Edvard Munch: Graphic Works from the Gundersen Collection

Lithographs and woodcuts, landscapes and eyes

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.

Prometheus

Oh, the (deluxe and grand) humanity.

Ridley Scott has returned, to cinema screens and to glories past. He offers us Prometheus, a prequel of sorts to the magnificent  Alien. The hype has been big: it remained unclear quite how directly the new film would relate to the old, but the trailer was tantalizing. On arrival, Prometheus is quite its own film. It is also mostly a success – a large, bold and engaging action-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).

Prometheus thrives foremost as a spectacle: exciting action sequences tear through a beautifully realized environment. One of the best of these sees the crew fleeing a tremendous storm on the alien world. The grim and repulsively organic monster horror (an Alien trademark, of course) is also suitably visceral. Visually, Prometheus is deluxe and grand. It lacks the original Alien's pleasingly grubby aesthetic and unnerving restraint – by the point the horror reaches the operating table, it has become a little too much and too often. But on its own terms, this film is dazzling.

Alongside this, the story raises some big questions about the origins of humanity. Unfortunately, this develops into Prometheus' 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 laid out before us.

We are spoon-fed the issues. Why and how are humans on Earth? Are we disproving God? Is this not very important indeed? (These questions are largely paraphrased from the dialogue.)  In one slightly embarrassing scene, Shaw and Holloway meet sexily and have a Creation-of-Life discussion, before moving on to feel some Creation-of-Life emotions and then enjoy some Creation-of-Life sex.

This is definitely important.

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-bot is wonderful 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.

7.5

Beauty

Repression and bigotry in Bloemfontein

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 the result is 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 burning desperation 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.

8

Dracula: the Music and Film

Children of the night. What music they make.



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.

Beethoven: Symphony No. 9 – SCO

Discovery, surprise and cornicing

Gorgeousness and gorgeousity made flesh.

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.

The Iron Lady

A facile history lesson, plus mighty acting

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.

6

Minimal Extreme

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.