Press ESC or click the X to close this window

Philharmonia 26 September 2024 (Susan Elkin reviews)

The opening concert in the Philharmonia’s Nordic Soundscapes season gave us an brave blend of the very familiar and the very unfamiliar.

We started with Maria Huld Markan Sigfusdottir’s Oceans (2018) which builds from silvery harmonies and glissandi to the majesty of the sea with rich cello sound and a fitting tuba solo before dying away to almost nothing – as it began. I doubt that this is in any way easy to bring off but Santu-Matias Rouvali really knows his orchestra and it sounded as though they’d been playing this piece for years.

Then came the comforting glory of Greig’s Piano concerto with the ever reliable, charismatic Sir Stephen Hough at the piano. He may have been playing this piece for decades but still manages to make it sound fresh with a strong sense of his being part of the orchestra rather than a bolt-on. High spots included the bassoon solo in the first movement and Hough’s fluidly sensitive rendering of the cadenza. In the adagio the lyrical string sound was well balanced against the melodious warmth of the piano and I admired the crispness of the maracato section. The Philharmonia is very good indeed at cohesive pizzicato across all its string sections. Finally Sir Stephen, saying that he thought we should stick to the Nordic theme delighted the audience with Sinding’s Rustle of Spring as his encore.

After the interval we were in much darker, more portentous territory. Sibelius’s Kullervo, written when he was only 27 is rarely performed and having heard it, I can’t pretend to be surprised. It’s a nationalistic, five movement, large scale symphonic work which re-invents itself as a quasi-opera from the third movement with male voice choir and two soloists. Based on a Finnish national epic, It tells the story of a man who unintentionally rapes his sister and then dies. And it lasts an hour and a quarter.

Well I was grateful for the surtitles because my Finnish isn’t up to much. The YL choir, singing mostly in unison bring a neutral tone to the text and their sound is good. I  quite liked the lullaby, with escalating menace in the second movement  and there’s lots of musical drama when the anti-hero realises, in horror, the identity of the woman has has just ravished. And tucked into the texture are lots of brass chords and recognisable harmonies which signal where Sibelius would be heading a few years later.

It goes almost without saying that the Philharmonia rose skilfully to the challenges of this marathon. Personally, though, although it was interesting to experience it once, I shan’t be rushing out to hear it again.

Photograph: Philharmonia Orchestra/Mark Allan  

La Traviata

Guiseppe Verdi

Barefoot Opera

Arcola Theatre, part of Grimeborne Festival

If Verdi had thought of scoring his most popular opera for a cast of seven with music arranged for piano, double bass, clarinet and accordion he might even have done it because the result – in the hands of this fine company – is delightful. The plangent accordion, picks up most of the wind, brass and string parts and is just about perfect in a small venue.

Musical Director, Laurence Panter, who conducts incisively from the piano is seated behind most of the action and visible to the cast on two tiny black and white monitor screens. It works. He shows up because he’s wearing a bright, white shirt and almost all the singing coheres.

Beren Fidan gives us a very attractive Violetta, every inch a party loving courtesan in the first act but also exquisite and fragrant. She uses her body and face to convey nuance and her soprano voice is both sweet and powerful – it could break glasses at full tilt when she comes to convey anguish or passion.

Tylor Lamani (tenor) eventually matches her as Alfredo although he was a bit gravelly and wooden at the beginning of the performance I saw.  The simplicity of their death bed duet in poignant 3|4, the texture gradually thickening as the ensemble picks it up, is a dramatic masterstroke in any production. Here there was a profoundly moving intimacy and a lot of eye dabbing in the audience.

Also top notch was Mike Dewis (bass)  as Alfredo’s father. He arrives, of course, to persuade Violetta that she should drop Alfredo in order to save family honour, particularly his daughter’s marriage prospects. He is a always a strange, rather ambivalent character, but Dewis – tall and imposing – makes it work with every note delivered like a drop of gravy and diction so clear that I could almost have managed with the surtitles and I am not an Italian speaker.

The ensemble of four, from which the minor roles emerge, sing the choruses as quartets and you can – at least in the acoustic of the Arcola’s Studio 1 – hear every harmony, even when all seven cast members are singing.

Directors Michael Spenceley and Alfie Chesney have made strikingly imaginative use of the space – bringing characters in from all five possible entrances, including the main steps and the curtain under the stairs behind the musicians. The set is neat too, comprising a set of illuminated boxes and a table which becomes a platform and, in the last act, a bed.

I enjoyed this production very much but as always with La Traviata I was irritatied (mildly) by the plot hole in this opera version (1853) of the play Alexander Dumas fils created from his 1848 novel La Dame aux Camélias. Violetta dies of galloping consumption – just possibly a euphemism for syphilis in this context. She would have died anyway. Her death does not depend on estrangement from Alfredo or the manoeuvrings of his father, although of course all of that heightens the agony. And that pain is beautifully captured in Barefoot Opera’s interpretation.

I have fallen in love with the novels of Mike Gayle. I find them totally compelling to the extent that once I start, I just have to read on. I devoured The Man I Think I Know (2018) in just over twenty four hours. My father, who wasn’t fond of fiction, used to tell me I lack all self control. Actually, I think it’s a huge testament to Gayle’s writing. There’s nothing “literary” or remotely pretentious about it. He simply tells a story about people, usually troubled in some way, whom you quickly come to care a lot about. His characters are people you know, or very much like them. Moreover, Mr Gayle is a black man (presumably the son of immigrant parents) and some of his fictional creations  are probably black but he rarely bothers to tell you because it doesn’t matter. He writes about people not races and I really like that.

The Man I Think I know presents two men who were at school together but not close friends. It was a top notch success-guaranteed independent boarding school with Buildings and History. Imagine Eton relocated to the Midlands. James is from a privileged background. Danny, who is a super bright,  full scholarship winner, is not. Now in their mid their mid thirties both are damaged  and unable to function normally for different reasons.  All this is revealed by alternating first person chapters so we’re inside both their heads where shall I probably remain for a while because Gayle knows exactly how to get under your skin.

Danny dropped out of Cambridge after the death of his younger sister for which he blames himself. He has cut himself off from his parents and thinks he is unable to work. James, who has been a property developer and had just been elected as an MP, is the victim of a devastating assault which has left him permanently brain damaged. The circumstances under which they meet – and eventually recognise each other  – are neatly contrived. Then, very gradually, a friendship forms. Neither man is gay – they are each hoping to meet the right girl having both lost live-in girlfriends because of their troubles – and yet the warmth of their growing affection and respect for each other is tantamount to a lasting love affair. We know that this friendship will endure. By the end of the novel, and after lots of anxious moments they have effectively rescued each other so that their futures look positive but obviously I’m not going to spoil it for you here.

All the characterisation is rich. Any reader will identify with James’s parents who are trying desperately hard to support and protect him but so often get it wrong. Then there’s his sister, Martha who acts as a go-between with love and intelligence. When Danny eventually gets in touch with his ex, Simone, you could almost reach out and touch her she’s so natural and realistic. Even the barman who upsets James by assuming that he can’t produce the money for a round of drinks and so addresses Danny is beautifully observed.

I think what I like most about Mike Gayle’s work (and this is the third one I’ve read) is that they’re totally even handed and unjudgemental. There’s never anyone evil although some people make mistakes.  Everyone is simply trying to live life as best they can and deal with what it throws at them. And quite often that includes  helping others so the novels frequently celebrate kindness and decency and, goodness knows, we could do all with plenty of that.

Next week on Susan’s Bookshelves: Daniel Deronda by George Eliot 

Buyer & Cellar

Jonathan Tolins

King’s Head Theatre

 

Star rating: 3

Photograph: Genevieve Girling

It’s an interesting, but esoteric, idea for a play. If you’re not a Barbara Streisand aficionado, then many of the jokes will pass you by, so you might as well stay at home.

Alex More (Rob Madge) is a young, gay, American actor, desperate for work. He is hired to work in Barbara Streisand’s spacious basement which is set up like a shopping mall – as described in her real-life book My Passion for Design (2010). Taking that absurd, eccentric self indulgence as his starting point, playwright Jonathan Tolins imagines conversations and situations between Alex and his employer.

Rob Madge is a supremely talented actor, and he’s well directed by Kirk Jameson, although 100 minutes is very long time to sustain a one man play. He hops effortlessly and convincingly in and out of roles – conversations with his boyfriend at home, Streisand’s major domo, her guests and of course Streisand herself. And his comic timing is at masterclass level. He can get gales of laughter from simply making a remark and then fixing the audience with a look. He also nails a comfortable LA accent for More.

And it’s all done in a simple playing space with raked seating on three sides, a single chair and evocative lighting, designed by Jack Weir.

The real issue with Buyer and Cellar is the length. This concept would work much better, in the UK at least, as a snappy 60 minute one act play. It played off- Broadway ten years ago and then toured with a lot of acclaim. I’m assuming first, that American audiences feel short-changed if they don’t get at least an hour and a half and second, that more of them are steeped in Streisand culture. And of course they don’t have to sit on the execrably uncomfortable chairs provided at Kings Head Theatre.

Brighton Philharmonic Orchestra

Brighton Dome

22 September 2024

 

Brighton Philharmonic launched its centenary season in fine form and even more incisive slickness and warmth than usual. There is no doubt that versatile, energetic Joanna MacGregor, now well bedded in as BPO’s “new” musical director, has rapidly taken the orchestra to new heights.

This concert, conducted by MacGregor with batonless elegance and verve, neatly coupled two great Russian works which were initially castigated: Tchaikovsky’s Piano Concerto no 1 (1874) and Stravinksy’s The Rite of Spring (1913)

Aidan Mikdad, from the Netherlands, is still only 23 but, with numerous awards, prizes and credits under his belt, he is already one of the most exciting pianists on the circuit. Taught by MacGregor for two years at the Royal Academy of Music where she holds a professorship, he made this great warhorse of a favourite sound fresh and dramatic. Yes, the opening needs to be grandiose and it was. His rendering of the cadenza was exceptionally sensitive and well judged right through to the tension of the pick-up trill at the end. Then came the almost painful beauty of the andantino  in which the cello solo, filigree flute and the harp-like piano took us to chamber music territory : some achievement given the size of the orchestra and the vastness of the venue which was as full as I’ve ever seen it.  The passage at the end before the final rall was breathtakingly fast –  and perfect.  No wonder the audience was reluctant to let Mikdad leave the platform.

After the interval, the removal of the piano and the arrival of more players it was time for what it probably Stravinksy’s most popular work. It is still as gut wrenching and startling today as it was 111 years ago at that famous premiere when Diagaliev got  exactly the furious response he wanted and the piece was firmly launched. Incidentally there’s a richly evocative and convincing dramatisation of that first performance at the beginning of the otherwise weak and lacklustre 2009 film Coco Channel and Igor Stravinsky.

BPO’s account of The Rite of Spring was both assured and colourful. It was also edge-of-the-seat unsettling exactly as it should be given that  The Rite is arguably the least cosy work in the orchestral repertoire. However many times one hears it, there is still plenty of shock factor and MacGregor made sure we heard, and felt, all the visceral anguish afresh. Highlights included the tantalising wind solos, the tutti passage with the cymbal, resonant pizzicato and sonorous horn work. And the strings were magnificent, especially when it came to playing their irregular rhythms  against those gravelly, grating muted trumpets as the narrative soars to a quasi-sexual climax as the sacrificial dancer dies – and it all stops. Bravo BPO. You nailed it.

Photo credit: Fernando Manoso-Borgas

Cock

Mike Bartlett

Tower Theatre

 

Star rating 3.5

 

Mike Bartlett’s 2009 play requires its audience to listen as the Latin derivation of the word implies (auditory, audiology, audio etc). There are no props or scenery. The entire piece is played on a small square platform with us listeners seated around it on all four sides. It consists of four people talking, shouting, whispering in different combinations so it’s all down to skilful acting and, directed by Nick Edwards, this quartet makes a pretty good fist of it.

John (Harry Apps) is gay and has been all his life – or is he? In a long term relationship with controlling M (Micky Gibbons) which is now showing cracks, he meets a woman W (Meher Baluch). He quite likes what he has and does with her but … Then M’s father, F (Dave Wainwright) turns up to shove in an unhelpful oar.

Apps is outstanding as John. He has a terrific way of speaking with every muscle in his body, including a face tremor when he’s especially distressed. This is a man who is torn, pulled in every direction who really doesn’t know who he is and Apps nails that perfectly. Also excellent is Meher Baluch, whose stage debut – astonishingly – this is. She finds a very charismatic, sexy stillness in articulate W. And the graphic sex scene they do together in blackout, so we – a true audience – simply hear them rather than seeing them, is unexpectedly effective theatre.

Mickey Gibbons probably has the most challenging role because his character is calm and collected and, in a sense, cold even when he’s hurt. His self control mirrors the control he tries to force on John. The verbal tussle between him and W is like a cock-fight which relates to the title. It also refers, obviously, to male anatomy and possibly at times the old expression for lying: cock and bull. The play often questions who is lying to whom. Gibbons gets it right most of the time although his gestures tend to be a bit hand-wavingly samey and at times I didn’t quite believe in him.

Dave Wainwright’s is really only a support role,  appearing in the final quarter of the play but he’s convincing as the father who loves his son and is willing to stand up for him come what may.

There is a lot of humour in this play which often unpicks itself as it goes along. Someone will say something laden with subtext only for someone else to throw it back at them in unequivocally graphic  English which can be very funny. There were, however, people in the audience I saw it with providing the over enthusiastic  “supportive laughter” which often graces non-pro shows and can be irritating. Although obviously the company rightly wants people to enjoy it in their own way, at its heart this is a beautifully paced, serious play, not a comic romp, and should surely be recognised as such?

Blood Sweat and Vaginas

Written and performed by Paula David

Jack Studio Theatre

 

Star rating: 3.5

 

This is a brave, frank and intimate one woman play about rediscovering oneself in midlife.

Paula David’s character Carolann is depicted falling out of a 20 year marriage, feeling inadequate, marginalised and brain-fogged. Then there are three sexual encounters which gradually, with a lot of insight and humour, bring her to more confident mindset.

She is adept at stepping in and out of other characters with good voice switches as we meet her anxious daughter Tanya, the boorish, soon-to-be-divorced Simon and the people she gets close to. Sometimes she expresses her emotions by singing and David is a fine singer although the songs don’t add much to the narrative. Moreover, the recorded soundtrack is sometimes too loud.

The moods and mood switches are enhanced by Edward Tuke’s dramatic lighting which uses a lot of pulsing red to underpin interludes of spinning mental turmoil.

This quite thoughtful play about a subject which doesn’t get aired very much in theatre or anywhere else, includes one of the funniest sex scenes I’ve seen in ages. David (nicely directed by Olusola Oyeleye) has an entertaining way of embarking energetically on whatever it is while throwing hilariously incongruous asides at the audience.

The other very funny, and actually quite daring, moment is the huge vulva unmistakably constructed from red and silk satin with a pink ping pong ball secreted in its upper folds. We learned at the Q&A which followed without break (so we were captive) that she’s called Violet. Design by Phil Newman also included a hat stand with garments hanging from it and a box which stood for just about everything David needed to bring Carolann multi-dimensionally to life.

I read this book when it was shortlisted for the (then) Man Booker prize back in 2012. A friend recently mentioned that she’d just read it and found it “beautiful” so that inspired me to go back to it.

My friend is right. It is indeed beautiful because it presents art (garden design, painting and more)  as a symbol of reconciliation in a world where unspeakably cruel – evil –  things have happened quite recently but where loyalties and judgements are not always black and white.

It’s a first person narrative, set in Malaya (now Malaysia) which darts back and forth in time. In the present (early 1990s) Yun Ling, with a successful career in law and as a judge behind her, returns to the Cameron Highlands after 40 years away, She is ill (aphasia) and her memory is fading so she wants to record her past.

Her past was, we learn, bound up with a world famous Japanese garden designer named Aritomo, She seems to have inherited his house and now neglected garden at Yugiri. She has two fingers missing and is carrying another unlikely secret on her body which isn’t revealed until the last few chapters of the novel.

The narrative recalls her visit to the area in the early 1950s when she wants to ask Aritomo to design a memorial garden for her sister Yun Hong – this despite a profound loathing for all Japanese. Eventually she reveals exactly what happened to her and her sister when she were incarcerated in a Japanese prison camp during the war. And it’s quite hard to read.  It is possible that Yun Ling’s present illness is a result of what happened to her 40 years before. Her doctor tells her that no one is yet quite sure.

Now, to digress: My father-in-law, George, then just a boy of 20, was in Malaya as a young conscript in 1945. He saw some of those those camps as they were opened at the end of the war. He never told any of us the details but his eyes would glaze if anyone mentioned Japan or the Japanese and for decades, until it became almost impossible to avoid, he refused to buy, or give house room to, anything made in Japan. So I have long been aware of the appalling, literally unspeakable, things which happened in Japanese-occupied countries. Tan Twan Eng, himself a Malaysian, spells it out via his narrator.

Second, and much more trivially, I have been, as a tourist, to the Cameron Highlands, an area in the west of Malaysia roughly midway between Kuala Lumpur and Penang. We spent several days in this now peaceful place  where we walked round, and ate several meals in,  the village of Tanah Rata (which features a lot in The Garden of Evening Mists), visited a Buddhist temple and drank tea overlooking a tea plantation which means that I can, in a small way, visualise the ambience of the setting.

In the nineteen fifties Malaya, still under British rule, was a country of conflicts and emergency with a lot of brutal terrorism. Yun Ling has to face this when she goes to Yugiri where she becomes Aritomo’s garden apprentice. Eventually, a pretty complicated relationship develops between them including the ultimate (and rather unexpected) act of trust. Do you know what a horimono is? If not you will after you’ve read this powerful, disturbing – and yes, beautiful – novel.

Next week on Susan’s Bookshelves: The Man I Think I Know by Mike Gayle