Rocket to the Moon

At last, a play at the National Theatre that I've actually enjoyed this year. Huzzah. Clifford Odette's play, set in New York, in the sweltering summer of 1938, in a dentist's waiting room to be precise, is a hothouse of anaesthetised emotion... trapped in a stuffy, humid, small, soulless room the atmosphere is claustrophobic, constrained, stale, uncomfortable - much like the life of dentist Ben Stark, a man pushed one way by his haranguing wife (Keeley Hawes), and pulled another by her exuberant father, with whom she is at loggerheads.It's tiring to watch, let alone experience.

Everyone is bursting with opinions and passion but Stark himself. In sweeps the beautiful Cleo Singer, a pert, zingy, smiling breath of fresh air oozing energetic, excited youthfulness. The men go crazy, the women - ach, less so. The waiting room is the perfect setting for the waiting game that subsequently unfolds - what we're waiting for is less certain... is this an office romance or something altogether bigger, grander, more interesting...? They both must escape the claustrophobia, but what's the best way? with each other? or through some kind of self revelation?

It's cleverly played out - sinewy with emotion and  beautifully acted - Jessica Raine as Cleo is all  fidgety nubile sexuality,Joseph Millson Stark all twisted, manipulated confusion, Keely Hawes as his wife, strident, pose striking, looking-down-her-nose posturing while her father is a bouncing ball of rebellion and wit. I also especially loved the rather down-on-his-luck second dentist played by Peter Sullivan (so excellent in the Donmar's the Late Middle Classes with Helen McRory last year), who brought out the tragi-comic direness of his lacklustre life with glorious brio.

A tad long, but otherwise A1.

The Most Incredible Thing

The Pet Shop Boys and Javier de Frutos' ballet interpretation of the Hans Christian Andersen story The Most Incredible Thing is indeed just that; The Most Incredible Thing. or at least i thought so as i sat there grinning manically and thoroughly caught up in the gloriously dynamic innovation of this magical story. The tale itself is a simple one - a king promises  his daughter's hand in marriage to the person who presents him with the most incredible thing. and that incredible thing (made by the simple carpenter you are rooting for who just happens to be in love with the princess, and she him) proves to be a truly knock-your-socks off clock which draws you inside, to its inner workings which are a multifaceted, kaleidoscopic world of pure wonder. there's some too-ings and fro-ings as sinister elements collude to overturn harmony, but it all ends well - with a marriage and the jolly pronouncement that 'no one was jealous'.

This production was conceived by The Pet Shop Boys, and there's a definite pop music cut and thrust to the ballet - it's upbeat and pacey from the get-go and there's no pretentious messing about when it comes to emotional impact - love, anger, danger and innovation are boldly articulated through both the music and movement. It works perfectly on stage; intensely dramatic, moving and punchy. I'm no expert when it comes to things like choreography, but all i can say is this - you feel every twinge of emotion in every sinuous flex as the bodies dance about - the angry tension, the fluidity of love, the resistance, compliance, nerves, joy and fear. It's magical.

The ballet opens with the pulsating ferocity of a video projection - numbers flash, followed by the laborious and intricate cutting of  paper into pretty shapes. when the curtain rises there's a paper castle suspended above the stage. it's double sided as if reflected in a mirror. this idea of two sides of one whole, opposites inextricably linked and reflections is one that recurs throughout the ballet, via the use of mirrors and monochromatic visuals. This theme culminates with the destruction of the clock; which is seen as being incredible as its creation. White goodness is set against the shadowy greys of evil. The stage floor is reflective, a melting pot for the two. This floor later proves the perfect foundation for a hall of mirrors which prevents the hero and heroine from meeting. They are both there, but they see only themselves. Creation is destruction, evil is the other side of good. it's a concept that's arresting, powerful, disturbing and fascinating.

The story is set in a communist-esque Russia... there's Soviet lettering and typeface, the corps de ballet are drone-like workers, moving about with mechanical grace - robotic movements, angular limbs - while the evil henchmen have a Ruski vibe with their collarless shirts and baggy trousers tucked into boots. The feel of the piece reminded me of the Futurists, or Vorticists... the sharp edges and breaks in the dancing and the music like the angularity of their paintings.

But for me, the performance truly took flight when the story was swallowed by the clock. the whole stage becomes the mechanical turning parts of the clock at the centre of which is the clock face - pared down to an inter play of black and white - a sort of 1960s/70s op art play of monochromatic light. the series of worlds within this clock, rather than being biblical as in the original story, are like artistic movements - surrealist, expressionist etc realisations of worlds - you get a dance routine on a lips sofa while noses and ears wander about. one dancers routine is enturely inside the framework of a piano, in another internal world it's all splishes of colour.

I just didn't expect to be as bowled over as i was. but i left buoyed by the imaginative journey and the brilliant marriage of dance and music and was still completely entranced by the time i arrived home.

The most Incredible Thing is on until March 26th at Sadler's Wells.

London Art Fair: Chris Kenny

After four and a half hours spent moseying round the London Art Fair this weekend, I was pretty much ready to skewer my head on a shard of metal passing itself off as contemporary art. Still, in the main it was incredibly helpful re the book i am working on, which is about buying contemporary art. In terms of wanting to buy individual works myself, there were a few things which, had a i a few thousand comfortably to spare, i would really like to have taken away with me. No.1 was probably one of the pieces on display by British artist Chris Kenny.

Chris Kenny is an artist who makes sculptural collages from found text. I first discovered him at Samuel Johnson's house just off the Strand, when i went to the House of Words exhibition there about a year or so ago, where he was showing a collection of funny miniature books with curiously provocative, humorous and philosophical titles. Here at the LAF were larger works either telling a surreal story or combining phrases to evoke a sense of something - celebrity, the universe, nature. On sale was a very cool story about a couple called (if i remember correctly) Marguerite and Dave. I would have taken pictures, but my iPhone was still up the spout after i had to get a replacement and the new one decided it was incompatible with my macbook. helpful? very. Anyway, both the dissonant and complimentary randomness of the phrases and words he compiles together are a complete joy to read. it's part story, part word association, part art, part theatre of sorts. the below images are taken from his gallery site, England & Co.

 All the way to Idiotsville, 2008 (above).

You can just about make out part of the  weirdly wonderful story.

Why does the universe go to all the bother of existing? 2010

below are a series of questions included as part of this circle of phrases:

Which way is London from here?

Do men follow you in the streets?

What are children a substitute for?

Is a poem worth dying for?

Do fetishists get married?

How exactly does looking at pictures corrupt the viewer?

How does this make you feel?

All worth asking if you ask me. I'd very much like to have one of his artworks in my house.

 

Blue Valentine

I felt broken by Blue Valentine. It almost makes one never want to fall in love. almost. And yet, despite being heart-wrenchingly upsetting, it's also a beautiful meditation on falling out of love. The film opens with a couple (Ryan Gosling and Michelle Williams) about 5 years into their marriage. it's awkward to watch the subtle signs of their failing relationship, the willful miscommunication; the silences loaded with disaffection, frustration, disappointment and disillusionment; effort made by one party and its passive deflection by the other. slowly we flash back to how they met, how they fell wildly in love - it's like you imagine it being in the movies. what happens in between the two opposing points is left to circumspection, imagination: in between lingers a hazy void where the arc of the relationship is concrete in its invisibility - the journey from burgeoning beginnings to a sobering, grey flat lining.  Every look and touch taken from each side of the arc is painfully opposed; it's crushing. It's nominated for Golden Globes on Sunday. Michelle Williams in particular 100% deserves her award.

Blue Valentine is out today.

Bookshelf Porn

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I have fallen HEAD OVER HEELS in love with a blog... Bookshelf Porn; images of piles and piles, row upon row of books - in shops, houses, on the streets, as art installations, as pictures... anyone who has been into my flat will understand why i love it so much. below are a few pics from the site. Above is my personal favourite image of books; it's a photo taken by my friend Jo, of a picture she saw for sale in a gallery, and which she thought I'd like (correct) and which takes the blog's title perhaps a little too literally. Actually, probably not literally ENOUGH, but illustrates how much i was predisposed, nay preconditioned to love this blog.
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I love Tom. and Moustaches.

Hotter than hot lifelong crush

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I spent a not inconsiderable amount of time at Field Day, running around with a fake moustache on, thanks to a spectacular Pin-the-Moustache-on-Tom Selleck stall run by the more-than-fantastic Romy Westwood. Mmmm.

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Idiot, you may think. well, NO. from this day on i am never going to a festival WITHOUT a fake moustache glued to my upper lip (Casanova was the variety, FYI). Friends lost: 0. Friends made: 10,000. including a ridiculously high number of hot men. that's all I'm saying. cleavage on display and a fake moustache seems to tick a lot of men's boxes. who knew?

A moustachioed Romy and Laura
moustachioed moi (and on crack, clearly).

The Real Thing

With love, how do you know when it's 'the real thing'? when it's not an affectation, a performance? When the people involved aren't acting a part, or secretly doing something to undermine the intimacy, or wanting to feel something so badly they almost make it true, or being willfully blind so they don't see a reality they might not like. Tom Stoppard's 1982 play skips around these issues, of performance, emotion and being genuine - it's insightful, and wry, and true, and cruel, and complex, and funny, and moving and confusing, and before you know it you're cheering the actors like billy-o as they take a bow. i think you'd have to try pretty hard to fuck up a production of this play - it's quite simply brilliant. Still, this production at The Old Vic is definitely not a fuck up - performances are pert, persuasive, buoyant, and character evolutions arc with precision and grace - from beginning to end it's completely absorbing and wittily played out.

Henry and Annie are having an adulterous affair, despite the fact that their spouses and they are all friends. After risque liaisons, they run off together. but blissfully smug love soon gives way to jealousy, confidence to insecurity, and jealousy to indifference and betrayal. A meaty segueing of emotions indeed, but such issues are turned on their head by the fact the central character, Henry (Toby Stephens channelling his smugness to perfection, yet revealing the character's flaws and insecurities with beautiful sensitivity) is a playwright, and the women he juggles actresses. You are thrown off course from the off by the opening scene - a scene from his play, about adultery, which stars characters who later appear not in his play, but in Stoppard's. with reality thrown in (that this is a play being performed), it's like a hall of mirrors with infinitely repeating images. reflections bounce around so you're never sure what is genuine, true or false. apart from the idea of sentiment, that is. conceptual notions of love, jealousy, betrayal - which become real when they are recognised. the stage is set within a giant picture frame, for god's sake - there's no sense that this is reality - just a version of it hoping to explore 'the real thing' in a way that you could ever quite perceive in life. the irony is delicious. it's great.

Delaroche and Lady Jane Grey

The executioner's almost mockingly nonchalant stance, the theatrically histrionic ladies-in-waiting throwing up their hands in despair, the tender arm round the shoulders of England's fleeting queen, the 17-year old Lady Jane Grey, while she, luminously lit and delicately beautiful glows with the tragedy of a martyr. I solely thank the supreme curation of this National Gallery exhibition for my being so drawn into the scene in this wholehearted, emotional way. Each exhibition room explains the composite elements of this painting and what makes it so emotionally potent: firstly why a french painter was interested in the historical past and the artistic trends that led him to such removed subjects; his fascination with England; his links with the theatre and love of the dramatic potential of scenes - through friendships with playwright friends and the growing international reputation of Shakespeare (Delaroche's painting of The Princes in the Tower is equally moving); his captivation with martyrs, suffering for a cause, unfairly lambasted, vilified and executed; his captivation with the 'sprightly coquette' Mademoiselle Anais, the woman who was his muse for Lady Jane Grey.

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By the time I reached the painting itself, there's no way it could have failed to impact on this multitude of levels (no thanks to anything i brought to the party), and it felt enormously rewarding to understand why i was fell for its beauty - that's a brilliantly curated exhibition if you ask me.

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I didn't expect to love this exhibition, but the fact that i did, and so intensely, was a glorious surprise. i can't recommend it highly enough - it's on at the National Gallery until 23 May - go.

Sweet Nothings

Sweet nothings: not far off what i took away from this play at the young vic, really. Adultery, naive love, hopeless yearning, promiscuity, teasing, decadence, flirting, betrayal, claustrophobic social expectation and decorum - such things are sweet whisperings, sure, but for me they amounted to nothing and i came away hollow, disappointed, unengaged.

It's turn of the century Vienna (though costumes are fin de siecle via topshop, and the first act's set has more than a dash of 1980s brashness in its 'slick' rather than stylish red and black decor), and four beautiful, decadent youths gather for a party. The privileged boys are in the dragoons, the less affluent girls copy musical scores and sew for money or look after their siblings. One boy, Fritz, is engaging in an adulterous affair, which he fears may be about to end/be exposed or challenged by the elder woman's husband. as the revelry becomes more drunken, sexually charged and raucous (unconvincingly if you ask me - cringingly there's nothing so excruciating to watch as a party scene that falls flat), the married woman's husband turn up and challenges Fritz to a duel.

The second half shifts to the flat of Christine, a party girl from act one and a girl hopelessly, genuinely in love with the dashing, socially superior Fritz (Tom Hughes, gorgeous and compelling scene stealing in Ricky Gervais' otherwise forgettable film Cemetery Junction, out April, but somewhat less charismatic here, sadly, oscillating confusingly between nervy adulterer and confident tease). In contrast to the lasciviously scarlet flat of the flirtatious and promiscuous Fritz, Christine's simple abode is pure and white, and rather than decadently living alone, watched over by no one, waited on by servants, she lives with her ineffectual violinist father, and every move is scrutinised by nosy, gossiping, puritanical neighbours (epitomised by Katherina, played by the fabulous Hayley Carmichael from Told by an Idiot). Fritz represents the glamour, daring, exoticism that is outside Christine's world, and more importantly, escape from it. sadly her affections are misdirected, and probably not deserved as Fritz is really just a bit of a cad. One who will disappoint her in the worst way, taking routine tardiness for their engagements to a darkly bleak limit.

Luc Bondy directs this 'sex tragedy', a translation of Arthur Schnitzler's 1895 Liebelei, and though it ends badly for all, i wasn't terribly moved, failing to be captivated or convinced by the initial hedonism, left cold by the strains of supposed genuine emotion and unthreatened by the looming shadow of death which hangs over the play, a punishment, presumably, for such sexual and loving excesses.

Valentine's Day

Jessica Biel

Jamie Foxx

Ashton Kutcher

Jennifer Garner

Jessica Alba

Eric Dane

Patrick Dempsey

Anne Hathaway

Queen Latifah

Julia Roberts

Bradley Cooper

Topher Grace

Kathy Bates

Taylor Swift

Shirley MacLaine for GOD'S SAKE...

Just some of the seemingly endlessly list of starry names who utterly fail to save Valentine's Day (out feb 12th) from being anything that even comes close to being a watchable film. The intersecting romantic vignettes make Love Actually seem deeply philosophical and profound. why, you may ask, did i even watch it in the first place? lack of sanity due to this week's diet of lemons, maple syrup and cayenne pepper.