 1998 score, accompanying a screening of the 1931 Tod Browning film. Bela Lugosi's flickering image loomed over the auditorium and the music see-sawed ominously. The combination works well, with the drawing room elegance of the string quartet adding momentum and a little extra menace to the film. (It featured no score originally, being such an early talkie.)
To my usually more purist mind, the film benefits from this extra drive. Despite its cultural impact and abundance of iconic images, Dracula does not entirely convince as a whole. Its faults also caused the performance in Glasgow to sag occasionally. Chiefly, for much of the second part of the film, the characters stand stiffly in a parlour and talk – "I'll be waiting for you in the library," and so on. The early sound recording is thin and at times became inaudible beneath the rich Kronos sound. The score suddenly seemed too busy or unnecessary, fighting a one-sided battle against weedy dialogue and exposition.
Much stronger, both in the film and consequently in the concert hall, are the purely visual sequences – for instance Renfield's coach ride and arrival at Castle Dracula, and Dracula's bedroom attacks. The Gothic romanticism of Dracula is given the setting it craves and Browning, Lugosi and Glass all work at their best. The music brings renewed life to the film at these moments and the effect is exciting; Glass also does well not to obscure the best and most famous speech in the film, as Count Dracula makes his first appearance.
And so the success of the live performance worked in tandem with that of the film. It flourished when the emphasis was on atmosphere, and it was frustrated by staginess. The musicians certainly played solidly throughout, and when the scurrying music ran well beyond the final frame, we were given time to focus on the music alone. It was one of the highlights of the evening. The film being rather brief, I wished that there could have been more besides. But of course, I always wish to see more of the pleasant Mr Glass.
How exciting to hear Beethoven's Choral
Symphony live for the first time. I was already very familiar with
the piece, I reckoned. I have studied it and listened to it many
times (sometimes on big headphones). I confidently informed my fellow
Beethoven-goer that it would be “long and awesome”. I stand by
that, but I could not really predict anything besides. The Scottish
Chamber Orchestra's final Edinburgh concert of their 2011/12 season
was a first for me, unleashing the Ninth in the Usher Hall and
revealing much more than I had expected.
The pairing was a selection of six
movements from Beethoven's The Ruins of Athens. It proved a suitable
hors d’oeuvre, not least because of its famous Turkish March,
foreshadowing that unexpected ‘Turkish’ interlude in the
symphony’s finale. Beyond that, the bass-rich chorus and sensitive
woodwind writing gave the SCO (under conductor John Storgårds) a
chance to impress with its beautifully balanced sound. In particular,
I was rather taken with the March and Chorus which finished the
selection. It could be Haydn at first, for its Classical poise. But
as the orchestral music unfurled, we were treated to the sort of
gleaming, unbuttoned, Pastoral loveliness which characterizes the
third movement of the Ninth.
Onwards to the Ninth itself, and I was
struck by how the music can retain so many hidden corners. It remains
surprising and fresh. Maybe that is natural, given there is so much
of it and its range is vast. But also it is often wild and
unexpected, right from the strangely unanchored opening notes. The
tremulous and snaking coda to the first movement still raises hairs;
the kettledrums in the Scherzo still prompt a laugh. Its huge and
twisting depth resists familiarity. It is a characteristic which
brought to my mind other supposedly familiar ‘greatest’ works of
art. I am surprised yet by the Ninth, just as I am surprised yet by
Citizen Kane, The White Album, Guernica.
Of course, live performance sheds the
brightest light on these hidden corners. For instance, that third
movement loveliness I have mentioned. The clarinets and horns played
together, and I was transported to somewhere quite above the Usher
Hall’s cornicing. Why had I not noticed that sound before? Again,
the balance and proportion of the SCO brought the music into focus.
The sound was crisp and clear. The only surprise which seemed to jar
came with the dancing C major fortissimo near the start of the
Scherzo (let’s not get into bar numbers), when the strings’ pedal
seemed to drown out the whirling woodwind chorus.
The Ode to Joy finale could barely fail
to miss; by this point, sheer elation carried us along. More
surprises here, with startling shifts and turns – much of the
movement borders on the eccentric. I had tremendous fun. The SCO
Chorus and the soloists were spirited, particularly the commanding
young bass Jan Martiník. The orchestra's energy never seemed to let
up, and the frenzied last few bars were ecstatically received. Ears
ringing with joy, I left beaming. I had discovered so much in this
piece I knew so well.
Meryl Streep won her third Oscar and much else for the leading role, but The Iron Lady attracted mild controversy on its release. An old woman struggling with dementia, Margaret Thatcher talks to her dead husband Denis, and recalls her life and work. The depiction of mental ill health was criticized as disrespectful by a smattering of Tories, including some who had even seen the film. Streep points out that this says more about our discomfort with mental frailty, and wonders whether there would have been outcry if Thatcher had, say, a problem with her lungs.
Don't panic, her lungs are fine.
What of the film? Streep gives a remarkable performance, particularly as the elderly Thatcher (in a magical feat of make-up). Mannerisms and impersonation are contained within a wonderfully convincing portrayal of a mind and body gradually failing with age. And the controversy is ill-founded. These scenes, especially those earlier in the film, are the most interesting by far. From here, the acting, structure and mildly daring concept could combine to produce an absorbing, intimate biopic.
Sadly, the interest dissipates much too quickly as we are soon shunted around snapshots of Thatcher’s career. It starts with a perfunctory glimpse of her childhood, Oxford education and early romance with Denis. There is some strong writing from Abi Morgan, which foreshadows later moments in office and in old age. But Thatcher’s ambition and aspirations are presented cosily and nostalgically, so that there is no real impact, and any insight is facile. It also seems lightweight because it all flashes by so quickly, no scene lasting more than a few minutes.
More Heseltine needed. Ouch.
This is symptomatic of the film as a whole, and ultimately what damages it most. We rattle through a unique career at high speed, striving to cover every key event. Moments that should be revealing, such as the decision to sink the Belgrano, vanish before genuine intrigue can develop. We must move on to the 1983 election; we must jump to the present day once more (if only to be reminded that Mark Thatcher is a tosser – there really is no need). Director Phyllida Lloyd lacks patience and faith, even with good writing and acting at hand.
It means we get no grasp on Thatcher beyond a basic history lesson (the stock footage is the most enlightening), and often only the merest hints at her relationships with family, colleagues and adversaries. Anthony Head and Olivia Colman, as Geoffrey Howe and Carol Thatcher, have the best interaction with Streep, but Jim Broadbent’s hectoring ghost-Denis soon becomes annoying. Meanwhile, Richard E. Grant’s circling vulture by the name of Michael Heseltine is near-ridiculous and Michael Foot is not referred to by name once. Even the mighty Meryl suffers from the scattered structure, robbed of dramatic momentum; come the Poll Tax, power-mad Thatcher just seems daft. She even momentarily reminded me of Edina Monsoon.
Margaret Thatcher was certainly never daft. She had conviction and claws. Despite the best efforts of the actors and make-up department, these are attributes lacking in Lloyd’s film. Poor Tilda notwithstanding, the award season adulation for Streep was deserved. But her generous performance serves an unworthy whole – and that's not how the Thatcher story goes.
Going through to Glasgow for Einstein and dazzling Flux
For the past couple of years, Glasgow's Concert Halls have been hosting weekend-long festivals celebrating Minimalism in music, from visionary 1960s beginnings to current manifestations. Among the attractive features of these weekends are the inexpensive hour-long concerts in the afternoon. These are imaginatively programmed and feature top performing artists, and I decided to make the trip across for two of the latest. This time the festival came with a qualifier: Minimal Extreme. I had a preparatory pint.
David Lang: genial
The first concert was devoted to an interesting composer with whom I was unfamiliar, David Lang (in attendance and providing a short and genial introduction). It began with two pieces in differing moods. Ark Luggage, for soprano and string quartet, received its premiere. It lists ninety-two things Noah may have brought on the Ark, as proposed by Peter Greenaway. The Smith Quartet and Else Torp were crystalline in the gently oscillating piece, which came across as a curious but pleasing vignette. Then came Pierced, a pounding concerto for piano, cello (amplified here) and percussion, with the tremulous Smith Quartet alongside. It is an ominous and thrilling piece.
The main course was The Little Match Girl Passion, Lang's Pulitzer Prize-winning choral work based on a mixture of Hans Christian Andersen's story and Bach's St Matthew Passion. Performed beautifully by four singers from Theatre of Voices, with sparse percussion, it is static and haunting. I only felt restless when the concert overran by nearly half an hour, after a late start and a fair amount of stagehand fuss throughout. I sadly forwent my inter-concert gin.
On to the second concert, another predominantly vocal offering but a rather different affair. Titled “Glass/Flux”, we reached back into Minimalism's earliest years. The five Kneeplays from Philip Glass' seminal opera Einstein on the Beach were interspersed with pieces by the composers from the Fluxus group. In the 1960s, this varied collective of artists and musicians developed forms of conceptual art and 'event' performance, extending the work of John Cage.
The rarely heard selections here were dazzling, masterfully performed by Ars Nova under the direction of Paul Hillier. The pieces favour simplicity and blur distinctions between art forms. La Monte Young's Composition 1960 #7 was in progress as we entered the hall, the singers quietly humming a perfect fifth, marked in the score “to be held for a long time”. This established a mood of hushed continuum; we moved from piece to piece largely without applause.
The Fluxus offerings were playful, Dadaistic and often fiendishly difficult. In Dick Higgins' Hank and Mary, four singers recited “Hank shot Mary dead”, each repeating every word a different number of times. It created a scattered and hilarious cascade, a kind of exploded cantus firmus. Meanwhile, Paul Hillier's solo performance of Genesis by Emmett Williams played a clever trick with broken word sounds, intoned whilst he extinguished a dozen candles in turn. Both pieces could not help but break the audience's stillness: there was spontaneous applause at their close.
The Kneeplays are choral tours de force. Glass involves the singers in complex counting patterns with added violin and fragments of poetry. Ars Nova, Hillier and violinist Jonathan Morton were again impressive and a joy to watch. How I wish I could see the revived Einstein on the Beach on its current world tour. The inspired presentation here, mingled with Fluxus, was exciting and something I would love to have shared – another success for the Glasgow's Minimal series. Philip Glass will be at the next instalment in person, and my ticket is already booked.
The Hippodrome in Bo'ness is one of the most splendid venues for film in the land (let's say Empire). It is a pearl, its facade of elegant curves topped by a glowing red sign, and festooned today with a red carpet and bunting. I was also greeted by 'God Save the King' bunting, free rum and enthusiastic staff. The occasion was the closing night of the second annual Festival of Silent Cinema, capping an inspired programme shown over the weekend. The venue and the festival make such a heartening combination and I was won over instantly.
Douglas Fairbanks awaits within.
After many years of decay and dereliction following its closure in 1980, the Hippodrome has been fully restored, housing a smiling horseshoe auditorium complete with balcony and stage. It is also celebrating its centenary this year – Scotland's oldest cinema, built in the post-Edwardian, pre-Art Deco industry of 1912 Bo'ness. The brainchild of local man Louis Dickson, who produced 'topicals' and wanted to exhibit them, the building was designed by Matthew Steele.
Sadly, I missed the Festival of Silent Cinema apart from this final gala event. The evening was great fun, perfectly pitched between professional presentation and local spirit by festival director Alison Strauss and producer Shona Thomson. Speeches and presentations preceded a screening of beguiling hundred-year-old footage from the Scottish Screen Archive, depicting herring fishing at Yarmouth.
The main event was The Black Pirate, starring and produced by Douglas Fairbanks, Sr (with inventive live musical accompaniment from Jane Gardner and Hazel Morrison). This 1926 adventure was made at the height of Fairbanks' swashbuckling career, showing him off at his acrobatic and heroic best. Showing him off, in fact, in exciting two-strip Technicolor; The Black Pirate was one of the very first all-colour feature films. It was a treat to see Park Circus' restoration of this film, in its charming pinkish glow. Difficult to produce and project, Technicolor was an expensive process, and it is a measure of Fairbanks' status in 1920s Hollywood that he was able to invest so much in his film.
To swashbuckle.
He is undoubtedly the sole star of The Black Pirate. Although there is the requisite comic relief, docile romance and swarthy villainy, it all pales beside Fairbanks. He leaps fearlessly about the ship, displaying trademark athleticism which had already coursed through films such as The Mask of Zorro and The Thief of Bagdad. Cutting rigging to soar to the masthead, scaling down sails by means of his sword: these are clichés of the cinematic pirate, quoted and parodied so many times. It is refreshing to see the real deal, saving the day with grins and musculature (amusingly dressed in black shorts and little else).
Orson Welles saw in Fairbanks “a kind of charm, a kind of dash, a sort of innocent arrogance that has never been since on the screen”. I was fascinated to see this legend in action for the first time. To be able to do so in the setting of the Bo'ness Hippodrome was rather special, and an adventure.
Following Speech Therapy was not going to be easy for Speech Debelle. That album won the Mercury Prize in 2009, but its disappointing sales led to a spat with her record label. They now seem to have made amends, and Speech's second album has arrived. She sounds confident and her music has moved forward, often offering a tougher response to the intimate jazz–hip hop of before.
Having so much fun, she's a new age thespian
The singles Studio Backpack Rap and I’m with It are marvellous; both are catchy and immediate dancing tunes. The cracking drums and synths of Studio Backpack Rap provide a driving background to Speech’s excited delivery (including a hilarious lesbian/thespian rhyme). It opens the album with a blast and is the highlight of the whole record. The four-on-the-floor beat which breaks out in the final minute is an irresistible invitation to dance, a genius coda to my new favourite song.
Meanwhile, I’m with It has an upbeat disco-soul vibe. It claps and sings, bringing a welcome breath of fresh air to an often downbeat album. But while nothing else can match it for exuberance, there is plenty to embrace among the more subdued songs. In particular, Blaze Up a Fire fascinates, with its relaxed groove and changes of gear.
It features Roots Manuva and Realism, and its call-to-arms lyrics turned out to be so prescient of the riots in England last August that Debelle released the song on the internet as the news broke. She had on her hands a perfect encapsulation of that specific time, noting in her explanation of the free release, “These young people are not aliens dropped down from outer space on Friday night.”
Following this, the sweeping strings and spacious production of Elephant in the Living Room lend a nocturnal trip hop feel to its break-up story, and X Marks the Spot is spiked with electric guitar fuzz and a dub-like beat. After the power of Studio Backpack Rap, this sound is what characterizes the first half of Freedom of Speech; the mood is low-key, but there is a hidden edge, in both music and words.
The edge is dulled by Angels Wings. Its acoustic sound is reminiscent of Debelle's debut, but lacks the skittering jazz tint which lifted that album. Here, the sound is soft but doesn't move with the emotional weight the personal words deserve. More than anything, at the climax we are admiring the drumming (which is great throughout the whole album). Coming as it does after a run of slow-burning tracks, the momentum is lost.
I'm with It notwithstanding, the second half of the album is then less engaging than the first. Despite Collapse's menacing, piano-heavy backing, Speech's rhymes come off as naive, as she takes on environmental catastrophe and the evils of oil. There are some amusing barbs (“You'd better call some Ray Mears quick, son”), but what prevails is anger without heft. The sound of Eagle Eye directly continues that of Collapse, this time sticking it to the Man. It's good, but by this time things are starting to get wearing.
But at the end, the blissed-out Sun Dog lets in a ray of light. It shuffles along, with Rhodes piano and cello rising from the mist. The quick-fire verses also give Speech a liberating chance to show off her vocal skill. The cathartic and crashing ending feels unnecessary, but it's one of the most beautiful tracks on the album, leaving us with a high.
Speech Debelle has made some great music here. Hers is a promising, maturing talent, and Freedom of Speech is an exciting album. I shall be listening closely to whatever comes next.
By the time Kate Winslet is thrashing tulips against her hosts' coffee table, she has reached the drunken nadir of a middle class nightmare. Two couples have torn themselves and each other apart, sliding from clipped politeness to sniping to screaming. There has been bickering and insult, there has been projectile vomit. The horrifying descent is the basis of Roman Polanski's enjoyable and uproarious latest, Carnage, and is acted out with zest by Winslet, Christoph Waltz, John C. Reilly and Jodie Foster.
Before the vomit.
The film is based on Yasmina Reza's play, God of Carnage. Alan and Nancy Cowan (Waltz and Winslet) visit Michael and Penelope Longstreet (Reilly and Foster) after their sons have been involved in a playground fight. This apparently satisfies their immaculate, right-on parenting needs. But some ropey cobbler and a few unguarded exchanges are all that is needed to unravel the delicate veils of tolerance and decency. The inevitable decline unfolds entirely within the Longstreet apartment over the course of a brisk eighty minutes.
The film's origins on the stage are evident, and Carnage has received some critical stick as a result. The dialogue can be declamatory and the set-up is a little artificial. It is tempting to see Polanski's work as no more than a filmed play, adding little to a live theatre experience. But the film does work well on its own merits. It appeals visually and has a wonderful quartet of actors at its core. Foster and Reilly are amusing as a couple whose cultured, liberal facade is constructed by one and secretly resented by the other. Meanwhile, Winslet and Waltz are even better and even more miserable: she is uneasy and snappish, he is self-involved and wolfish.
With these four in control, deadly humour is the film's greatest strength. After some drily observed early dialogue, the best moments come in the second half, some of them very funny indeed. The actors relish the broader, wilder comedy here. As inebriation takes hold and accusations pile up (involving livelihoods, hamsters and so on), venomous jibes rip preciousness apart. Jodie Foster is hysterically laughing as she proclaims: “My husband has spent the entire afternoon drying things!”. I could not help but wish for things to take an even nastier turn, but the film refuses to become untethered from the real world and soar into total farce. On reflection (and as my co-filmgoer observed), that is a large part of its success.
"I don't have a sense of humour, and I don't want one."
The single-set device is clearly inherited from the stage play. The characters seem trapped, drawn back in whenever they try to leave. It lends a Buñuelian touch; or, as Winslet slurs, “Why are we still in this house?!”. Polanski is masterful enough not to be put off, creating an aesthetically interesting piece out of the static setting. The actors are positioned in various oppressive combinations around the screen. The camera angles are deliberately uncomfortable: a little too high or too low, in tight close-up and deep focus tableaux. Polanski is also not tempted to open up the script beyond the apartment. As Hitchcock saw it (discussing Dial M for Murder), why would you? Easy for him to say perhaps, but Polanski rises to the challenge just as keenly.
On a similar note in fact, according to ever-neckerchiefed director–cineaste Peter Bogdanovich, Hitchcock's view was simply: When the batteries are running dry, take a hit play and shoot it. Polanski is energized here, no doubt, along with his splendid and game cast. Together they have produced a cinematic scherzo, with claws. I think Hitch himself would have enjoyed it.
