I may just be a grumpy old man, but it does seem to me that many aspects of popular culture are becoming more, well, disappointing. Or perhaps it’s just that our expectations are constantly being ramped up by the media, in which case my problem may be more with the reviewers than with what they’re reviewing.
I’ll try to make my case through two genres: Detective Fiction, and Star Trek films. I’ve been a lover of Detective Fiction for over 40 years, and I use the term ‘detective’ advisedly, to separate this sub-genre from the much wider (and currently more critically acceptable) genre of ‘crime’ fiction. For me, Detective Fiction is about the solving of puzzles (crimes) within a dramatic framework, while Crime Fiction is more concerned with psychological dissection. The locus classicus would be Ruth Rendell’s splitting of her authorial personality in two, with the procedural Inspector Wexford novels under her own name, while her series of psychological studies, which are much more about why a crime was committed than how, were initially published under the pen name of Barbara Vine.
In the last month I’ve read two new examples of Detective Fiction which, for wider reasons, have been very high profile. First was the third novel in the Cormoran Strike series, ‘Career of Evil’, published under the pen name Robert Galbraith but written, of course, by the incredibly prolific J K Rowling. Rather to my surprise, I had really enjoyed the first two Galbraith novels. There was something pleasingly old fashioned about them, and the writing seemed much more accomplished than in the Harry Potter series, where I’ve always found the prose rather leaden. So I approached this third outing with real anticipation, and was seriously underwhelmed. It was far, far too long and repetitive (admittedly a common Rowling failing), but in trying to take us into the mind of a serial killer, obsessed with dismembering young women, it was following a wearily well-trodden path (in books, movies and TV dramas), and a distasteful one at that. Worst of all, for much of its length, it was simply dull.
By now the whole literary/reading world is familiar with the Rowling/Galbraith phenomenon. My next read has, however, has excited much more media interest and anticipation than did the third volume of a well-established series, because ‘The Monogram Murders’ is the first new novel ever to be formally approved by Agatha Christie’s estate, and therefore the first ‘proper’ Hercule Poirot story since Christie’s death. Now, I was looking forward to this for two reasons: first, I’d greatly enjoyed the two similarly ‘authorised’ Sherlock Holmes novels by Anthony Horowitz, and second, the author chosen to resurrect Poirot was Sophie Hannah, a critically acclaimed (and also prolific) writer of Crime Fiction, whom I’d once seen talking very interestingly about her work at the Nairn Book and Arts Festival.
This was a much bigger disappointment than the Galbraith. For anyone at all familiar with Poirot’s character, there were wrong notes from the outset, but the premise was sufficiently intriguing to keep me reading. But the last third of the book was a remarkably tedious slog through increasingly convoluted explanations of a literally incredible plot. Some of Christie’s original Poirot novels, in their entirety, are shorter than the many pages it took Hannah to unravel this farrago. Maybe that’s what happens when a ‘crime’ writer turns to classic ‘detective’fiction.
What these two books have in common, apart from excessive length, is the generally favourable reception they’ve been given in the ‘serious’ press: Guardian, Independent, Telegraph, etc. In the mainstream media only the (also incredibly prolific) Simon Brett, writing in the Daily Express of all places, tells it as it is about this underwhelming Poirot resurrection. Instead, one has to look to blog and fandom sites to find really thoughtful and accurate analyses of the failings in these books.
Now we’re regularly treated to dire warnings and plangent laments about the ‘death’ of professional criticism, as cash-strapped newspapers shed their paid reviewers, and blogging allows anyone to have their say online. But I’m becoming increasingly aware of a kind of trahison des clercs where it’s harder and harder, at least in the world of books, to find genuinely analytical and honest professional reviews, while the best bloggers, as in the example above, have a depth of knowledge, and the space to display it, that’s increasingly at a premium in the mainstream media.
So, what about Star Trek? I’m not sure if I really count as a Trekkie—I’ve never yet attended a Trekkie convention, in costume or otherwise—but it has been part of my cultural mainstream since the very first episode aired on the BBC in the Dr Who teatime slot when I was 14 years old. I’ve not followed every spin-off TV series (‘Enterprise’ was a step too far), but I have seen all the films, most of them more than once. Now I know that the critical consensus is that, with a few exceptions (‘The Wrath of Khan’, ‘The Voyage Home’, ‘First Contact’) the movies featuring the original two Enterprise crews were fairly ropey, and I’m prepared to go along with that verdict, and just enjoy them as guilty and nostalgic pleasures. But since JJ Abrams rebooted the franchise in 2009’s ‘Star Trek’ it’s achieved a blockbuster prominence that the early films never reached. I still think that that first, daring, reinvention of the origins of the crew of the Enterprise was a clever, inventive, and thoroughly enjoyable slice of space opera. I was much less impressed by its successor ‘Star Trek: Into Darkness’, perhaps because I made the mistake of watching it in a very distracting 3D, but also because the last 15 minutes of the film were really ridiculous, totally unnecessary in terms of a satisfying story arc, and changed Spock’s character in ways that just didn’t seem right.
So I didn’t bother to catch the latest episode, ‘Star Trek Beyond’ (no colon, this time) while it was in cinemas. But it got such generally good reviews, with a broad consensus that this was a ‘return to form’ and to those elements that made Star Trek so memorable—namely the interaction between the main characters—that I rented the DVD as our Christmas Day movie. Well, the first two thirds delivered, looking dazzlingly beautiful and with some sharply written dialogue from Simon Pegg, but the last third was utterly preposterous and dumb to a degree that, it seems to me, dishonours Gene Roddenberry’s memory. Even if, over the years, the Star Trek universe has sometimes played fast and loose with scientific fact and theory, it’s nonetheless tended to retain a certain plausibility, or at least consistency, within its own terms of reference. But the vast space station ‘Yorktown’, a visual fantasy only made possible by state of the art digital imaging, would, if it was to have any possible reality in the Star Trek world, have required an application of technology and resources that would have been centuries ahead of the oddly retro/future world of the rest of the film (remember, we’re in the timeframe of the original, William Shatner, TV series, not even of ‘The Next Generation’ series, set 70 years later). And the ‘action’ that then occurs within this impossible world is simply stupidly over the top to the point where I ceased to care about what happened, and just wanted the movie to end.
So, is popular culture really getting dumber as it gets more hyped? Did things used to be better, or did we at least have, in the past, a sharper critical awareness and a better sense of proportion? Evidence that this may be the case came, also on Christmas Day, in the unlikely form of ‘The Muppet Christmas Carol’. Never a Muppet fan, I’d avoided this film ever since it came out in 1992, assuming it would be silly, sentimental, and tiresome. I’m happy to admit I was entirely wrong: it is a modest masterpiece, telling Dickens’s original story with great fidelity and visual flair, with a nicely understated performance from Michael Caine as Scrooge, and setting this all within the madcap world of the Muppets in a way that is very witty and oddly touching. Who would have thought that presenting Tiny Tim as a small green frog would bring a tear to the eye? Yes, maybe popular culture really was better then….
© Robert Livingston December 2016
The first painting I fell in love with ‘in the flesh’, so to speak, was Botticelli’s little ‘Annunciation’ in Kelvingrove Art Gallery in my home city of Glasgow. So our latest cultural jaunt to London had to include a visit to ‘Botticelli Reimagined’ at the V&A. It’s an exhibition that has divided opinion. Some reviewers have given it five stars, while Boyd Tonkin in The Independent described it as ‘the grossest heap of kitsch and dross ever to litter [the V&A’s] halls’!
It’s certainly different and unexpected. Being greeted at the entrance by Ursula Andress rising from the waves in Dr No, while Sean Connery looks on from the bushes like a satyr, was an arresting opening. The first gallery then explores the appropriation of Botticelli’s most iconic images throughout the 20th century, from Surrealist and Pop artists to Dolce and Gabbano, while the second gallery examines the impact of his ‘rediscovery’ on artists in the 19th century, including some fascinating copies by names famous and unknown, and even two outright forgeries. Only in the third room do you reach the real Botticelli—or do you? Because only one signed painting by Botticelli survives: the Mystic Nativity usually in the National Gallery. A key theme of this section is the process by which, over the last two centuries, individual paintings have been attributed, reattributed, and even de-attributed, or at best demoted to ‘workshop of Botticelli’ status.
We found the whole exhibition enthralling and thought-provoking, and as I was interested in exploring the controvery which the exhibition has stirred up, I’ve looked at no less than 12 different reviews online, all from reputable publications with paid reviewers, rather than from individual bloggers like myself. What I found revealed, I think, something significant about the state of criticism today, and it isn’t pleasant.
The single biggest exhibit in Botticelli Reimagined is a huge video installation, The Path, by the great American artist Bill Viola. Now, such is the complexity involved in setting up Viola’s large works that any chance to see one of them is an event, even in the crowded London art scene. And The Path is one of his most engrossing and moving works, easily the best thing in the whole exhibition, apart from the handful of indisputably authentic Botticellis. So I was interested to see what my clutch of critics had to say about this masterwork. Nothing. Nada. Not a Word. The one honourable exception was Time Out which devoted just 10 words to it, but at least described it as ‘mesmerising’, which it is.
I can think of three explanations for this mysterious omission: 1. They missed it. Such a large video installation does, after all, require a room to itself (though that room is right at the start of the exhibition). 2. They don’t rate Bill Viola. Such unanimity on his lack of importance, however, seems highly unlikely. 3. It didn’t fit the shared paradigm. This, sadly, seems to me the most likely explanation. Both those critics who loved the exhibition, and those who hated it, based the bulk of their reviews on the same crude idea of a progression from the valueless clutter and kitsch of the present day to the calm and purity of the 15th century Renaissance. The profound, meditative calm of Viola’s video completely disrupts that false paradigm. Support for this explanation comes from the similar omission of other works in the contemporary section which are also thoughtful and quiet in tone, and demand time to experience, such as that by Michael Joaquin Gray .
I think there’s a more profound failure underlying this omission of any reference to the Bill Viola work: a failure to grasp why this exhibition is not at the Royal Academy or the National Gallery, as might have been expected, but at the V&A, ‘the world’s leading museum of art and design’ (my italics). This is not an exhibition about art history but about cultural history, and of the twelve critics I surveyed only one, Kathryn Hughes in The Guardian, got that right and, guess what, she’s a cultural historian.
Botticelli Reimagined explores the idea of ‘Botticelli’ as a cultural ‘meme’ (as Richard Dawkins would put it), which lay dormant for three centuries after the death of the artist with that name, only to resurface and begin an extraordinary journey through both high and low culture, having effects (like any cultural meme) that have been both beneficial and adverse. Even in his lifetime ‘Botticelli’ was, as Hughes puts it, ‘a brand’, where the hand of the artist himself may have done no more than draw an initial cartoon as the basis for a stream of devotional images produced by his workshop assistants. If that sounds like anyone today, it’s Jeff Koons or the late Andy Warhol, both, of course, included in the exhibition.
The cumulative failure of these critics to address the true complexity of Botticelli Reimagined in favour of simplistic soundbites seems to me a real trahison des clercs. It’s not a good time for professional critics. Shrinking newspapers are shedding staff while the Internet enables pretty well anyone to publish their views on pretty well anything. The question is often asked: do we really need paid critics? My whole background would have inclined me to shout ‘Yes!’ but now I’m not so sure.
My favourite podcast is Kermode and Mayo’s Film Review on BBC 5 Live. Mark Kermode recently published an entire book, Hatchet Job, trying to defend the role of the professional film critic. It’s a good read but it smacks of desperation. After all, even Kermode himself often has to admit that reviews which listeners have emailed to his programme are more articulate and insightful than his own contributions. Some of those contributing listeners are not yet in their teens.
In my younger days I produced many paid and commissioned reviews for the Glasgow Evening Times, the Glasgow Herald (as it was then), Scotland on Sunday, and even BBC Scotland. Now I use this blog to write unpaid reviews of art, film, books, music and theatre. Setting aside the advantages brought by 40 years experience of working in the arts, blogging lets me discuss subjects at greater length and in greater depth than was ever possible all those years ago in the mainstream media. Sure, these blogs may only be read by a handful of people, as opposed to the thousands who read (or, more likely, skimmed) what I used to write for national media. But perhaps that’s a healthier model—a dispersed series of critical conversations as opposed to a fiat delivered de haut en bas from the elevated status of a national newspaper. We’ll always need people like, say, Mark Cousins, to educate us in the deep history and breadth of an artform like film, but perhaps the role of paid daily or weekly ‘reviewers’ is truly being replaced by technology, and will one day seem as quaint as those ‘explainers’ who used to stand by the screen to tell the stories of silent films, and whose remit was swept away by the coming of sound.
© Robert Livingston May 2016
Last week Judith and I were in Perthshire for the wedding of Judith’s cousin at the remarkable Fingask Castle . The weather was perfect, the experience was magical. And as we were staying over in the neighbourhood, we decided the next day to make a detour into Perth on our way home.
Living as I do in the Highlands, I find that Perth is often an ideal mid-point for meetings with Central Belt colleagues, either at the excellent Concert Hall, or in the very special surroundings of the Royal Scottish Geographical Society’s offices in the Fair Maid’s House. And as Perth Museum and Art Gallery is close to both those buildings, I usually try to drop in, especially as there’s almost always at least one interesting temporary exhibition to catch. So I suppose I’ve called at the Museum once or twice a year for many years now.
Well, this time there were no less than three fine exhibitions to enjoy. First, a handsomely presented display about the archaeological finds at the very important site of Forteviot, mounted in collaboration with the Hunterian Museum in Glasgow. This really needed a visit all too itself, there was so much to take in. Then there was a selection of delectable paintings by the late William Littlejohn, this time in association with the Royal Scottish Academy, and nicely linked to a selection of prints from the Ukiyo school. Finally, ‘Life in Miniature’ was a clever and intriguing mixed show from the Museum’s own collection. Plus, Judith hadn’t previously seen the superb permanent display of studio glass, telling the remarkable story of Monart .
Add to this the fact that the entire interior was looking fresh as paint (and maybe had indeed benefitted from some recent major redecoration), and we had a thoroughly stimulating and enjoyable experience. All by ourselves. I think we saw one other visitor the entire time we were in (which was about an hour). Now, sadly, that’s not been an unusual experience for me at Perth Museum and Gallery. I’ve quite often been, at best, one of just two or three visitors.
We stopped on the way out to tell the receptionist how very much we’d enjoyed our visit, and asked about the lack of visitors. Numbers had been dropping steadily, she told us sadly. But don’t they have lots of school trips, we asked (the displays were very well suited to provide teachers with suitable teaching material)—no, apparently not. The costs of transport, the difficulties of getting permissions. School trips, too, were dropping off.
We then went on to the J D Fergusson Gallery, splendidly located in the former Perth Waterworks. The interior was looking all of its 25 years (ie rather tired), and Fergusson is not a favourite of mine—I’d have exchanged all of his paintings for the one exquisite Cadell that was also on show. Nonetheless, again, the displays were very well presented and the staff were friendly and welcoming, but we were the only visitors.
This is surely not sustainable. But I find it hard to pin down the cause. In my travels I’ve seen many local museums—both Council-run and independent—that are so tedious, out of date and in dire need of TLC that I’m not surprised that their visitor numbers are alarmingly low. But that’s not the case in Perth. Handsome and imposing buildings, in good locations, housing impressive and enjoyable displays. What’s not to like? Why have they become, effectively, hidden in plain sight for the people of Perth, and indeed for those visiting the city?
I can’t help contrasting our Perth experience with what we see when we visit the refurbished McManus Museum and Gallery in Dundee, which is always busy whenever we drop in. Is it just that the McManus, like Kelvingrove in Glasgow, has a long history of ‘belonging’ to the local population, a kind of loyalty which Perth, for whatever reason, has not achieved? Like many Scottish Councils before them, Perth and Kinross have only just outhoused their Cultural Services—including the museums– to an independent trust, Culture Perth and Kinross . When the Highland Council set up the similar High Life Highland some years ago, that shift rejuvenated Inverness Museum and Gallery, which has to overcome the handicap of being in a truly ugly and unsuitable 60s block, so unlike the elegant classical buildings in Perth. Perhaps the advent of Culture Perth and Kinross will achieve a similar sea change, and Perth Museum and Gallery will finally be brought out of hiding.
A recent TV interview with Clive James—dying, but still remarkably chipper—prompted me to get down to what I’d been planning to do for some time, and start re-reading his magnum opus, ‘Cultural Amnesia’. At just short of 900 pages, this could be a daunting prospect, but first time round, just after it was published in 2007, I devoured this inspiring, engrossing, infuriating book in just the three weeks of a standard library loan. Indeed, it’s partly because I raced through it so enthusiastically the first time round, that I wanted to go back for a more considered second encounter.
There are many areas of the arts in which length can be a serious drawback, especially in literature: crime novels, thrillers and SF were all much better when the novels were, on average, half the length they are now (see my earlier blog on Michael Gilbert). And that’s not just true of literature: blockbuster movies, ‘event’ exhibitions, prestige TV series, even, some might argue, operas, can all suffer from the inverse ratio that, the longer (or bigger) they are, the less effective their impact (often due to sheer exhaustion). Initiatives like ‘A Play, a Pie and a Pint’ have shown how much time-poor audiences can be attracted by something short and pithy.
But I make an exception for certain kinds of books that focus on history and culture. Here’s a list of some of those I’ve had no trouble in getting to the end of, in the last 10 years or so:
Norman Davies: ‘The Isles’ (1220 pages) and ‘Europe’ (1364 pages)
Orlando Figes: ‘A People’s Tragedy’ (922 pages; the story of the Russian revolution)
Christopher Clark: ‘The Iron Kingdom’ (777 pages; the history of Prussia)
A N Wilson: ‘The Victorians’ (738 pages)
Diarmid MacCulloch: ‘A History of Christianity’ (1216 pages, and one of my favourite books of all time)
Tony Judt: ‘Postwar’ (960 pages, a history of Europe since 1945)
Simon Schama: ‘Landscape and Memory’ (652 pages, and one that definitely repaid a second read)
Peter Watson: ‘The German Genius’ (964 pages)
Kenneth Roy: ‘The Invisible Spirit’ (542 pages; a history of Scotland, 1945-75)
Amanda Foreman: ‘A World on Fire’ (1040 pages, Britain and the American Civil War)
Felipe Fernandez-Armesto: ‘Civilisations’ (636 pages)
Sorry, that can’t avoid looking a bit like boasting, but I’ve drawn up the list to make what I think is an important point. What all these books have in common–apart from the fact that they’re well written, of course—is that they are each a truly immersive experience. By the time I had finished each of these books, my mind was in quite a different place, and I would never be able to think in the same way again about, say, the history of the British Isles, Prussian ‘militarism’, or ‘Victorian values’.
Short books can of course also have a similar impact. Richard Holloway’s ‘Godless Morality’ is a slim 164 pages, but I don’t think anyone with an open mind could get to the last page without having that mind altered in significant ways. But that’s a work of ethics and philosophy. When we’re talking about history, or cultural history, there is something about the accumulation of significant details, about being drawn into a complex web of themes, narratives, personalities and events, about living intensely with the subject, for the weeks (or even months) that it takes to navigate through such long books, that is essential to the process of true learning, the kind of learning that changes minds.
Of course, no-one is going to retain all the detail contained in any of these books, not even after a second, third or fourth reading. But what I find is, that the knowledge that that detail exists, that these complex webs of connections have been mapped, that the author’s conclusions—should they choose to come to any—have been arrived at only after years of living with and sifting through this mass of material, is essential to the process of absorption and understanding.
In the age of the sound bite (or byte), of the shared item on Facebook, of 15 minute TED talks, this is not, perhaps, a popular view. But maybe it’s a necessary one. I didn’t know, when I started any of the books listed above, how reading them was going to change my view of their subjects, or of the wider world. On the other hand, I certainly didn’t pick them up with the intention of reinforcing already entrenched views. In many cases, these books surprised me (as a convinced atheist, perhaps most of all ‘A History of Christianity’) and often encouraged me to read further, or to enter into debates less dogmatically. Take Norman Davies ‘The Isles’, for example. His policy of referring to the British Isles, and their constituent nations and regions, only by the names by which they were known during the particular period he is writing about (eg Britannia, Alba, even made-up names for prehistoric eras) is such a forceful demonstration of the contingent nature of history that I’ve never thought the same way about nation states since. As Davies’ other great book, ‘Vanished Kingdoms’, forcefully demonstrates, nation-building has never been a teleological process.
It was the Spanish philosopher George Santayana who first famously said that ‘Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it’. Perhaps if British and UK politicians had had the chance to read William Dalrymple’s ‘Return of a King’ (608 pages) they would have thought twice about once again becoming ensnared in the troubled history of Afghanistan but, sadly, that book was published too late to make that possible. But even if it had been around to influence the policymakers, back in 2001, would any of them have thought to read it? John Major’s favourite bedtime reading is apparently Trollope, and if that includes the devastating critique of society in ‘The Way We Live Now’, then that’s no bad thing, but I don’t see many of our present leaders, or their advisors, as serious readers.
But, just maybe, instead of investing the 80 hours it takes to watch the five seasons of ‘Breaking Bad’, we put a similar time into a bit of serious reading, we might be better placed to challenge the policy-makers in terms they’d find hard to ignore. Which brings us back to Clive James, who pondered the book that became ‘Cultural Amnesia’ over a forty year period, as a defence of Humanism, and a celebration of diversity of thought. If he can spare forty years to write it, perhaps we can spare as many hours to read it.
Last night YouTube made me really angry. I don’t mean that I was offended by being presented with some fratboy inanity, the cavorting of a former child star, or the rantings of a deluded fanatic. No, what got me enraged was a symphony written in 1938.
It’s one of the more surprising facets of YouTube that it has become a repository for recordings of thousands of works by obscure classical composers. And by ‘obscure’ I mean really obscure. I’ve been hunting down lesser known composers since the late 60s—marking programmes in Radio Times (usually at odd hours in the afternoons or late at night), setting up timed recordings and, more recently, sampling some of the rarities offered by Naxos and other adventurous CD labels. Despite that, what I’ve found on YouTube is a host of composers whose very names—never mind their music—were completely unknown to me.
Needless to say most of this music has never made it onto CD, and so can’t be found on sites like Spotify. Dedicated enthusiasts are posting these recordings on YouTube, sourced, presumably, mostly from radio broadcasts around the world, or in some cases from old LPs that were never digitally transferred. Ah, the nostalgic sound of a stylus settling into a vinyl groove, immediately followed by a pervasive hiss and the occasional click…
Most of the music, it has to be said, rarely rises above the pleasantly competent, but every now and then I hear something that really makes me sit up. For fellow enthusiasts of obscurity, let me drop the names of: Vaino Raitia, Nikolai Peiko, Alessandro Solbiati, and Yngve Sköld. Believe me, they’re all worth hearing.
Last night, I had YouTube running in the background while I was doing something else, and I found that my attention was being caught by a really distinctive piece of music: spiky, witty, energetic, with a sharp edge to it that was really engaging. I went over to see what was playing: the Second Symphony by Elsa Barraine. That’s right, Elsa. Unlike the list of men in the previous paragraph, this was a female composer that I’d never heard of.
Thank goodness for Wikipedia, as I doubt if I would have found much on Elsa Barraine in more conventional works of reference. Her story is a remarkable one, and her present day neglect is certainly not due to her having lived a quiet or cloistered life. She was a pupil of Paul Dukas (of Sorcerer’s Apprentice fame), who also taught Messiaen, with whom Barraine became lifelong friends. On either side of the war she worked in radio, and during the war was active in the French Resistance, a particularly brave move as she may have had Jewish ancestry. In 1972 the French Ministry of Culture named her Director of Music, giving her charge of all French national lyric theatres. She died in 1999 at the age of 89.
So why is it that this excellent Second Symphony, written when she was just 28, seems to be the sole composition by her that is in any way accessible? (There is also a YouTube recording of a short organ prelude, but it’s an amateur film and the sound is poor). Even then, given the apparent audience noise, this seems to be a radio transfer, not a commercial recording. Given the quality of the work—one comment on the site rightly compares it to Martinu or Roussel—it surely deserves to be better known. And while it’s true that there are such things as ‘one work’ composers (think of Reznicek’s five minutes of delight, Donna Diana, long time favourite of BBC’s ‘These you have loved’, and then try his tediously pompous symphonies!) I don’t somehow think Barraine falls into that category. Nor is her style old-fashioned—the language of this symphony is directly comparable with pieces being written in the 30s by Honegger, Milhaud or Prokofiev.
So that’s why I’m angry: the only reason, it would seem, for the neglect of Elsa Barraine is her gender. That seems particularly odd for a French female composer, because France has a longer and more illustrious list of women composers than almost any other country, from Louise Farrenc in the mid 19th century through Germaine Tailleferre and Cecile Chaminade to the great Boulanger sisters. But that list seems to end with the Second World War, and I can think of no post-war French female composer to stand alongside those from Britain, Finland, the US, and Russia. Perhaps by living so long, Barraine ended up eclipsed by her male contemporaries such as Messiaen and Dutilleux, even if she was an almost exact contemporary of Simone de Beauvoir, author of The Second Sex!
So thank goodness for YouTube and Wikipedia, which have introduced me to this remarkable woman. Here’s hoping those dedicated hunters after musical truffles will unearth some more examples of her work!
© Robert Livingston
Ps French music fans will recognise that the title comes from Debussy’s Pelleas et Melisande
Are you a tourist or a visitor? Do you like to be part of an organised group, plan your own itinerary in meticulous detail, or be spontaneous and leave everything to chance and the whim of the day? I was back on Bute this week, for a meeting that helped to move forward the slow process of planning the redevelopment of Rothesay Pavilion, and with some time to spare, I decided to play the tourist.
It was a morning meeting, so I had stayed the night before in Rothesay, at the Glendale, a comfortable, modestly-priced and, architecturally, wonderfully eccentric guest house, where, for breakfast, I partook of brioche with creamy scrambled eggs and smoked salmon. Smashing.
Having arrived at around 8.00 on a pleasant and dry evening, I had gone for a walk along the front. Now, the front at Rothesay should be celebrated as one of Scotland’s small glories. An unbroken walkway stretching for miles, from north of Port Bannatyne right through Rothesay to its southernmost tip, it has, to the seaward, the unmatchable view across to the Cowal Peninsula and the hills of south-east Argyll and, to the landward, a long line of the most delightfully diverse vernacular architecture, with many of the larger villas having fine gardens to their front. And in the centre of Rothesay there are the glories of the Winter Gardens (their fabric sadly looking rather the worse for wear) and their flowerbeds, and, of course, the finest Gents’ lavatories in the country (I can’t speak for the Ladies). Rather like at Nairn Beach, I don’t imagine that walking the front at Rothesay is a pastime of which one would tire quickly.
My meeting was over by lunchtime, so I bought a picnic and drove down to Kilchattan Bay, which I had last visited when I was eleven years old, and I had spent an idyllic week with my mother on a farm holiday there. It’s still idyllic, especially as the weather was positively Mediterranean, and it has a quiet peace that, oddly, reminded me of South Ronaldsay at Scotland’s other extremity. Then on to the picturesque ruins of St Blane’s Church, up the west coast to Ettrick Bay, and across to Rhubodach and the ferry back to the mainland, and the long drive north.
Now, here’s where the paradox comes in. At each place I stopped I was just able to squeeze my little Peugeot into the last parking space—at Kilchattan bay, and at the roadside bays for the hillfort at Dunagoil, and St Blane’s Church. And at all of these locations the special quality of the experience would have been marred if there had been many more visitors—especially a large coach party. At a different scale, something of the same is true at Bute’s largest visitor attraction, Mount Stuart (subject of an earlier blog): it’s in the nature of the house that visitors have to be guided round in small groups, and in high season the numbers going round could probably only be increased by extending the opening hours, the extra income from which might be outweighed by cost.
Yet, in the middle of August, my very pleasant and well situated guest house still had vacancies. On the other hand, those who organise events on the island tell me that Bute doesn’t have enough bed spaces to meet existing demand at times like the Jazz Festival, never mind an increased demand that might be occasioned by new events at a refurbished Pavilion. And nor is the existing accommodation of the type that would attract back to a rebuilt Pavilion the large conferences—especially party political conferences—which the building used to host in its heyday. This is in part due, I’m told, to the number of hotels which, in recent years, have been turned into flats or left derelict.
So, if Bute is going to increase its prosperity, it would seem that it can only do so by increasing the number of visitors, even in high season, and consequently providing more and different accommodation. Yet this risks killing the goose that lays the golden eggs. As I found in my short trip, Bute offers the visitor an exceptional range of experiences in a small compass, but those experiences are very different from those of the days of going ‘doon the watter’: they favour the independent traveller, not organised mass tourism. I think I’m rather falling for Bute, and not just its landscape: its folk are cheerful and welcoming, but also energetic and enterprising. The island has tremendous potential: we all need to ensure that in trying to realise that potential, we don’t mar rather than make better.
© Robert Livingston
We’ve been slow to catch up with the wave of live satellite relays now being offered by Eden Court. Last week, however, we made it to Rameau’s Hippolyte et Aricie from the Glyndebourne Opera Festival, and we found it an utterly engaging experience. In fact, I suspect that, for a very long and wholly unfamiliar Baroque Opera like this, the cinema experience might actually be the best way to see it for the first time, better even than being in the opera house itself. In the auditorium I could imagine my attention wandering during some of the long passages of declamation, but in the cinema, sensitive camerawork, and judicious use of close-ups, really drew us into the personal tragedies at the heart of the work. We did miss the champagne, though.
So, we’d give the whole experience a gold star, except for one really surprising element. As we in Inverness waited for the curtain to go up in Sussex, Glyndebourne regaled us with advertisements for future live relays (fair enough), and also with repeated injunctions to ‘get involved’ by tweeting during the screening! As avid fans of Kermode and Mayo’s Film Review on BBC Radio 5 Live, we were horrified at such a flagrant incitement to break the Wittertainment Code of Conduct. Needless to say no-one in the small but select Inverness audience did anything so crass.
The Code of Conduct started out, as many things do on this rather anarchic programme, as a joke between Mayo and Kermode, but it has been taken up by many cinemas around the world who see its ten rules, jokes aside, as simply good common sense for ensuring a pleasurable movie-going experience. For Glyndebourne to encourage its relay audiences to have their phones on at all, with all the light pollution that implies, and with the risk that not all of them will be set to ‘silent’, was really astonishing. I have written to complain!
But I think there’s a deeper philosophical issue here. ‘Get involved!’ exhorted the Glyndebourne advert, but surely, any audience member who is taking the time to compose and send a tweet is absolutely not involved in the gripping tragedy and the surreal spectacle unfolding on the screen. Certainly, over three hours and 45 minutes (including interval) I didn’t find my own involvement weakening for a moment, whereas during the film of Les Miserables a few weeks ago I was so bored I could have composed an entire novel in 140-character tweets.
The ‘involvement’ which Glyndebourne meant is social, not personal, and the two are not necessarily compatible. As someone who retains enough naivety to want to be made to laugh, cry, gasp and even hide behind the sofa while watching any drama, I do worry that there is a culture of objectivity and irony that is becoming all-pervasive. Why else do movie trailers now reveal almost the entire plot of a film, including the most exciting action sequences? Why does the Radio Times introduce each week’s new Dr Who monster before the new episode is screened? How else can perfectly normal people sit through such torture-porn movies as the Saw franchise? (I write as someone who nearly had to leave Pan’s Labyrinth at three different points in the movie, because of the violence.)
Mark Kermode even argues that it would be wrong to tweet or text during a film screening, even if you were the only person in the cinema, because it shows disrespect for the film-makers. While that rather Zen concept may be taking things a little far, I sympathise with his position. But we have to recognise that history is on the side of the tweeters. Gustav Mahler is credited with the practice of dimming the house lights during the overture of an opera, and then keeping them dim throughout the performance, and that was only at the start of the last century, when electric lighting made such an approach feasible, and it was initially resented by the audience. Prior to that, of course, the opera house was a place to go to see and be seen. French Grand Opera always had a ballet scene in the third or fourth act because that was when the members of the Jockey Club would turn up and expect to be able to see their favourite dancers. Hence, for example, the very rarely performed ballet scene in Verdi’s Otello. One doesn’t imagine the chaps from the Jockey arrived and left in sensitive silence.
It’s often said that it is unwritten codes of conduct that discourage many people from attending concerts, plays, opera and ballet: they’re worried about being made to look stupid because they might do the wrong thing—like applauding between movements. Yet the performers themselves can often be those who are most resistant to change. At the BBC Proms last week musicians were suffering from the heatwave, especially those involved in performing Wagner’s mammoth Ring cycle. In the liberal informality of the Proms, the audience could be in t-shirts and shorts, and several of them encouraged the musicians to discard their white ties and tails and do the same, but it’s the musicians themselves who defend their formal garb, saying it helps to create a sense of occasion.
And of course it is actors who are doing most to fight the menace of the mobile phone, often making up for the pusillanimity of theatre managements, as regular news reports testify Even more difficult is the situation of music venues that keep their bars open during the performance. A few years ago the great Steve Earle famously lost his temper at an Ironworks gig in Inverness, with a group of drinkers who would not shut up during his solo set.
So, am I making a Canute-like gesture in complaining to Glyndebourne? Should I accept that my wish to be profoundly moved, to be taken out of myself, to forget my surroundings, is the product of a relatively short period in cultural history, and that the tweeters, the chatterers and the drinkers are just the modern equivalent of the audiences that bought oranges from Nell Gwyn in 17th century London, or formed the notorious claque in 19th century Paris, or cheered on loquacious music hall MCs less than a century ago? Does the social trump the personal? Perhaps not. We’ve just been discussing how it no longer seems quite so cool to be ‘cool’, or an airhead, and that geeks and nerds are becoming more fashionable. So perhaps in future I may not need to long for the power of Ludwig II of Bavaria, who could command entire productions of Wagner’s operas for which he was the sole member of the audience. In the meantime, Glyndebourne really should think about adopting the Code.
© Robert Livingston