tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-48486417610171481262024-03-05T00:28:22.659-08:00artwhackedclarefromscotlandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08228977931023830556noreply@blogger.comBlogger22125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4848641761017148126.post-4092848491992383312018-04-25T04:23:00.000-07:002018-04-25T06:21:34.428-07:00The Sound Of Silence... and the pain of parenthood<div>
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Warning: spoilers. Don't read this if you plan to watch the film A<i> Quiet Place</i> and like to be surprised.</div>
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<i>A Quiet Place</i> was not what I expected. I'd anticipated a tense, original thriller akin to the better sort of video game, in which ordinary people evaded monsters in inventive ways under unusual circumstances.</div>
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That turned out to be only partly true. What I didn't know was that the film would pack a much deeper emotional punch, comparable to Lynch's <i>Eraserhead</i> or Aronofsky's <i>Mother!</i> </div>
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Yes, it's a simple set-up. An unexplained alien invasion has resulted in mass destruction and a world in which pockets of survivors cling to life by maintaining almost complete silence. The huge, armoured predators which hunt humanity are blind, but have incredibly keen hearing. Make one sound that's not masked by something louder, and you're dinner. Those who want to live have constructed communications systems built out of sign language, whispers and signals. Those who want to die - like the old man whose wife is butchered by a prowling predator in the woods - simply scream.</div>
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Our viewpoint family - engineer father, doctor mother - have already suffered one terrible bereavement, when their youngest son Beau is taken by one of the beasts in full view of his parents and siblings. Now it's about keeping their heads down and maintaining a daily routine that won't attract attention. The surviving son Marcus (Noah Jupe) is nervous and traumatised, but must learn from his father Lee (actor/director John Krasinski) how to move through the environment undetected and scavenge for food where he can. Daughter Regan (Millicent Simmonds), who's deaf, is racked with guilt; she feels responsible for her little brother's death, and believes, wrongly, that she has forfeited her parents' love.</div>
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The situation moves into crisis when we realise that Evelyn, the mother (Emily Blunt) is now pregnant. There's a mounting horror, worse than the dread of death, which takes root at the back of your mind as her belly grows; even if this woman manages to give birth in silence, how will they keep the baby quiet? What sort of life can it possibly have?<br />
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When Evelyn finally goes into labour, it's in the most horrifying circumstances imaginable. She is alone, and she is being hunted. I'd sometimes dared to wonder what it must be like for women who have to give birth in war zones, or prison camps, or as refugees fleeing those who want to murder them. I was taken straight back to the bloody trauma of my own children's difficult births, and more than that - to the overwhelming, visceral need to protect the helpless new life which flooded through my system and took over my whole personality. You can see it, this time of year, in the eyes of the ewes in the fields, once again responsible for blithe young lives that for the most part, will be short ones.<br />
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For the humans in <i>A Quiet Place</i>, survival is everything. The need for it is raw, immediate, and it will only function if this small family community can work together to protect each other. The bond between the parents is strong and their instincts to protect their offspring are a constant, personal responsibility. Here, there are no carers, no teachers, no doctors or social workers to help. Here, there can be no lone-wolf posturing; the isolated get picked off. Lose touch with each other, </div>
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and all is lost.<br />
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When the baby is born, and hidden, insulated in a womb of blankets and padding in a soundproofed cellar under a mattress trapdoor, the family are still not safe from threat. The sinister, insectoid predators still have the upper hand; they are a sword of Damocles which will fall at the slightest error, the slightest sound, at something as basic to life as a baby's cry.<br />
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I remembered how vulnerable I felt as a new mother, a quarter of a century ago. We lived in a tiny cottage with a coal fireplace, and for a while I had a recurring nightmare that someone would invade the house, steal my newborn baby and put him on the fire as though he were fuel. Those night horrors came out of the new responsibility I had, the utterly atavistic need to keep watch, to guard against danger, to keep the children safe. From fire. From predators. From anything that could hurt them.<br />
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I knew back then, when they were small, that I would sacrifice myself without question if that's what it took to protect my sons. I remember telling friends who became parents that the instinct never truly goes away, even when your children tower over you, outstrip you, leave the nest for lives of their own. Still, it recedes, becomes less immediate a feeling. But when, at the end of <i>A Quiet Place</i>, the father has to give himself up to the predators to draw them away from his fleeing children, the moment made sense to me in a way that I had not felt for years, drawing all the power of that parental instinct to the surface and pitching me back into something I suddenly felt unable to handle.<br />
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Just as the helpless, nightmare child in <i>Eraserhead</i> was an embodiment of Lynch's own fear of being converted into a father, <i>A Quiet Place</i> made me feel that its entire setting - monsters and all - was an extended metaphor for the terrors of parenthood, the intense vulnerability which it brings. When you're young, for much of the time you feel impregnable. If you're growing up in a more or less civilised time and place, danger and death are things which happen to other people. But as soon as you become a parent, you're constantly subject to a sense of looming peril which could come from literally anywhere. I once heard it described as walking around with your heart outside your body. Yet you must learn not to give in to fear. You cannot protect your children by shielding them from the world. You must teach them to survive in it.<br />
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Which is what makes the ending of <i>A Quiet Place</i> so fitting, as well as heavily ironic. The predators are made vulnerable to attack by the one thing they have not evolved to deal with: sound. It's howling feedback from an amplified hearing aid which ultimately overcomes their defences, and it's Regan, the girl who cannot hear, who sets their doom in motion. Her father's sacrifice - and his love for her, symbolised by the cochlear implant he's been trying to repair - has enabled her. She has weaponised her own disability and used it to find the chink in the predators' armour. And by doing so, she has learned to protect what's left of her family and assuaged her own terrible sense of guilt.</div>
clarefromscotlandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08228977931023830556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4848641761017148126.post-19466782922944471772018-04-02T03:23:00.001-07:002018-04-02T03:24:04.059-07:00The Peace Of Wild Things<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I am ashamed to admit that despite having a degree in English and American Literature, despite being a writer who tries hard to grow crops on our family's organic smallholding, I had never heard of Wendell Berry.<br />
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So I'm very pleased to have discovered him via Penguin's new selection from his work, <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/014198712X">The Peace Of Wild Things.</a> A farmer-poet and environmental activist from Kentucky, Berry has been writing poetry, fiction and non-fiction since the 1960s, but coming to his verse fresh with little knowledge of his life or his beliefs meant that I could appreciate these poems without foreknowledge or prejudice.<br />
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This is wonderful stuff. Arranged more or less chronologically, the selection contains extracts from collections published between 1964 and 2016. You don't need to know that the poet is an agrarian who harbours a deep distrust of globalism and of modern technology to feel his deep affinity with the land and with the natural world. <br />
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His instinct for its beauties and its seasons flows through his work, reminding me first of John Clare and Seamus Heaney, later, in the poems written as an older man, of Yeats. Like William Blake, too, he has a gift for opening up a universe of emotion by opening a tiny window on his world; a crocus, a heron, a tree.<br />
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More than anything, these poems teach us not to be so eager to rush through life, eyes on the so-called prize. They underline the beauty of the process of living, from youth to maturity through to death, and of doing so in harmony with the earth's natural rhythms. There is anger in his rejection of orthodox profit-led farming, of bureaucracy, of war, of government bullying. <br />
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But there is a deeper peace underlying his appreciation of the ancestral land he farms, the family he loves, and of the power of words themselves to convey the numinous and the profound.clarefromscotlandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08228977931023830556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4848641761017148126.post-12947027317843810252017-10-12T13:25:00.000-07:002017-10-12T14:54:46.916-07:00Walking The Tightrope: a review of 'City Of Circles' by Jess Richards<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I'm a big fan of Jess Richards' work, having loved her two earlier novels "Snake Ropes" and "Cooking With Bones". Like those stories, "City Of Circles" creates a powerfully original fantasy world through which the author can explore very human emotions.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">As she points out in the book's afterword, "perhaps all fiction in in some way autobiographical." Written while the author was going through a period of isolation and transience after the breakup of her marriage, "City of Circles" is about a circus performer called Danu whose grief and guilt over the death of her parents has caused her to withdraw emotionally. With the help of older mentor Morrie, Danu learns to walk a tightrope - both literally and metaphorically - between her desire to belong and her need to find something authentically her own.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Rejecting the camaraderie of the circus and the chance of a lasting relationship with Morrie, she eventually goes in search of herself within the strange geometry of Matryoshka - a city that reads like a puzzle, designed by a visionary architect out of three concentric circles built over a slumbering volcano. The metaphor is a powerful one, and casting herself adrift on the city, she tastes experience after experience - all of which only serve to underline her outsider status. Armed only with a clue from her dead mother's locket, she must search for the missing piece of her identity and put an end to her isolation.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Meanwhile, lovelorn and lonely, Morrie tries to reach Danu - both physically and then mentally, when he learns to travel the ether in a dreamlike state to watch over her from a distance. The concept of the ether permeates the book, drawing on fringe science as much as folklore to establish the idea of a field or a fabric of which the universe is made and through which consciousness can move. It's an idea which is also explored in various ways within science fiction, fantasy and magic realist narratives, from Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials trilogy to Christopher Nolan's film Interstellar (2014) and the new Star Trek TV series, Discovery.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The novel riffs on notions of duality and reflection; from Morrie and Danu’s circus act in which they mirror each other’s movements, to the painting Danu discovers which is an impossible depiction of her by someone she’s never met. The strange geography of the city is also beautifully realised - recalling both Venice at carnival time and a clockwork Minas Tirith. Some time into her stay, Danu discovers that the circles on which it is built slowly revolve at different speeds, making it seem even more like a puzzle to be solved rather than a landscape to be explored. Why is the second circle so different in character? Why is it impossible to gain access to the secretive Inner Circle, and why did her mother have the address of someone who lives there? If she does gain entrance, will she be able to get out again? The answers to these riddles may serve to release Danu from her self-imposed isolation - or they may cut her off forever from the world, and the people, she knows.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Perhaps that's the conundrum that faces every artist - whether to stay in the everyday world where you may be alienated but at least you feel safe, or follow the white rabbit down the hole and face the unknown. In this memorable fable, Jess Richards expertly projects these very human challenges onto a world which despite its complex artifice, always feels vividly real.</span></div>
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<br />clarefromscotlandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08228977931023830556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4848641761017148126.post-19637782258779674192017-08-21T14:47:00.001-07:002017-08-22T00:07:39.224-07:00The bodies are coming back<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i>Commander Bolton: The tide's turning now.</i></div>
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<i>Captain Winnant: How can you tell?</i></div>
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<i>Commander Bolton: The bodies are coming back.</i></div>
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<i>Dunkirk</i> doesn’t
obey any of the rules of modern commercial moviemaking. It doesn’t bother with
backstory for its characters, it doesn’t linger on explosions or the human
wreckage they cause, there is no “romantic interest” – there are barely even
any women. <o:p></o:p></div>
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What it does instead is concentrate on the seemingly random. We follow a group of soldiers fleeing gunfire
along French streets, picked off one by one until a single man is left. We see
a mute survivor recycle the uniform from a corpse he happens upon, before
burying it in the sand. We watch a shellshocked officer, rescued from wreckage
by chance, cower in the belly of a boat. We see interminable lines of men standing
on the piers, in the shallows, strafed by Stukas as they wait for deliverance. Some
survive; others don’t. This is what was real.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Chrisptopher Nolan has been criticised for overwhelming his
characters with artifice. I think that’s
a misunderstanding of his method.
Although it deals with history rather than speculative fantasy or magic
realism, the film’s three nested timeframes work in essentially the same way as
the layered dreamscapes of <i>Inception</i>,
or the variable timeframes wrought by relativity in <i>Interstellar</i>. We see events
from the space of a week on the beach, containing a single day on a rescue boat
at sea and finally one desperate hour in the air. The procession is not linear, and events are
sometimes repeated from different viewpoints. What seems at first to be random
is in fact connected at every level.</div>
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There are no star turns: Mark Rylance’s sober boat captain
is as understated as Tom Hardy’s pragmatic Spitfire pilot, his face half-hidden
under his oxygen mask. Cillian Murphy’s nameless, context-less “shivering
soldier” displays the raw emotion of a man who has seen too much and can take
no more. Even pop star Harry Styles subverts his charisma to the demands of a not entirely sympathetic role. And relative newcomer Fionn Whitehead fulfills the role of viewpoint character - his name is "Tommy" - with a workmanlike credibility.</div>
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If there is one single voice to
unify the action and draw all these experiences together, it’s not an actor's; it's that of Hans Zimmer,
whose score moves from the urgently atonal to an evisceration of Elgar’s Nimrod
theme from the Enigma Variations. It’s as much sound design as music, yet it’s
an aural environment which stays in the head for many hours after the film has
ended.<o:p></o:p></div>
clarefromscotlandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08228977931023830556noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4848641761017148126.post-29613453415968635112017-07-20T07:48:00.000-07:002017-08-21T14:49:24.304-07:00Birthday Letter<br />
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It’s been over two months since Chris Cornell died. Today would have been his 53rd birthday. Shock affects people in different ways, but for me, the days and weeks following his death went by in a blur. Helping to organise his funeral gave way to listening to his elegies. So many of his friends, family and colleagues spoke or wrote beautiful things in his memory, but I couldn’t seem to do the same. In Hollywood, Jacaranda blossoms were blooming across a summer he’d never see. The night after his funeral, I sat on the hill outside Griffith Observatory and watched the shadows lengthen. And I couldn’t think of a thing to say.<br />
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I’ve been told that just as physical injury can trigger a natural anaesthetic which protects the victim, the sudden death of a loved one can produce a numbness of the mind and heart which only gradually gives way to anger and grief. I think that’s what happened to me.<br />
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Still, it’s pretty pathetic when a writer runs out of words.<br />
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Lately, there have been signs that my heart is coming out of hibernation. I’ve been getting angry. With myself. With people who write stupid things on the internet. Even with Chris, who left all of us high and dry without the chance to offer help, to understand, even to say goodbye. I’m told that anger is a normal part of grief; that it helps with the healing process and eventually gives way to acceptance. But I’m still a long way, a very long way, from that.<br />
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So I’ve been trying to remember all the good things.<br />
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Like the day in 2007 I first met Chris, backstage at the <a href="http://www.arthurlloyd.co.uk/AstoriaTheatreCharingCrossRoad.htm" target="_blank">Astoria</a> in London. For such a tall man he had a way of moving silently, almost stealthily, and I was still setting up to record my interview when Chris walked over to the room’s single window and with his back to me, said “Have I been here before?”<br />
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He never cared much for hellos and goodbyes, the routine enquiries after health or wellbeing with which most people bookend their conversations. Choosing to take him literally rather than metaphorically, I reminded him of the last time he’d played the venue; with Audioslave, four years before, fresh out of rehab. He laughed as I fumbled with my recorder and sent its batteries skittering across the floor. Then he distributed himself over three rickety chairs and talked for an hour, not just about music but about physics and history and psychology and politics. They’ve <a href="http://www.wired.co.uk/article/demolition-astoria" target="_blank">knocked the Astoria down</a> now, but whatever they do with the space where it stood, it’ll always be a haunted place for me.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja-4OerchQ1tddOmm-jSeVKKf76N0aBOPbCnPY7oh1kvjR-cmRYasbjrMusljtnQkJT6UgP8k7oNkC3LlEY5b7AVdcEmNK6C8bWwGvM796wyFLQfRmOKZjbcAof5zQ25HcFpMYD8NiNY8/s1600/London_Astoria_site_September_2009_CB.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja-4OerchQ1tddOmm-jSeVKKf76N0aBOPbCnPY7oh1kvjR-cmRYasbjrMusljtnQkJT6UgP8k7oNkC3LlEY5b7AVdcEmNK6C8bWwGvM796wyFLQfRmOKZjbcAof5zQ25HcFpMYD8NiNY8/s400/London_Astoria_site_September_2009_CB.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">originally posted to Flickr <a href="http://flickr.com/photos/21128947@N00/3933458461" target="_blank">What remains of the Astoria</a>.</td></tr>
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That interview, and the one which followed back home in Scotland, eventually led to Chris hiring me. For the next decade, I wrote PR, did research, kept archives, proofread everything, became part of the management team, helped his family, and looked after social media for him and for his bands and projects. One of the greatest things about the internet is that for those of us dealing in art and ideas, it enables almost anyone to work from almost anywhere. Which is exactly what I did.<br />
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Visiting Chris and Vicky for the first time in Paris, I remember the exact moment when a small blond figure in a nappy appeared in the sitting room doorway and fixed me with a basilisk stare just like his father’s. Then Chris appeared, crouched beside him and picked up a ball which he rolled slowly towards me as he told his son my name. I’m not sure that Dad quite allayed the little boy’s natural suspicion of this strange lady, but it was a nice way to make his, and his big sister’s acquaintance.<br />
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Chris loved his family profoundly. Whatever he was doing, whatever else was in his mind, he was always a devoted husband and father, as he was always an appreciative friend. Despite his rock star cool, he had a natural gentility which seemed to come from a different age. It’s the little things, really. Stopping to help his wife who was making slow progress in heels down an elderly staircase at the Shepherd’s Bush Empire, and then opening the door to let me step into the wings ahead of him. Walking with him through the centre of the crowd at Hyde Park after Soundgarden’s wonderful ‘Superunknown20’ show to watch Black Sabbath from the VIP viewing platform, a child on his shoulders like a hundred other dads down on the grass below on that summer evening. <br />
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I remember him phoning to cheer me up when the response to his album “Scream” wasn’t all we’d hoped. Carefully spelling out my 12 year old son’s Gaelic name in the cover of a children’s book he was autographing for him, anxious not to get it wrong; then ten years later, writing to congratulate that same son on getting his degree. Doing everything he could to help friends or fans through bereavement, or to send little presents or organise special backstage meetings for those who were sick or disabled. I remember his abundant kindness, his keen intelligence, his all-encompassing warmth for those he trusted and his disdain for those he did not. I remember how little he cared for status, or power, or riches, and how much he cared for talent and loyalty. <br />
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On Twitter, which for a while he embraced with all the delight of a kid with a new toy, he could be as surreal as <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/news/2002/feb/28/guardianobituaries.booksobituaries" target="_blank">Spike Milligan</a>. He always saw the scope for comic confusion in language - once, he asked me about the <a href="http://www.undiscoveredscotland.co.uk/usscotfax/history/clearances.html" target="_blank">Highland Clearances</a>, and then confessed that he’d never been able to shake the mental connection with department store clearance sales. <br />
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He was a brilliant mimic, copying or creating characters at will. He once called me and adopted the persona of an extravagantly gay and terminally confused international telephone operator - if he hadn’t dropped the pretence I don’t think I’d ever have got the joke. During a discussion of British gangster films while we were driving to a show in New Jersey, he suddenly became Ben Kingsley's foulmouthed cockney psychopath Don Logan from Jonathan Glazer's ‘Sexy Beast’. The language wasn’t a big stretch – Chris swore like a sailor – but all the insane black humour of the character was there in a flash ("Yes Grosvenor! Yes Roundtree! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!") before he lapsed back into his usual conversational calm. He had many actor friends, but always insisted he’d never try it himself. Perhaps he should have done.<br />
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Because of the physical distance, I didn’t know Chris as well or see him as often as some. But what I remember most of all is the way he’d pick up exactly where we had left off, weeks, months or even years before. As he had at that very first meeting, he would just start talking: no greetings, no awkwardness, no catching up, whether it was a chat about our respective children, a dive into his musical seascape or a discussion of psychogeographic geometry (Chris felt north/south or east/west divides were artificial, and the real divisions in the world were diagonal). He rarely felt very far away. As he wrote to his friend Eric Esrailian, “we are neighbours in a modern world where proximity is relative and the threshold to our hearts moves outside time and space”.<br />
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But I will miss the little light on my phone, colour-coded blue, that told me there was an email or a message from him. I’ll miss watching him wind down with his family after a show. I’ll miss his irritation with his staff when we couldn’t keep up with his alarming pace. I will miss sending him birthday wishes every July 20th. I will miss his hugs. I will miss his smile.<br />
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Chris knew all about darkness. It suffused his work and was part of the ocean he swam in as an artist. But darkness is not always destructive. It's just the other side of light, and that nocturnal imaginative world was part of his nature. It would never have taken him away from the people and the music he loved. The alien darkness around him that night in Detroit was chemical. Drugs change brain chemistry, and I think that in the benzodiazepine delirium that engulfed him, Chris became not-Chris. And he was lost, to himself, his family, and to the world.<br />
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This isn't the place to talk about the evils of prescription drug culture in America. And I don’t think Chris would want us to sit by the side of the road and cry. He'd want us to push on with our lives and make him proud. But I do know that the world is the poorer now that he can’t construct a future for himself, for his songs, for the wife and children he adored, and for all of us.<br />
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[Postscript: the other day I came across an old song I wrote with my husband, <i>The Size Of Dreaming</i>. The inspiration had a lot to do with Shakespeare's <i>Antony & Cleopatra</i>, and a little to do with the sound of Chris Cornell. We wrote and recorded it twelve years ago, but it feels strangely appropriate now. You can listen to it and read the lyrics <a href="https://soundcloud.com/clarevirginiaobrien/the-size-of-dreaming" target="_blank">here</a>.]clarefromscotlandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08228977931023830556noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4848641761017148126.post-82064550238459456402017-03-19T14:46:00.001-07:002018-02-26T02:47:34.585-08:00The Nature Of Art: Lynn Bennett-Mackenzie at the Sawyer Gallery, Poolewe<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="http://lynnbmack.blogspot.co.uk/" target="_blank">Lynn Bennett Mackenzie</a>'s solo exhibition at<a href="http://www.nts.org.uk/Visit/Inverewe/" target="_blank"> Inverewe Garden & Estate</a>'s new Sawyer Gallery in Poolewe, Wester Ross opened last night. The theme - Art In Nature, or The Nature Of Art - was a powerful one, well-suited to a small gallery in the midst of a rural landscape. It would probably have been easy for Lynn to present something innocuously pastoral, but she's a much better artist than that. <br />
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So like the natural world which inspired it, the works were both raw and subtle, often combining both qualities within a single piece. A piece of driftwood hid waxen pearls which could have been eggs but suggested teeth, as though some unnamed baby animal with a savage need to chew and tear had left them embedded in the wood. Birth and flight were everywhere through the repeated motifs of eggs and feathers, but always with the threat of violence and destruction hovering in the wings.<br />
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Also evoked was the sense of idea of watching and being watched. A pair of wooden eyes stared out of a museum display case like a found tribal artefact; the quiet gaze of still painted faces ringed the room. Most powerful of all was a sculptural figure made entirely of sheep's wool which sat like a sentry at the room's focal point. Both serene and strangely threatening, he seemed to encapsulate the equivocal nature of the art on show, and the landscape from which it was drawn.<br />
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<br />clarefromscotlandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08228977931023830556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4848641761017148126.post-52493986906081715952016-11-20T13:33:00.000-08:002016-11-21T01:14:11.944-08:00America Has Fallen......but some of us are standing up for life and love.<br />
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The night before last, I made the short journey from my home in the Scottish Highlands to the tiny Victorian spa town of <a href="http://www.strathpeffer.org/" target="_blank">Strathpeffer</a>. It took us about an hour and a half through a landscape suddenly acquiring the perilous beauty of winter, and when we arrived we learned the show would be delayed for an hour or so because the piano due to be played by Rufus Wainwright had got stuck on the snowy A9 and needed to be checked and tuned.<br />
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We didn't mind. Amazing enough that an artist of Wainwright's calibre and pedigree had agreed to play at the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Strathpeffer_Pavilion" target="_blank">Pavilion</a>, a lovely but remote Victorian remnant midway between the bright lights of Inverness and the wilds of Wester Ross. The <a href="http://www.forres-gazette.co.uk/Whats-On/Music/Rufus-17112016.htm" target="_blank">local press</a> explained how he'd "jumped at the offer" to head out west because of his famous "propensity for romanticism". As we settled belatedly into our seats in what is really just an incredibly splendid old village hall, we wondered how such a strange and magical evening might develop. <br />
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Efficiently warmed by cheery Dundonian/Ukrainian opener <a href="https://andrewwasylyk.bandcamp.com/" target="_blank">Andrew Wasylyk</a>, whose oceanic piano chords and big voice got an enthusiastic welcome, the capacity crowd settled and hushed itself as Rufus Wainwright swooped into an original setting of '<i>Ave Maria'</i> - a lament, he explained both for the late Leonard Cohen and for America itself. Canadian by parentage, Rufus was born in New York State and has lived for thirty years on the country's east coast. As the evening progressed it was plain that he felt his nation's recent surrender to neo-fascism most keenly.<br />
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'California' from <i>Poses</i> and 'Going To A Town' from <i>Release The Stars</i> acquired new levels of meaning in the new context of Trump's USA. Rufus explained how he'd just been sitting in his dressing room "destroying himself on social media", arguing with those supporters of the new regime who would deny him the right to speak, the right to be gay and the right to marry. Finally, he spoke of his sadness that "America has fallen", apologising to us and to the rest of the world for the damage that would be done. He told us that it wasn't enough to merely resist evil; we must actively oppose it. He sang 'In A Graveyard'. He applauded the "revolutionary spirit" of the Highlands. The audience roared its approval.<br />
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Not all of the evening revolved around regrets and fears for the future. Wainwright's creativity encompasses not only music but spreads like sunshine through his own expansive persona, and there were jokes and anecdotes in plenty - including one about the time a spa masseur had needlessly told him "his masculine side was out of balance". This is an artist whose performances are always intimately personal, and between bouts of self-deprecating chatter he examined his own addictive personality in "Sanssouci' and 'Cigarettes And Chocolate Milk.' <br />
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There was much more to come. His unforgettable setting of Shakespeare's Sonnet 43 ('All Days Are Nights') from <i>Songs For Lulu </i>led into a surprise appearance from Scottish soprano <a href="http://www.janiskellysoprano.com/" target="_blank">Janis Kelly</a> - who played the title role in his opera <i>Prima Donna</i> - to sing Sonnet 20 ('With Shifting Change') and then the sublime 'Les Feux d'Artifice T'Appellent' from the opera's closing act.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAVwHObZr2pKp3HhpBsjaY3AiqNxNhg66FfptS4_EdLliMFt88KPu4vYvVNNcsxbZDMzWCL-cfbmdvfQt-UJZc_bvFW7p0-Jz9pr6wlzoxDihbNQ8qRhyphenhyphen3cGThXwSQSKHlVKpq_9mPFWw/s1600/20161118_215242_resized+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Rufus Wainwright & Janis Kell: Strathpeffer 18 Nov 2016" border="0" height="273" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAVwHObZr2pKp3HhpBsjaY3AiqNxNhg66FfptS4_EdLliMFt88KPu4vYvVNNcsxbZDMzWCL-cfbmdvfQt-UJZc_bvFW7p0-Jz9pr6wlzoxDihbNQ8qRhyphenhyphen3cGThXwSQSKHlVKpq_9mPFWw/s320/20161118_215242_resized+%25282%2529.jpg" title="Rufus Wainwright & Janis Kell: Strathpeffer 18 Nov 2016" width="320" /></a></div>
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Through all of this music, you could hear a pin drop in the hall - only for the audience to erupt in applause, whoops and whistles the moment the last note died away. Nobody moved a muscle while Rufus sang - not to set down a drink, whisper to a friend or push out a chair. Yet when the concert was finally over, the standing ovation under the cast ironwork of the old Victorian ceiling was as warm and as heartfelt as anything I've heard in far grander spaces. Finishing with Leonard Cohen's 'Hallelujah', he told us he'd sworn never to sing the song again until Trump was gone. He didn't need to tell us that his own daughter Viva, conceived with Leonard's daughter Lorca, was part of <a href="http://www.nme.com/news/music/rufus-wainwright-leonard-cohen-tribute-1851223" target="_blank">what was behind the change of mind</a>.<br />
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Snow was falling as the sated crowd leaked slowly out into the night, and the journey home was to be longer and colder than we'd expected. But the music had been unparalleled, the spirit fierce, and through the alchemy of live performance we had been lent new strength to deal with much more than a little adverse weather. <br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span>clarefromscotlandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08228977931023830556noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4848641761017148126.post-8938541772634450132016-08-07T10:54:00.000-07:002016-08-07T11:12:50.660-07:00Somebody else took his place and bravely cried…<div class="MsoNormal">
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<i>I’m always a little queasy about tributes, especially in the
wake of a death. Too often, they can tip
over into sentiment, or turn into an opportunity for nostalgia or self-aggrandisement. Bowie's death sucked all the words out of me for a while, so perhaps a discussion of the recent <o:p></o:p>Bowie Prom might help remind me there's still a lot more to be said.</i></div>
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There was nothing mawkish about the special Prom concert
held recently at London’s Royal Albert Hall. Instead of celebrity karaoke, we
witnessed reinvention; both hits and obscurities turned upside down by an array of guest
singers alongside André de Ridder’s ‘Stargaze’ ensemble.
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There were those performances you knew would work. Villagers singer Conor O’Brien’s haunted take on “<a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p0430g6p" target="_blank">The Man Who Sold The World</a>” evoked nightmare and rough magic. The sweeping, erotic “<a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p0430hn5" target="_blank">Lady Grinning Soul</a>”
could have been designed for Anna Calvi’s brand of steely romanticism. Paul Buchanan’s emotive
croak made “<a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p043187t" target="_blank">I Can’t Give Everything Away</a>” even more unbearably valedictory.<br />
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But the most memorable moments were also the most
unexpected. Laura Mvula intoned in Nadsat for
“<a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/music/records/n4n8bq" target="_blank">Girl Loves Me</a>”, melting into tearful, yearning disbelief on the
choruses. Composer David Lang had
invited classical countertenor Philippe Jarrousky to turn “<a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p043187z" target="_blank">Always Crashing In The Same Car</a>” into a keening renaissance lament. Amanda Palmer and Anna Calvi, black-clad and
crowned in thorns, stood motionless as Greek caryatids to invoke the
serpentine gravity of <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p043188g" target="_blank">Blackstar’s title track</a>.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijFkwTXE3hpQ1Pgt-3WWtFjWS4p5VxMeYCfUeFc8ljdPWAReWab9t4QqpWjtOHOc4DZUNv6V9rpoS2AIvg6jMqoMjcyq2CP16ikZ3S_i2yrWxZQUkIZGJs9QgeqJFFSRGGfzfhFRLIrAU/s1600/YX0gH1Gl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijFkwTXE3hpQ1Pgt-3WWtFjWS4p5VxMeYCfUeFc8ljdPWAReWab9t4QqpWjtOHOc4DZUNv6V9rpoS2AIvg6jMqoMjcyq2CP16ikZ3S_i2yrWxZQUkIZGJs9QgeqJFFSRGGfzfhFRLIrAU/s640/YX0gH1Gl.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Anna Calvi sings 'Blackstar'</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Some experiments worked better than others, but there were
few outright failures. Neil Hannon might
have lacked the range and power to handle the higher notes of “<a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p0430gv4" target="_blank">This Is Not America</a>”, but his just-behind- the-beat delivery eerily recalled Bowie’s in the
lower registers of “<a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p0430g6y" target="_blank">Station To Station</a>”. Composer/percussionist Greg Saunier’s reimagined
“<a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p043187y" target="_blank">Fame</a>” lost the funk but veered into minimalist territory instead, with Laura Mvula’s vocals bobbing like a cork
on its staccato currents. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwUsSo9NmivNm1uC_x2jastSI1AVliALCX52ZNjltTrq3lxYZbNKeTxIJWw5fPI2pfusUzb2eVlDzuZfpQShZdemD31usKm9g7aYXF_1lDHqfS8a6UsR364pLw3sXTH9_6n6j7PTy9hPo/s1600/fame.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="340" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwUsSo9NmivNm1uC_x2jastSI1AVliALCX52ZNjltTrq3lxYZbNKeTxIJWw5fPI2pfusUzb2eVlDzuZfpQShZdemD31usKm9g7aYXF_1lDHqfS8a6UsR364pLw3sXTH9_6n6j7PTy9hPo/s640/fame.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Laura Mvula sings 'Fame'</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Saunier was perhaps the most adventurous of the night’s arrangers: there was one moment, near the end of
the concert, when the packed Albert Hall crowd realised that the deconstructed
instrumental they were hearing was in fact 80s mega-hit “<a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p04318jw" target="_blank">Let’s Dance</a>” - and
spontaneously exploded into song: “if you should fall into my arms and tremble
like a flower…..” Perhaps that how
Saunier planned it, though his version of “<a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p04318gg" target="_blank">Rebel Rebel</a>” – on bass flute - was
well-nigh unrecognisable. For me, though,
the only truly false note of the night was struck by Marc Almond, who bellowed “<a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p0430hkx" target="_blank">Life On Mars</a>” and “<a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p04318br" target="_blank">Starman</a>” like Ethel Merman in a karaoke bar after too many
cocktails. </div>
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It’s true that John Cale’s Welsh-chapel austerity didn’t
quite gel with the exuberant gospel choir which accompanied him on an inverted,
elongated “<a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p04318gx" target="_blank">Space Oddity</a>”, but as one by one the singers cut loose at the finale
a sense of wild celebration replaced the helplessness and isolation of the
original. No longer in orbit, Major Tom
had finally been set free to roam through the universe. It was a moving moment. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqoXfoSi_j2M1lgyB1_4auI1ecqPy6gU3UEF3sSoHuZ8CvclIzcwQ8zi4c36ZWclfE32b2VJoIRFeEQc5JKcWyXWqy8RIyM2u1fpmWYEvuftQBjEqQ57jYLt95mGMj5zu5iPgLfE6PCa0/s1600/104399184-bowieprom-andre-large_trans%252B%252BZgEkZX3M936N5BQK4Va8RWtT0gK_6EfZT336f62EI5U.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqoXfoSi_j2M1lgyB1_4auI1ecqPy6gU3UEF3sSoHuZ8CvclIzcwQ8zi4c36ZWclfE32b2VJoIRFeEQc5JKcWyXWqy8RIyM2u1fpmWYEvuftQBjEqQ57jYLt95mGMj5zu5iPgLfE6PCa0/s640/104399184-bowieprom-andre-large_trans%252B%252BZgEkZX3M936N5BQK4Va8RWtT0gK_6EfZT336f62EI5U.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">John Cale and House Gospel Choir sing 'Space Oddity"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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There have been many tributes in the six months since David
Bowie died in January, but this one probably did more than any to honour the audacious
spirit of its subject. Lighting familiar work from unfamiliar angles, it wasn’t afraid
to reach for the impossible - and in its willingness to fail, it probably succeeded
way beyond its expectations.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGuE7FKvURpktCiiJbd2xhc709pQCSt_HF6mbAzXV1t9fQi4PLECeomUQmlQnLoCXWmj1y7SGnVQZfcID59Kcq-3AOvDK0_BsBYAIhnXDHJDLpkP0hCdaK2XQVV4nDp63GoCegIjaGVY0/s1600/rah_37236534238.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGuE7FKvURpktCiiJbd2xhc709pQCSt_HF6mbAzXV1t9fQi4PLECeomUQmlQnLoCXWmj1y7SGnVQZfcID59Kcq-3AOvDK0_BsBYAIhnXDHJDLpkP0hCdaK2XQVV4nDp63GoCegIjaGVY0/s640/rah_37236534238.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Concert finale</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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clarefromscotlandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08228977931023830556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4848641761017148126.post-63809762487345462062015-10-01T08:19:00.000-07:002015-10-01T12:35:17.049-07:00Speaking In Tongues<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWxH9kVIkNZq7EFO8xhcy0We7xkX9Oze9Mf3ki6Ln310vut6QsBt_eFwoPJ4M1r12LXQeq6H4a3ZxxPo4yDNOXWX6M4ASeC0H1DyEuXOa_9eU8ZjsOtU5RWsWONEC6CWg0YFv_RXMtOFg/s1600/hamlet+ad.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="294" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWxH9kVIkNZq7EFO8xhcy0We7xkX9Oze9Mf3ki6Ln310vut6QsBt_eFwoPJ4M1r12LXQeq6H4a3ZxxPo4yDNOXWX6M4ASeC0H1DyEuXOa_9eU8ZjsOtU5RWsWONEC6CWg0YFv_RXMtOFg/s640/hamlet+ad.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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The current production of 'Hamlet' at the Barbican looks magnificent.The sets, the costumes, the vision; all are marvellous and the experience of the play offered here is spectacular.<br />
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But Hamlet is about language.<br />
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I don't mean the actual language of Shakespeare, the iambic dance of the verse, the four century old vocabulary that phases in and out of modern comprehension, the poetic reliance on imagery that is so much more important than the mechanism of the (borrowed) plot. That's a common factor across all his work, his genius is based on it, and you either want to make the effort to understand it, or you don't. The crib notes, glosses and "translations" (<a href="http://nfs.sparknotes.com/" target="_blank">No Fear Shakespeare</a>, anyone?) which litter the internet might drag schoolkids through GCSEs, but ultimately they miss the point.<br />
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I mean it's about voices: ancient and modern, mad and sane, rational and mysterious; distinct and various registers of speech which descend on the characters of this passion play like enchantments or translation matrices, forcing them to speak in languages which are alien to their everyday selves: haunting soliloquy, mad scene, death scene.<br />
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Unlike some productions (notably Branagh's and Jacobi's) which have
concentrated on external action, Lyndsey Turner's production feels firmly
rooted within Hamlet's psyche. His soliloquies take place outside
normal spacetime - Cumberbatch spotlit inside a kind of bubble, splashing around in existential angst while the everyday action
of the court goes on in imperceptibly slow motion around him.<br />
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As the programme cover with its doppelganger child actors hints before we take our seats, Benedict Cumberbatch plays the prince as a man who doesn't really want to grow up. In this production we first meet him sitting crosslegged on his bedroom floor, playing old records on a battered gramophone. His father - the mentor he admires and loves - is dead, and his assassin has married his mother. All kinds of Oedipal ferment has been unleashed; if Freudian psychology says a boy is meant to pass through a phase of wanting to kill his father and supplant him in his mother's affections, at least metaphorically, then in that sense Uncle Claudius has stolen Hamlet's thunder.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwh5sAAn6NM83vtU3LMbG8FNxwg65wkJJR9fwdJR_HskRCAWjPrtMpFHPIWvoxiHfkzlQzE9CWtoTCp715sTB9rbvbaA7MxTWgIG3r5x5R_544JHZhX67qytR3PZS0RXvQ_zb_UfrCA8s/s1600/hamlet+soldier.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwh5sAAn6NM83vtU3LMbG8FNxwg65wkJJR9fwdJR_HskRCAWjPrtMpFHPIWvoxiHfkzlQzE9CWtoTCp715sTB9rbvbaA7MxTWgIG3r5x5R_544JHZhX67qytR3PZS0RXvQ_zb_UfrCA8s/s640/hamlet+soldier.jpg" width="584" /></a></div>
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Cumberbatch's Hamlet reacts to the trauma by regressing into childhood, diving into the nursery dressing-up box, playing with toy soldiers, breaking the rules of adult behaviour. His "antic disposition" is partly a way of playing with the idea of himself as a warrior in his father's image, or (in his interaction with the Players) a Machiavellian strategist; but his rejection of Ophelia - petulant, here, rather than cruel - plays into the idea of a man-boy who's still too close to his mother to be a husband himself. His crucial scene with Gertrude at the end of the first half is really the psychological climax of this production of the play; having used the language of disgust to force his mother to look into herself and own up to her own sexual frailty, he also reveals the flaws in his own.<br />
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<i>O Hamlet, speak no more!</i>
<i> </i><br />
<i>Thou turn’st mine eyes into my very soul,</i>
<i> </i><br />
<i>And there I see such black and grainèd spots</i>
<i> </i><br />
<i>As will not leave their tinct.</i><br />
<i> </i>
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Angry at himself for revealing so much, he hits out wildly and kills an innocent. Polonius dies, the walls of the castle fall; the windows shatter, and the stage goes dark. For good or ill, childhood is over.</div>
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Attempts at action always end badly for Hamlet. Whenever he tries to be "a man"; live up to his father's ferocious medieval legacy by adopting the persona of the avenger, he also adopts a suitable dialect:<br />
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<i>'Tis now the very witching time of night,</i></div>
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<i>When churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out</i></div>
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<i>Contagion to this world. Now could I drink hot blood</i></div>
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<i>And do such bitter business as the bitter day</i></div>
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<i>Would quake to look on. </i></div>
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It's the sort of thing Macbeth might say. But underneath the would-be warrior lies the manchild who fears not only his own indecision but his own dubious motivation. </div>
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<i>Soft, now to my mother.—</i></div>
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<i>O heart, lose not thy nature, let not ever</i></div>
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<i>The soul of Nero enter this firm bosom.</i></div>
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<i>Let me be cruel, not unnatural.</i></div>
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These words are ambiguous when we consider that not only did Nero murder his mother, but was suspected of committing incest with her.<br />
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After the first half's explosive finale, the characters are left to thread their way disconsolately over the rubble and broken glass which strews the stage. Hamlet's momentary lack of control has burst the dream open, leaving Denmark to rot in the aftermath. Here, the production reveals some of its weak points. Ciaran Hinds makes a low-key Claudius, neither noticeably wicked nor
especially contrite. We wonder how he can have gathered together enough gumption to kill the king and marry his widow. There's no real outrage in his reaction to the Players, no sense of struggle in his chapel confession scene. His language of confession pays mere lip service
to the concept; redemption is simply unavailable. In the second half of the play, his plot against Hamlet feels exactly that; a plot device, empty of emotion. <br />
<br />
<i>My words fly up, my thoughts remain below: </i><br />
<i>Words without thoughts
never to heaven go. </i><br />
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Ophelia wanders amidst the rubble like a refugee, her home in ruins like her mind. She is literally displaced; her wits, as Hamlet says, are mortal and when Gertrude tells the news of her death we are already inside an extended death rattle for the world as these people have known it. Duels notwithstanding, Hamlet has no power to stop the process. Inevitability takes over, Fortinbras's forces advance, the endgame approaches and Elsinore, littered with the bodies of its people, dissolves into the landscape.<br />
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It's a spectacle, a feast for the eyes, and Benedict Cumberbatch is extraordinary in it; simultaneously subtle and powerful, nobly commanding and pitiably immature, bringing psychological nuance and dangerous physicality to a role which can sometimes reduced to a kind of decadent fin de siecle aesthetic or bashed away at like an obstacle to be overcome (Mel Gibson, I'm looking at you here). The rest of the cast do a workmanlike job at best, though Anastasia Hille as Gertrude brings warmth to an often unsympathetic role and Sian Brooke's Ophelia is moving in her pathos.<br />
<br />
But in the end, Cumberbatch outshines the rest of the cast because his Hamlet is far and away the most intelligent interpreter of the play's language, and language is what Shakespeare is all about. It's where the magic lives. That's why when he dies, <i>the rest is silence.</i></div>
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<br />clarefromscotlandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08228977931023830556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4848641761017148126.post-21261195467135949142015-08-31T09:47:00.000-07:002017-06-04T02:49:32.224-07:00Magic Mirror: Soundgarden's Photofantasm<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlW2rLTv2pHiHYohZdmCwCkoCUhxKU6H-XC6U2x1uGSlgde3BSlmNUUwdiCvOq-CmvGvws4dPi_gDvyg-jiDJLeHS-j_tNaVEXIFSVJY4rtZGjOaggOaGxySPdLHCOARcoviOcgEb79aE/s1600/expbanner-book.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="428" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlW2rLTv2pHiHYohZdmCwCkoCUhxKU6H-XC6U2x1uGSlgde3BSlmNUUwdiCvOq-CmvGvws4dPi_gDvyg-jiDJLeHS-j_tNaVEXIFSVJY4rtZGjOaggOaGxySPdLHCOARcoviOcgEb79aE/s640/expbanner-book.png" width="640" /></a></div>
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I've read a lot of books about music in my time, and I've got the groaning bookshelves to prove it. The worst of them are cold-hearted exercises in corporate PR, or pirated knock-offs thrown together to make a quick buck from fans with little regard for quality or originality.</div>
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Then there are the best of them: the labours of love written by people whose love for the music in question goes way beyond profit or logic. Those who believe in it not simply as a product, but as art. Whatever the format, you can tell one of these creations a mile off. Merri Cyr's glorious photographic love letter to Jeff Buckley, <i>A Wished For Song</i>, is one. The vivid orange, 320 page "catalogue" which accompanied the V&A's <i>'David Bowie Is</i>' retrospective is another. </div>
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<i><a href="http://photofantasm.com/" target="_blank">Photofantasm</a></i> deserves to be classed with these.</div>
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<div>
Jaye & Mike English's massive photobook (I weighed it - just shy of 7lb) is special not only because of its quality, but because of its provenance. No professional writers or official photographers have been hired here to record Soundgarden's comeback for posterity. There are no interviews with the band, no posed studio shots, no corporate branding. If Soundgarden ever decide to publish a book about their long career, that point is still some way off in the future. Instead, <i>Photofantasm</i> draws on the most powerful and positive resource any band can have - its fanbase. This book is by them, and for them. A magic mirror held up to the band by those who love it, reflecting and projecting. In many ways, it's simply a reply.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTyowfDo9BiFiGD4diDfiGjIJPw3bhkXyn1yJ8Ollukkpf4q0sHEXJKonFereMDOKajTjrdwFnNVVkmqh6MbfSyFPrC8vMPkQrzJ7v3yimZHc2Dfyw5F4pd0qmNepEXdDVxPmP9q_pp1o/s1600/11866236_10155943441995057_1393913639347866989_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTyowfDo9BiFiGD4diDfiGjIJPw3bhkXyn1yJ8Ollukkpf4q0sHEXJKonFereMDOKajTjrdwFnNVVkmqh6MbfSyFPrC8vMPkQrzJ7v3yimZHc2Dfyw5F4pd0qmNepEXdDVxPmP9q_pp1o/s320/11866236_10155943441995057_1393913639347866989_n.jpg" width="180" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ruairdhri with his copy</td></tr>
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And what a reply the fans have put together. Every show on Soundgarden's world tour since they made their reappearance in 2010 has its own section, bursting with reminiscence in words and images. People tell their stories about the shows; the often epic travels as they follow the tour across continents, the sacrifices made (one fan sold his entire Soundgarden record collection to afford travel and tickets), the precious autographs and glimpses of the band backstage, the cameraderie of the queue for a place on the rail.<br />
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Every setlist is included, every local tour poster has been reproduced in full-page colour. Fans with creative talent of their own - notably artist <a href="http://www.photocoyote18.com/" target="_blank">Photocoyote</a>, American fan Jeff Becker and young Scottish fan Ruairdhri - have created new, specially commissioned original artwork which appears in the book for the first time.<br />
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Even when a few of Soundgarden's fellow travellers have been coaxed into contributing, they do so as fans of the band rather than industry professionals. Everyone from System of a Down's Serj Tankian and Korn's Jonathan Davis to Chris Cornell's own brother Peter is quoted about what the band has meant to them in the development of their own artistry, and there are some engaging behind-the-scenes anecdotes scattered through the text. Journalist Mark Yarm has written a foreword. A few pro photographers have contributed their own shots, although it's testament to the talent of the fans - most notably Jaye and Mike English themselves - that so many concert shots snatched from the crowd compare so well with work done from the photo pit.<br />
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But for all the fantastic photos this book contains (take a quick peek <a href="http://photofantasm.com/#sneakpeek" target="_blank">here</a>), my favourite visual is actually verbal, from English fan and musician James Morgan, on 2012's open air show in Milan. What can I say; I'm a writer.</div>
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<span style="color: red; font-size: large;">Noting the full moon that had been providing a fitting backdrop for the concert so far, Chris Cornell looked to the sky, pointed, and addressed the crowd: "Look at the moon. It understands everything about you. It's still trying to figure me out, but it's got you covered."</span></div>
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Vintage Chris. Do I have any criticisms? Well, yes. I wish every one of the 592 pages was clearly numbered, because I wanted to note down all my favourite bits and find them again quickly. But that's nitpicking. And there are worse ways of spending time than flicking idly through pages like these. </div>
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The limited edition book (1000 copies) is beautifully produced in hardback, printed on high quality photo paper in full colour with a sturdy sewn binding. Basically, it's an heirloom - a beautiful collector's item that's come straight from the grass-roots and has no absolutely no profit motive. Yes, it's been made by amateurs. But the word 'amateur' means "one who loves" - and only people with a profound love and understanding of their subject could even begin to make a book like this.</div>
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Last word: <i>Photofantasm</i> ends with a valediction and a memorial to <a href="http://photofantasm.com/tiffany.html" target="_blank">Tiffany Patterson-Gross</a> - a long-time fan who became Soundgarden's VIP guest at 2013's Seattle show shortly before she lost her battle with cancer. Proceeds from sale of the book go to help cancer charities in her honour. </div>
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clarefromscotlandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08228977931023830556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4848641761017148126.post-36477724983764326302015-08-26T16:03:00.001-07:002015-08-27T03:09:48.307-07:00On The Edge: Alexander McQueen's Savage BeautyThe lenticular image of the face and skull of Alexander McQueen which now hangs on my living room wall is impossible to adequately reproduce on the internet. Perhaps that's the point; endlessly morphing according to your viewpoint, catching the light, playing with the borderlines between life and death, one thing and another. <br />
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That's the feeling I was left with after visiting the V&A's recent exhibition of his work, <a href="http://www.vam.ac.uk/museumofsavagebeauty/" target="_blank">Savage Beauty</a>. Unusually, I read every single word of the <a href="http://www.vandashop.com/V-A-Alexander-McQueen-Paperback/dp/B00SNBZTA4" target="_blank">weighty £25 catalogue</a> I came home with; lingered over every image, savoured every impression of the many contributors who shared their insights into his visionary collections.<span id="goog_752910566"></span><br />
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McQueen was much more than a fashion designer. To describe him that way is almost an insult to an artist whose work touched on elements of sculpture, performance, installation and theatre. Like the shifting skull, he moved between meditating on aspects of death and decay and vivid celebration of life; always on the borderlines, playing with the edges of viewpoint and consciousness, showing us how one thing can be two things, how a moment can morph and mutate into another. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs0pZTRPdgS-gWAC_pO4Fv2DbhDl_RMRNkI0OgUdqkAbaILmmFAyRygxZA2_H3HF7RfX4YuNG2tHnWInim5_-xX1zgMcqEyKYTZWRjwSe7zQxl_8NsgNkCD8xyGmNit_QPkW6Jbxvbx58/s1600/9.-Duck-feather-dress-The-Horn-of-Plenty-AW-2009-10.-Model-Magdalena-Frackowiak-represented-by-dna-model-management-New-York.-Image-first.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs0pZTRPdgS-gWAC_pO4Fv2DbhDl_RMRNkI0OgUdqkAbaILmmFAyRygxZA2_H3HF7RfX4YuNG2tHnWInim5_-xX1zgMcqEyKYTZWRjwSe7zQxl_8NsgNkCD8xyGmNit_QPkW6Jbxvbx58/s400/9.-Duck-feather-dress-The-Horn-of-Plenty-AW-2009-10.-Model-Magdalena-Frackowiak-represented-by-dna-model-management-New-York.-Image-first.jpg" width="265" /></a><i>Savage Beauty</i> showed us women becoming birds; clothed in feathers like the swan princesses of ballet, yet unenslaved, beyond good and evil. Women becoming reptiles or horned goddesses; women becoming aliens. It showed me a world of pure imagination, of self-actualisation where a face might be masked, but a thought could become visually and vividly real.<br />
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Although McQueen was criticised by the myopic who found his extremes misogynistic, the models who worked with him felt liberated and empowered by his visions and the personae they explored through wearing them. As Erin O'Connor recalls, <i>"He deconstructed the idea of what a woman should look like...the roles that I played, whether they were dark, or mysterious, or triumphant - they were always empowered...and he was the enabler. I think he had a real love of women in that sense."</i> In his eyes even martyred figures like Joan of Arc became victors, <a href="https://youtu.be/CY5JjHDJtUY" target="_blank">writhing in ecstatic transformation</a> inside a ring of fire, wearing a crimson beaded dress which flowed like blood.<br />
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The pleasant-feather gown from 'The Widows of Culloden' collection breathed subversion; a shimmering <i>genius loci </i>which belied the image of the Highlands as an elaborate game reserve for the wealthy. It is eternal, unsubmissive, a goddess gowned in the substance of flight, crowned with a [literally] winged victory headdress. Although less controversial than his earlier 'Highland Rape' collection, which expressed a visceral disgust at the atrocities of the Clearances, there was still an underlying anger - a sense of continuing resistance to what colonial Scotland had become, <i>"marketed the world over as haggis and bagpipes"</i>, as McQueen said.<br />
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The sense of a talismanic power beneath the surface, of change waiting to happen, was central to his work. Antlers might sprout from a bride's head, tearing the antique lace of her virginal veil. Human hair was sewn inside the linings of his earliest collections. Worms were pressed like flowers inside a transparent bodice, prefiguring death and decay to come.<br />
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In one memorable moment during the disturbing and surreal 'Voss' show, model Erin O'Connor ripped at her gown of razor clam shells, bloodying her hands as she destroyed a dress which had been itself <a href="http://www.vogue.co.uk/news/2014/08/07/erin-oconnor-on-walking-in-alexander-mcqueen-asylum-show" target="_blank">inspired by the transience of landscape.</a> The models' bandaged heads suggested surgery - to "change the way you are, as McQueen hinted.<br />
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Fascinated by water and the sea, for his final collection 'Plato's Atlantis' McQueen dreamed up hybrid beings made of scales and fins, as though humans were evolving to adapt to a post-apocalyptic waterworld of the imagination. Far from hobbling his models, the infamous "Armadillo" boots with their massive heels and platforms elongated their legs and made them into towering but graceful alien forms, crowned with intricately braided or lobed hairstyles.<br />
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For me, the garments the models wore in this final creation were almost overshadowed by the overarching dream of transfiguration; a brave new world that had such people in it.<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="281" mozallowfullscreen="" src="https://player.vimeo.com/video/9383843?color=ffffff&title=0&byline=0&portrait=0" webkitallowfullscreen="" width="500"></iframe></div>
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<a href="https://vimeo.com/9383843">Alexander McQueen - Plato's Atlantis</a> from <a href="https://vimeo.com/showstudio">SHOWstudio</a> on <a href="https://vimeo.com/">Vimeo</a>.</div>
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In a society where "extremist" has become a bad word, <i>Savage Beauty</i> showed a whole world of extremes; of edges and borderlines dreamed by a man who was always pulling away from the here and now. On the wall in the exhibitions's final room were McQueen's own resonant words: <br />
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<i>'There is no way back for me. I'm going to take you on journeys you've never dreamed were possible.' </i><br />
<br />clarefromscotlandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08228977931023830556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4848641761017148126.post-37814231297493880582015-05-18T15:54:00.000-07:002015-05-18T16:01:32.255-07:00So This Is Permanence<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.nme.com/photos/ian-curtis---musicians-pay-tribute/173532" target="_blank">Saw an article today</a> which told me it was 35 years since the death of Ian Curtis.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">I was 22 back then. Just leaving university with an English degree and preparing for a set of false starts in respectable graduate jobs that would reject me...and I them. Civil servant. Teacher. The usual. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">I'd never been to Manchester. Never seen anything much, really. I had no idea what sort of life Joy Division lived or how they had come by the marvellous sound that they made. I'd spent my student years in the late 70s rejecting punk for what I saw as its ugliness, its refusal to embrace complexity and nuance and subtlety - all the things I'd learned to love about art. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Joy Division taught me that music could be stark, and still be beautiful. That cruel darkness and despair could be uplifting, that nuance could float in and out of the most brutal of noise. When Curtis performed, he looked like someone struggling to contain an unsustainable power too huge, too lethal for him to stand. It wasn't just the wild dancing - half seizure, half ritual - it was the look of terror that sometimes passed across his face, as though he were in awe of what he was expected to contain.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">After he died, I almost wore out their two albums. That sublime death-poetry rang in my head for years. I could never hear very much in New Order, no matter how hard they tried or how popular they got. Something had Curtis by the throat, and it never again troubled the rump of a band he left behind.</span><br />
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clarefromscotlandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08228977931023830556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4848641761017148126.post-63238342993658237292014-11-09T17:34:00.000-08:002014-11-10T02:26:15.719-08:00Perfect Timing: Fear and Remembrance in Doctor Who[Warning: contains spoilers for those who have not yet seen the whole of Doctor Who season 8]<br />
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As you'd expect from a Doctor Who showrunner, Steven Moffatt has control over space-time. At least, over the timing of his carefully-spaced storylines. <br />
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Half way through Season 8, he chose the week of the Scottish referendum vote to unleash an episode which was in every sense exactly what audiences in Scotland - and ultimately, everywhere - needed to hear.<br />
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Because it was in the government's interests to preserve the status quo, in the run-up to the September vote people in Scotland and elsewhere had been deliberately manipulated to be afraid of the future, of change, of the unknown. As its nickname suggested, the campaign for a No-vote had pointedly played on atavistic fears - of losing livelihoods, pensions, security - counselling retrenchment and withdrawal over courage and creativity.<br />
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Now, Moffatt is from Glasgow, but his opinions on the Scottish independence movement are his own. I don't know whether or not he embraced the beliefs of the Yes Alliance, but I'm pretty sure his work failed to endorse the tenets of 'Project Fear' that week.<br />
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Instead, he gave us 'Listen' - a dramatic and moving meditation on night terrors, bad dreams, childhood memories, adult ambitions and bogeymen under the bed. We learned why boys become soldiers. We found out that not everything which happens or appears is meant to be explained away. In the end, we even got to meet a version of the Doctor himself, small and scared and untried, cowering and weeping in his bedroom, utterly alone and afraid of the dark. And by means of one of the timey-wimey twists that make the Doctor's life and Moffatt's scripts so deliciously complicated, his future friend and companion was able to tell him:<br />
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<i>"I know you’re afraid, but being afraid is all right. Because didn’t
anybody ever tell you? Fear is a superpower. Fear can make you faster
and cleverer and stronger.... so listen. If you listen to nothing else,
listen to this. You’re always going to be afraid even if you learn to hide
it. Fear is like a companion, a constant companion, always there. But
that’s OK, because fear can bring us together. Fear can bring you home."</i><br />
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This week's season finale 'Death in Heaven' was scheduled to go out on the eve of Remembrance Sunday.<i> </i>So it hardly seems accidental that Moffatt's story arc should culminate with a long, hard look at the role and the purpose of soldiers, armies and wars<i>. </i><br />
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To cut a season's story short, we'd arrived at the traditional climax for all superhero adventures. The evil genius (in this case the Doctor's nemesis the Master, cunningly transgendered as Missy) was ready for the final showdown. Good versus evil, personified as an army of Cybermen ready to assimilate the world through reanimating - and weaponising - the dead.<br />
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The mythic resonances were many. Dem bones, dem bones, dem dry bones, clawing their way out of their graves in Gothic grandeur, an armour-suited, cyber-enabled Judgement Day on humanity. It wasn't so much Frankenstein's monster as a nightmare upgrade for amnesiac corpses, clanking around their graveyards awaiting the call to arms. For someone - anyone - to tell them what to do. As Missy lost no time in pointing out, the dead outnumber the living. The weight of history was set to come crashing down on our heads.<br />
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It was a nightmare very much of our times - the appropriation of the fallen by the heartless, by those without compassion, those intent on genocide. We saw it in the 1920s and 30s in the Nazi appeal to Teutonic myth and legend, to the wounded pride of a defeated nation. We see it now, in the cynical attempts of fascist organisations like 'Britain First' to use social media to appropriate the war dead, brand patriotism and politicise grief. We see it even in the social pressure to wear a poppy in public, with those who choose otherwise vilified and condemned in a mockery of the freedom soldiers have fought to protect. And which many of us seem to have forgotten. <br />
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But in the end, in stories as in life, all such evil geniuses must be foiled by an act of heroism. The human magic in Moffatt's drama was not contained in some grand international effort, some epic military action. There was no cavalry to ride in and save the day, no big red button to push. No <i>deus ex machina</i>. In a nod to classic Who adventures, the military might of UNIT was invoked, and they optimistically put the Doctor in charge. But all attempts at that sort of thing failed, and failed badly.<br />
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<i>"I am not a good man. And I'm not a bad man. I am not a hero. I'm
definitely not a president and no, I'm not an officer. You know what I
am? I am an idiot! With a box and a screwdriver, passing through,
helping out, learning. I don't need an army." </i><br />
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Instead the magic came from the sacrifice of one man, a dead soldier from the rank and file who awoke inside his suit of armour and wouldn't obey orders. His defiance came not from political will or the desire for conquest or revenge but from a memory of unconditional love, which infected the hive mind of the army of the dead and altered their purpose. Because Danny remembered he had loved Clara, the human race would be safe. And because UNIT's late lamented Brigadier remembered he had loved his daughter, the Doctor finally turned and saluted his aluminium-clad remains.<i> </i><br />
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<i>"We are the fallen and today we shall rise. The army of the dead shall
save the land of the living. This is not the order of a general, nor the
whim of a lunatic. This is a promise! The promise
of a soldier! You will sleep safe tonight." </i><br />
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It was a powerful end to a story which placed its faith not in the reasons for war, but in the selflessness of love. It reclaimed remembrance not as a red badge of allegiance or a statement of patriotic belief, but as a simple human virtue.<i> </i>Because we loved,<i> we will remember them</i>. And this week of all weeks, it was perfect timing.<i><br /></i><br />
<br />clarefromscotlandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08228977931023830556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4848641761017148126.post-13274569851883913322014-08-27T04:13:00.000-07:002014-08-27T16:29:44.752-07:00A Human Darkness: West Side Story, Eden Court Inverness<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Stephen Sondheim sent a <a href="http://www.starlightmusicaltheatre.com/uploads/2/4/6/4/24645106/9457891_orig.jpg" target="_blank">good luck message</a> to the cast of amateur Inverness company <a href="http://www.starlightmusicaltheatre.com/" target="_blank">Starlight Musical Theatre</a> in advance of their production of <i>West Side Story</i> at <a href="https://www.google.co.uk/url?sa=t&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=web&cd=1&cad=rja&uact=8&ved=0CCwQFjAA&url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.eden-court.co.uk%2F&ei=KLn9U8emLMjoaLukgqgK&usg=AFQjCNGDPRF_bbt39_iHVFdkHhy-Sy277Q&sig2=Y4j2-tILdMFh5CMsthVRwQ&bvm=bv.74035653,d.d2s" target="_blank">Eden Court</a>. Posted proudly on their company's website, it says: " Above all, have a good time. If you do, the audience will too." </span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKP6lGuiCIXJ_rsySvLtfhHjul-vD8mpvzcK4hRol1DXvf6aUw7YK98aEsV9k_3SAIX4qCZLEQiBvYHzKzySCVI0YaGVRxfpNDldUjFBBwjGpxR9WL3X3eic4D14V01uxZtarirY0GsFM/s1600/7317106_orig.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKP6lGuiCIXJ_rsySvLtfhHjul-vD8mpvzcK4hRol1DXvf6aUw7YK98aEsV9k_3SAIX4qCZLEQiBvYHzKzySCVI0YaGVRxfpNDldUjFBBwjGpxR9WL3X3eic4D14V01uxZtarirY0GsFM/s1600/7317106_orig.jpg" height="424" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Matilda Walker as Maria</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">That's really the crux of a production like this. This isn't <i>Britain's Got Talent</i>. Out here on the perimeter, we don't have access to thousands of eager hopefuls who will queue round the block for the chance to sing, to dance, to be be an extra in a big production. Inverness is a small provincial city with a vast hinterland of underpopulated rural villages. So those who do come forward, the ones who are both talented enough and brave enough to try something as ambitious as this, might not always be what some might call ideal casting. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">So it's undoubtedly true to say that several of the Jets look a bit long in the tooth to be "juvenile delinquent" street gang members, and that Lieutenant Schrank's accent veers wildly from Bronx to broad Scots. And some of the cast - like James Twigg as Tony - have been cast against type because of their undeniable vocal talent. It's worth remembering here that even the beloved 1961 film version of the show had to dub both of its young and pretty leads with the voices of less photogenic professional singers. Bernstein's music is notoriously difficult to sing, and to play, and the brave little 21-piece orchestra sometimes stumbles over its more difficult passages.</span></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">James Twigg as Tony</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">But ultimately, none of this matters. The cast do what Sondheim told them to do - they enjoy it. And their sheer <i>esprit</i> nullifies any deficiencies in performance or casting, sweeps up the audience and involves them in a wave of enthusiasm. It allows the very best performers in the company to shine. Twigg's gorgeous voice combines perfectly with the lovely soprano of 18-year-old Matilda Walker as Maria, and their duets are a delight. The performances of gang leaders Riff (Liam Macaskill) and Bernardo (Garry Black) carry a real sense of threat. The vixenish Anita - played by company choreographer Nicola Gray- is superb both in the spectacle of the 'Dance at the Gym' and the intimate drama of 'A Boy Like That', and Roddy MacDonald as Baby John has the makings of a wonderful acrobatic dancer.</span></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nicola Grey as Anita with cast</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">The production is loyal to the book of the original Broadway show, eschewing the changes and cuts that were made for the film and embracing its moments of tragedy and horror. The fantasy sequence framed by 'There's A Place For Us' is magical, though arguably it holds up the action and takes the focus away from the beleaguered lovers out into a wider context - although perhaps that's not a bad thing in an age when so many young people's lives are being blighted by conflict.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">The costumes, set and production design are impressive, despite a couple of problems with malfunctioning props and crackling radio mics. The final curtain calls - static, posed, almost dreamlike - round off a great night in the theatre which was actually more involving because of its imperfections. These were real people, flaws and all, delving into the heart of a very human darkness. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Photographs by David Darge - opera@darge.net courtesy of Starlight Musical Theatre</span></span><br />
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<br />clarefromscotlandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08228977931023830556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4848641761017148126.post-85317105879806546802014-08-21T06:58:00.000-07:002014-08-21T11:54:55.311-07:00Edinburgh Fringe Benefits VIII: Shakespeare For Breakfast<div class="MsoNormal">
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">We took our
leave of Edinburgh on our last morning at the 2014 Fringe with <a href="http://www.cthefestival.com/2014/shakespeare-for-breakfast" target="_blank">Shakespeare For Breakfast</a>, a truly hilarious but wholly
affectionate skit on Shakespeare’s language, plots and characters. C theatres mount a comedy production under
this title every year at the Fringe, and this year’s was a riot.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Modern-day lighting
tech Steph finds herself magically transported to an island disguised as a boy
called Steve, where she meets a whole cast of warring characters, some of which
are plotting to kill their maker. Prince William lookalike Henry V wanders on
in a pair of Union Jack shorts; Hamlet is a moody teenager in a hoodie punching
“To be or not to be #goodquestion” into his iPhone. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">There’s much
punning humour (Ariel from <i>The Tempest</i>
is “the font of all knowledge”), gender confusion and doubling up of roles from
the small but endlessly energetic company, and of course it all turns out all
right in the end with a double marriage. And you get coffee and croissants as well!!</span></span></span></div>
clarefromscotlandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08228977931023830556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4848641761017148126.post-50804199482870171522014-08-21T06:32:00.000-07:002014-08-21T07:42:29.719-07:00Edinburgh Fringe Benefits VII: The Bunker Trilogy - Macbeth<div class="MsoNormal">
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 20.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The Bunker Trilogy: Macbeth </span></b><span style="font-size: 20.0pt; line-height: 115%;">adapted by Jamie Wilkes</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Jethro Compton Presents</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Venue: C Nova</span></span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><i><span style="line-height: 115%;">Macbeth</span></i><span style="line-height: 115%;"> is staged as part of <a href="http://thebunkertrilogy.com/" target="_blank">The BunkerTrilogy</a>, which also takes in versions of Greek myth <i>Agamemnon</i> and the Arthurian cycle story <i>Morgana</i>. Just an hour or so
long, it takes episodic elements of the Shakespeare tragedy and transplants them into the trenches of World War I. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">The real
star here is the set – a smoky, brillianthly-realised dirt-floored bunker into which the audience
squeezes to sit on low benches while the action takes place inches from their
noses. The effect of the drama at such
close quarters is devastating, although those with bad backs or particularly long
legs should probably give this one a miss. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Sam Donnelly
as Macbeth gives a a powerful performance, playing the tyrant as an
bealeaguered officer torn apart by paranoid nightmares as mustard gas swirls
and puttee-clad witches in gas masks deliver their prophecies.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">At times the
drama seems to want to escape the confines of its setting, and I wonder whether
the Greek and Celtic myths might have adapted rather better to this treatment
than the more structured plot of the Shakespeare play. So much is cut that the
narrative barely makes sense, though the play is so well-known that this doesn’t
matter as much as it might. This is a nightmare ghost of a play, a fever dream
experienced in extremis.</span></span></span></div>
clarefromscotlandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08228977931023830556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4848641761017148126.post-48048034734914716442014-08-21T05:58:00.000-07:002014-08-21T08:04:06.288-07:00Edinburgh Fringe Benefits VI: Claustrophobia<div class="MsoNormal">
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 20.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Claustrophobia</span></b><span style="font-size: 20.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> by Jason Hewitt</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">To the Moon in association with Theatre Bench</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Venue: The Monkey House, Zoo</span> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">This unusual
two-hander from first-time playwright Jason Hewitt is staged in an old church
hall out on the fringe of the Fringe. Defiantly lo-tech, the production needs nothing
more than a few lights and a rectangle marked out with tape on the floor. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">It’s particularly
challenging to show a boring situation without becoming boring yourself, but <b>Claustrophobia</b> triumphs through careful
pacing as we gradually get to know a pair of random strangers in a lift stalled
between floors– one a neurotic girl (Jessica Macdonald) who lives alone with
her cat, one an ex-soldier (Paul Tinto) who seems confident, friendly and calm. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">As the play
progresses, neither character can stay in their box as histories emerge and we
learn how profoundly damaged both have been. Who are these people? Are they really stuck in
an lift? Or is the play a metaphor for
the ways in which we imprison and enclose ourselves? </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Either way,
To the Moon present a thoughtful piece which deserves a bigger audience and with its minimal production values, would be ideal for touring.</span></span></span></div>
clarefromscotlandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08228977931023830556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4848641761017148126.post-58701695284806953302014-08-21T05:00:00.000-07:002014-08-21T17:13:26.246-07:00Edinburgh Fringe Benefits V: Light <div class="MsoNormal">
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Theatre Ad Infinitum</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmURoUbUC9HJPZIuR0MeHyXhwKnIMviT6pjHBqZbq46CzFeJNRGvmTpt2owTL868Ktfp_QmewtV0FVrAkcKEJhTQy0QxMMZ2YtF9femakDwiZygCfs_YeTS1zbtYzK0mU2ozOn3gm_pis/s1600/Light1-1024x545.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmURoUbUC9HJPZIuR0MeHyXhwKnIMviT6pjHBqZbq46CzFeJNRGvmTpt2owTL868Ktfp_QmewtV0FVrAkcKEJhTQy0QxMMZ2YtF9femakDwiZygCfs_YeTS1zbtYzK0mU2ozOn3gm_pis/s1600/Light1-1024x545.jpg" height="339" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Some of the abundant
opportunities for street theatre around Edinburgh during the Fringe are wholly unintentional,
and the best place to experience it is in the queues. Outside Pleasance Dome where <a href="http://www.theatreadinfinitum.co.uk/" target="_blank">Theatre Ad Infinitum</a>
are about to perform <a href="http://www.theatreadinfinitum.co.uk/light-2014/" target="_blank">Light</a>, we’re forced
to listen to a booming preview from an unshaven fat man sporting a blue lycra top
and denim shorts. He believes the
show’s nothing more than superficial spectacle designed to appeal to kids and
clubbers. It’s an interesting
counterpoint to the shows’s upfront publicity - “a dystopian future inspired by Edward
Snowden’s surveillance revelations”, although we’re left
wondering why lycra man has wasted his money on something of which he plainly has
such low expectations.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">The
performance takes place in pitch dark: we’re told to turn off our phones and
raise our hands if we need to be conducted to an exit. What follows is total immersion in a world of
wordless light and shadow, accompanied by a brutal industrial soundscape
punctuated by contrasting Beethoven symphonics. The story’s a simple one; in a future where government
has woken up to the power of digital devices as an instrument of control, we
are all compelled to be “connected” to the web via implants in our brains, with
severe penalties for illegal disconnection. It’s not an original idea; it has
much in common with <i>1984 </i>or <i>Brave New World</i>, and anyone who’s ever
seen <i>Star Trek</i> is immediately
reminded of the Borg hive mind where individuality is irrelevant and resistance
is futile. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">But the
point of ‘Light’ is not its script or its storyline; it’s all in the delivery. This London-based
company aims to make drama for multi-cultural audiences that
transcends language barriers, harnessing “the universal language of the body”.
Intensely physical, the work is halfway between modern dance and a silent
movie. There is no dialogue; instead, any
words we need to see are are flashed up in bright letters on a screen at the
back of the stage . There is no scenery
either; the actors mime their emotions, twisting and writhing amid dramatic
lighting effects and electronic props which create a sinister, hallucinogenic
world of terror and control. </span></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1jiFOjgqgOzi_RxdkGDeaJ2OzThUtO0rqdzoeFFVdIH49UAAfoPvmti5mdij2etJCptqqZ-VxX__tw3y-bgSHFK6Jjz6LssIIJrULl90Fxl7V4fkR_xByg9taoWALadi2lCUMmo5-xRA/s1600/Theatre-Ad-Infinitum-Light-c-Alex-Brenner-please-credit-_DSC4592-dimmer-dresses-1024x681.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1jiFOjgqgOzi_RxdkGDeaJ2OzThUtO0rqdzoeFFVdIH49UAAfoPvmti5mdij2etJCptqqZ-VxX__tw3y-bgSHFK6Jjz6LssIIJrULl90Fxl7V4fkR_xByg9taoWALadi2lCUMmo5-xRA/s1600/Theatre-Ad-Infinitum-Light-c-Alex-Brenner-please-credit-_DSC4592-dimmer-dresses-1024x681.jpg" height="424" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">As in
ballet, the timing of the performers has to be spot on; there is nothing for
them to react to but the lighting cues and the music. This might not have been the most subtle
storytelling, but I found ‘Light’ one of the most disturbing performances of
the Festival with much to say about the increasingly sinister way we’re living
our lives through light and black mirrors.
Hours later, I still couldn’t shake a genuine urge to stamp on my
smartphone.</span></span></span></div>
clarefromscotlandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08228977931023830556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4848641761017148126.post-4356441304432710712014-08-21T04:34:00.000-07:002014-08-21T08:11:21.552-07:00Edinburgh Fringe Benefits IV: Altamont<div class="MsoNormal">
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 20.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Altamont </span></b><span style="font-size: 20.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> by John Stenhouse </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Venue: C Nova</span></span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">There seem
to be a lot of one-man shows at the Fringe this year, and the one we pick – <a href="http://www.peppermintmuse.co.uk/current-productions/altamont" target="_blank">Altamont</a> – was written and performed by
John Stenhouse for <a href="http://www.peppermintmuse.co.uk/" target="_blank">Peppermint Muse</a>. It’s told from the first-person viewpoint of
American music fan Joe, who gets caught up in the burgeoning horror as the last
great hippy festival of the 60s turns murderous. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">It’s
testament to the talent of middle-aged actor John Stenhouse that he manages to
evoke all this purely through words and body language. There’s little in the way of multimedia
assistance beyond some simplistic lighting, a few costume changes and the odd
snatch of music, and the script tells us nothing new – but every character
comes vibrantly alive, from horrified innocent to drug casualty to vicious Hell’s
Angel. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Stenhouse is
a well-built man of a certain age, but his brief impression of a young Mick
Jagger, imprisoned on his own stage while the world falls apart around him, is physically
accurate and uncannily moving. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Perhaps
allied to a second solo performance piece of a similar length (it lasts abut an
hour), this would make a great touring production.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span>clarefromscotlandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08228977931023830556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4848641761017148126.post-53416598879187495182014-08-21T04:08:00.000-07:002014-08-21T09:34:26.079-07:00Edinburgh Fringe Benefits III: Unfaithful<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">
</span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 20.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Unfaithful</span></b><span style="font-size: 20.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> by Owen McCafferty</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Traverse Theatre </span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
</span></span>
<br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Venue: Traverse Theatre</span> </span></span></div>
</div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJo89QVKIQB9H5Sir0XbrK92loVUdGemo0JkKSSIJkCVx6WfIzDGU6I-EWvadgO8-P-8kSIT_QMTzLd9g5xM-F7PEJMpIrfVy-y2qkYHC_3Okeili-wL3hhdx-h4AqtLC5r7_omY08H1Y/s1600/936648_10152606486284763_3321864546451796156_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJo89QVKIQB9H5Sir0XbrK92loVUdGemo0JkKSSIJkCVx6WfIzDGU6I-EWvadgO8-P-8kSIT_QMTzLd9g5xM-F7PEJMpIrfVy-y2qkYHC_3Okeili-wL3hhdx-h4AqtLC5r7_omY08H1Y/s1600/936648_10152606486284763_3321864546451796156_n.jpg" height="640" width="480" /></a></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Owen
McCafferty’s <b>Unfaithful</b> is having
its world premiere at the Fringe this year.
It tells the tale of two couples; one middle-aged, one young, all four
struggling to find value in the lives they’ve chosen. </span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Weary fifty-something
plumber Tom meets loudmouthed seductress Tara in a bar after work while his
bored wife Joan cooks dinner at home. Will he succumb? </span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Neither Tara
or Joan are quite what they seem on the surface, and male prostitute Peter (or
is he a failed actor?) is set to make life difficult for them all. </span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">It’s a
complex dance – part bedroom farce, part tragedy of manners - and there are no
easy answers to the problems of fidelity and loyalty in a world which gives
no-one exactly what they want out of life. </span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">It’s not the most riproaring night to be
spent in a theatre, but the writing is good, the performances -<span style="line-height: 115%;">– particularly
that of Benny Young (pictured) as the taciturn but deeply conflicted Tom - </span>are strong, and
the hi-tech revolving set could easily be replaced by something simpler were
this <a href="http://www.traverse.co.uk/whats-on/event-detail/392/unfaithful.aspx" target="_blank">Traverse Theatre</a> production to tour – a bed, a table and some chairs is really all the
action needs. </span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Bleakly adult
subject matter and some brief nudity make the production unsuitable for
under-16s.</span></span></span><br />
</div>
clarefromscotlandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08228977931023830556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4848641761017148126.post-83971115183890549792014-08-21T03:08:00.002-07:002014-08-21T08:14:09.921-07:00Edinburgh Fringe Benefits II: Alice<div class="MsoNormal">
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</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 20.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Alice</span></b><span style="font-size: 20.0pt; line-height: 115%;"></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Fourth Monkey Theatre Company</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Venue: The Space On North Bridge</span> </span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga6jNvNvsLsdPRwhJZTEjQFxVoFEJzCWFwRYxMFFxJyPvvDNIzYIfvAneEMArTYZCMWfqwI4uvrmi-nc5YYBluerlMEqrevvvgp8tVJYstH2Hw_3wexMlfDAo1E6yqb9HtC0_ztUiLnOk/s1600/Screen-Shot-2014-07-12-at-00.13.31.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga6jNvNvsLsdPRwhJZTEjQFxVoFEJzCWFwRYxMFFxJyPvvDNIzYIfvAneEMArTYZCMWfqwI4uvrmi-nc5YYBluerlMEqrevvvgp8tVJYstH2Hw_3wexMlfDAo1E6yqb9HtC0_ztUiLnOk/s1600/Screen-Shot-2014-07-12-at-00.13.31.png" height="640" width="449" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Queueing
outside the cavernous <a href="http://www.thespaceuk.com/shows/alice/" target="_blank">Space on North Bridge</a> at midnight, we’re lectured by
a stern Henry Liddell, Dean of Christ Church and father of Alice, as he marches
down the line in full academia regalia. “Pull your socks up, sir! “ he orders
one punter in shorts and plimsolls. As
we reach the door, our hands are seized by girls in pink Victorian party
frocks. “Have you come to play with
Alice?” they ask, relieving us of bags and jackets and settling us down on the
carpet in Alice’s bedroom. </span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">This <a href="http://www.fourthmonkey.co.uk/test-2/" target="_blank">Fourth Monkey Theatre Company</a> drama is
billed as a “dark and magical late night promenade adaptation of Lewis
Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland”, but that doesn’t quite do it
justice.</span> <span style="line-height: 115%;">What follows is an immersive, madcap two-hour chase over
four floors of the old Victorian building – from room to room, floor to floor, in
and out of the dark, driven by a skeletal puppet Cheshire cat and her handlers.
The Mad Hatter, the March Hare and the
Dormouse greet us in a high-ceilinged tea room; we eavesdrop on the cook’s peppery
kitchen talk, take part in a frantic Caucus Race and encounter Alice’s terrifying
mother – also the Red Queen - on the stairs. </span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">We, as the
audience, don’t so much participate as become an integral part of the unfolding
drama and its constantly changing moods.
We dance. We laugh out loud as we run up and down stairs; we allow men
dressed as playing cards to decorate us with roses; we forget we’re watching a
play and feel that we are dreaming. There’s
plenty of improvisation; it feels as though anything could happen. At one
point, a sultry cat whispers into my 19 year old son’s ear: “Don’t worry,
little boy. You won’t be mad for ever.”</span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Too sinister
to be a children’s show, this ‘promenade performance’ requires real physical and emotional energy
from the audience – who wants to be left behind when the next scene is about to
unfold? – and plenty of space to house its large cast, elaborate set pieces and wild chases. Central to the drama is the shifting,
sometimes dark relationship between Alice and the White Rabbit – a stuttering
Charles Dodgson, made dangerous by his own storytelling power, his imaginative transgressions
as Lewis Carroll signified by a pair of white, fluffy ears.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">After a devastating
final courtroom scene which puts Dodgson in the dock, the Rabbit – and his
story - unravels. Childhood has ended and we’re left in the dark, watching
Alice crying in the arms of her grown-up sister. When Alice cries, all the other girls in pink
party dresses who’ve led us through the drama cry too. Suddenly, we feel like voyeurs. And as the
last wisp of the dream evaporates, Alice’s sensible sister tells us: “Leave
now. Would you just...go?” And in silence, without a scrap of applause or
acknowledgement, heads bowed, we rise as one and slip quietly out of the
building into the sleeping city.</span></span></div>
clarefromscotlandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08228977931023830556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4848641761017148126.post-44034338202421621622014-08-21T02:27:00.000-07:002014-08-21T14:03:52.036-07:00Edinburgh Fringe Benefits I: Big Brother Blitzkrieg<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 20.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Big Brother Blitzkrieg</span></b><span style="font-size: 20.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> by Max Elton</span></span></span></div>
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</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Newcastle
University Theatre Society</span></span></span></div>
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</span></span>
<br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Venue: Sweet </span></span></div>
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</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtqS0vQlalzfgzOlNmnybUCAOotikftDsnOOunM7oLA7GKsdKwePoNr4TaLpBDJuIFZJpLCakAStUQQkadu7EsXOxEsEYRxAcMk75DrzHTM2sgODT9AEDHXiYjIZgCkPaDQkkJ_exvzdk/s1600/10560440_743687992362167_7437752518332117473_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Big Brother Blitzkrieg" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtqS0vQlalzfgzOlNmnybUCAOotikftDsnOOunM7oLA7GKsdKwePoNr4TaLpBDJuIFZJpLCakAStUQQkadu7EsXOxEsEYRxAcMk75DrzHTM2sgODT9AEDHXiYjIZgCkPaDQkkJ_exvzdk/s1600/10560440_743687992362167_7437752518332117473_o.jpg" height="270" title="Big Brother Blitzkrieg" width="480" /></a></span></div>
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</span>
<br />
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Max Elton’s </span></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><a href="http://nuts-theatre.com/2014/07/29/nuts-presents-big-brother-blitzkrieg-at-edinburgh-fringe-festival/" target="_blank">Big Brother Blitzkrieg</a><b> </b>for the<b> </b>Newcastle University Theatre Society
(NUTS) looks set to become one of this year’s student triumphs at the Edinburgh Fringe, attracting packed
houses at <a href="http://www.sweetvenues.com/" target="_blank">Sweet</a> and rave reviews.</span></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Locked inside an alternative-universe Big Brother
house where no-one recognises a swastika when they see one, five housemates
gradually fall under the spell of the sixth – an oleaginous but thoroughly sinister
cartoon Hitler, played with darkly humorous aplomb by Christian Cargill. </span></span></span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="270" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/E3-QBUvG23E" width="480"></iframe><br /></div>
<a href="http://uk.pinterest.com/pin/create/extension/" style="background-image: url("data:image/png; border: medium none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Appealing to the vanity
of each and playing on their weaknesses and shifting alliances, he uses each to
get a little closer to his ultimate aim. Loudmouthed chav Rachel is swiftly
evicted, but her boyfriend, strutting Mancunian rapper M-Cat, is given just
enough power and influence to survive as long as he can be useful. Adolf quickly uncovers and exploits the emotional
vulnerability of failed entrepreneur Clive and beribboned alt-rock princess
Camilla, but recognises a kindred spirit in the control freakery of WI stalwart
Maude. </span></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Hilarious and disturbing by
turns, the writing is tight, the performances on point and the climax genuinely
chilling.</span></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<br />clarefromscotlandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08228977931023830556noreply@blogger.com0