Are gannets good for you? Not as food, of course, though the former inhabitants of St Kilda would certainly have thought they were. Last week Judith and I took a short break to visit the gannetry at Troup Head in Aberdeenshire, just along from the village of Pennan, famous as the location for ‘Local Hero’. Troup Head, an RSPB reserve, is the only mainland gannetry in Scotland, and our timing was perfect, as thousands of birds had already returned to set up their nesting sites, along with similar numbers of kittiwakes, a few razorbills, and some jackdaws playing at being seabirds.
We’ve been to similar seabird colonies on the Isle of May, and the Brough of Birsay in Orkney, but those are both island locations. There’s something special about being able to just park your car, walk across a couple of fields, and then suddenly come across this vast seabird community. By a quirk of acoustics you can barely hear the colony until you’re, literally, almost on top of it, and then the noise is deafening. Gannets were everywhere: courting (that wonderful necking dance), fighting viciously over patches of ground (to the disapproval of their neighbours), flying—apparently—for the sheer pleasure of it, or just sleeping, head turned round and long beak lined along the back.
We sat and watched them for the best part of an hour, the closest birds barely 25 feet away. We were the only humans there and we were completely ignored. I guess it might be a different matter once the chicks have hatched! And I found that I felt a really profound sense of wellbeing, a sense of inner calm and unalloyed pleasure, to an extent that I’d not really recognised before. I think it was being so close to so many birds, and those birds being apparently oblivious of us. For the first time I felt I really understood what an Attenborough or a Chris Packham must feel like.
Afterwards, I began to think about the analogies between this experience of the natural world, and experiencing the arts. The recent death of the great painter Howard Hodgkin had reminded me of when the Scottish National Gallery of Modern Art had presented a major exhibition of his work, and I remembered standing in the centre of the largest of the four galleries involved, just slowly rotating, as my eyes and senses filled with the glorious colours and forms—never quite abstract—of Hodgkin’s large paintings. Much more recently, just last month, and in the same week, I had had two similar reactions, to the near-perfect playing of the Sitkovestsky Piano Trio in Edinburgh’s Queen’s Hall, and to the astounding dancing of the Danza Contemporanea de Cuba at the Festival Theatre.
How can I sum up this feeling? Exceptional physical and mental wellbeing, inner calm, an absolute sense of rightness, and the paradox of feeling both excited and stimulated, and soothed and relaxed, all at once. A sense of time standing still, and of wanting the experience not to end. When it reaches an extreme level, there is even a name for this: Stendahl Syndrome.
I’ve been googling whether anyone has been researching these parallels between how we react to nature, and how we respond to the arts. There’s plenty on how art might help us relate to nature but that’s not quite what I mean. I’m interested in understanding if the two experiences are, fundamentally, similar or even the same.
At the moment the different arguments for the links between nature and wellbeing, and the arts and wellbeing, tend to march in parallel. Those arguments are similar, but I’m not sure that they’re necessarily being linked up. The Westminster Government seems to be accepting some of the arguments about nature and wellbeing, and this seems to have led a coalition of bodies to present a powerful argument for a Nature and Wellbeing Act . With the process of consultation for a new Scottish Cultural Strategy, should we be thinking about being equally bold and ambitious, and making the case for an Arts and Wellbeing Act?
Because arts provision is not a statutory duty of Local Authorities, support for artists, arts organisations, and arts activities, is drying up across much of Scotland. The gaps in provision are often most acute in those communities which also score very heavily on indexes of Multiple Deprivation. Maybe it’s time for those who support the arts, and those who care about the natural world, to make common cause.
© Robert Livingston April 2017
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
Are you a Wittertainee? I mean, of course, do you listen to Kermode and Mayo’s Film Review podcast from BBC 5 Live? I’ve been a devotee of the Church of Wittertainment (as their fans are known) for many years (hello to Jason Isaacs, by the way), long enough to remember way back when they first launched the renowned Wittertainment Code of Conduct for cinemas.
This started out as Mark Kermode’s and Simon Mayo’s not very serious response to the many emails from listeners about the increasing prevalence of bad behaviour in cinemas, but it quickly became something really quite significant. Our Screen Machine mobile cinema has a copy posted by the entrance, and a few years ago I was delighted to find a copy in a similarly prominent position in one of Berlin’s top cinemas. The Code starts obviously enough with prohibitions on talking during the film, or using your mobile phone, eating noisy food, or kicking the seat in front. But some items get a bit more esoteric, including: ‘No shoe removal: You are not in your own front room. Nor are you in Japan (unless you are, in which case, carry on).‘
That crack about Japan came back to me during our recent, and first, holiday in Lisbon, where we experienced not one, but two disconcerting examples of audience behaviour, and were left wondering whether each was considered in any way normal in Portugal, and , whether, therefore, we would have been wrong to make a fuss. In one case we did, in the other we didn’t. Was either decision correct? What is the etiquette when forming part of a foreign audience? When in Japan, should you take your shoes off (regardless of any resulting pungent odour)?
This all started a couple of months ago when, having booked our flights and hotel for Lisbon, I did what I always do on these occasions and searched for what concerts might be available while we were there. To my great excitement I found that the most exciting young pianist of the moment, Igor Levit, was going to make his Portuguese debut during our stay. Not only that, but he was going to be playing two of the works from his latest recording which had just won The Gramophone magazine’s Record of the Year Award. And to put the icing on the cake, the concert was in the Fundação Gulbenkian, just a short walk from our hotel.
As you can imagine, by the time we actually got to the concert hall, my anticipation was intense. The Gulbenkian concert hall is a lovely wood panelled space, seating, I guess, about 1200, and it was almost full, which was impressive for the demandingly intellectual programme on offer. We settled down to enjoy the immense hour-long journey that is Beethoven’s Diabelli Variations, and quickly appreciated that the hall’s acoustic was perfect for a solo piano. Unfortunately, it was also perfect for making clearly audible something much less uplifting: the utter barrage of coughing that broke out as soon as Levit’s fingers touched the keys, and which then persisted throughout the whole work. It was rare to get more than ten seconds of cough-free music. And it wasn’t just a few very sick individuals. Coughs resounded from every part of the auditorium. Several would go off at once. It was like trying to listen to a concert in the middle of a zoo, or the Gunfight at OK Corral (except that only lasted a few seconds…).
We really felt for Igor Levit. How he maintained his concentration, playing this Everest of the piano repertoire from memory, was a marvel to behold. As we discussed at the interval, if nothing else such behaviour (no one ever seemed to try to stifle their cough) seemed incredibly insulting to such a great artist. Yet at the interval the audience had given him a standing ovation! Perhaps that was just all the non-coughers acknowledging the scale of his achievement….
After the interval things did get better, partly because Frederick Rzewski’s equally monumental ‘The People United Will Never Be Defeated’ is a more torrential, acoustically overwhelming work than the Beethoven, and partly because some of the worst coughers seemed to have chosen to leave at the interval rather than expose themselves to a late 20th century masterpiece. But it was still much noisier than the average Moscow winter audience on old Soviet Radio relays from the 60s. I had thought of saying something to a member of staff at the interval, but in the end got cold feet—we were outsiders, after all. Perhaps this was normal, in Lisbon, in December.
Two evenings later we were at a free recital in the ornate Palàcio Foz in the centre of Lisbon, performed by the Trio Cremeloque, and taking a fascinatingly different approach to familiar Piano Trios of Beethoven and Haydn, with the usual violin and cello replaced by an oboe and bassoon. It was one of a regular series of free concerts, and the hall was packed. And even as the musicians started playing, several in the audience (all Portuguese) were busily photographing them on their phones. The middle aged man next to Judith even starting videoing the concert. This was too much. Judith gave him a sharp slap on the arm and he desisted—at least until the encore when the camera was out again, his raised arm blocking the view of those around him. Yet in between he had seemed intensely focused on the music. Once again the very fine musicians were given a standing ovation—which raised another unanswered question—are standing ovations the norm in Lisbon, rather than the very rare exception that they are in douce Edinburgh?
Lisboans, we found, are immensely welcoming, courteous and helpful people, and it was a delight to spend time among them. Indeed it is their very reticence and laid back character—certainly when compared with their counterparts in Madrid!—that made these two experiences seem, by contrast, so very odd. But maybe they would find the reverential behaviour of the average British classical music audience oddly cold and uninvolved. A mystery to solve—as if we needed an excuse to return to the delights of Lisbon!
Mind you, sometimes you can really get it wrong. Many years ago we went to a choral concert in Italy. We arrived, we thought, well before the advertised start time, only to find the Choir already on stage, singing away lustily. But the Italian audience was behaving atrociously: chatting loudly, moving about, even eating in some cases. We were stunned. Surely even Italians, we thought, couldn’t be this badly behaved as an audience. But then, after ten minutes or so, the choir all filed off stage. It turned out they were just doing their warm up. A few minutes later they returned in more formal manner, and their performance was then listened to in complete and attentive silence. And no one, as far as I could tell, took their shoes off.
© Robert Livingston December 2016
Last Monday I went to the Royal Opera House. I didn’t dress up, and I had one of the best seats in the house for the princely sum of £12.50. And I didn’t even have to leave Edinburgh. I was, of course, at a screening of ‘event cinema’, in this case, a new production of Bellini’s ‘Norma’.
The venue was the Odeon in Lothian Road. One of the interesting aspects of the continuing growth of ‘event cinema’—live or ‘encore’ relays of music, dance, drama and the visual arts—is that it’s in no way confined to arthouse cinemas and arts venues; the multiplexes have come on board in a big way. ‘Norma’ was already sold out at the Cameo Cinema, just a couple of hundred yards from the Odeon, and a pioneer in event cinema programming. So it’s not surprising that there were about 50 of us in the auditorium at the Odeon, which I would have thought would have been a good audience for any screening there on a Monday evening. But ‘Norma’ was also showing across town at the Vue Omni and, for all I know, at some or all of the edge-of-town multiplexes as well.
The staff at the Odeon are clearly keen to build an audience for these screenings. We were handed a programme by an usher as our tickets were checked, and told ‘you’re in for a dramatic evening!’ (which was true), and another member of staff, armed with a microphone, gave us a warm welcome before the relay started, and encouraged us to come back for future screenings. At the interval a trolley was rolled out with, alongside the usual ice creams, mini-bottles of Prosecco. Bless.
I’m always surprised to find that there are both cinema-goers and arts aficionados who not only have never been to an ‘event cinema’ screening, but are not even sure what it’s like. I still get asked, for example, if it’s just a single, static camera. So, for any readers who’re in that category, let me sum up my experience.
First, the seats are extremely comfortable and the sightlines are excellent. The HD projection is crystal clear and the sound is remarkably full and convincing. The subtitles are easily readable but small enough to be ignored. The introductions and the interval chats range from the cringingly gushing to the genuinely informative, especially when conductor Antonio Pappano is talking about the music.
The key aspect, of course, is the camerawork. Relays like this can use between 6 and 8 different cameras, and the director is usually working from a carefully crafted shooting script based on close prior observation, and where possible full camera rehearsals. The occasionally fluffed camera movement reminds you that this is still, to some extent, being caught ‘on the wing’, but most of the time the camerawork is fluent and unobtrusive. But it does two crucial things. It inevitably offers us an interpretation of the performance because it is the director’s choice as to what we see at any given moment; our eyes are not free to roam across the full stage picture. For some, that is the medium’s chief drawback. But it also means that our attention is drawn to details, actions, expressions that would be easily missed by—or perhaps even not fully visible to—those in the audience at the actual performance.
What this really means is that a cinema relay of a performance is not a replacement of that performance, it is something sui generis. I was thrilled and excited by ‘Norma’. The singing was magnificent, the staging was intriguing, and the filming drew me into the heart of the action and of the passionate, life or death emotions. I genuinely believe that I could not have enjoyed the experience more had I been sitting in the Royal Opera House itself. I might have enjoyed it as much, but for different reasons. I would have been stimulated by the atmosphere (though perhaps put off by the sense that some, at least, in the audience were there more for social than musical reasons), and I would have felt a special auditory thrill in response to such superb singing, but I might have had a restricted view, a neighbour with irritating habits, and a slight feeling of discomfort from being dressed up for the occasion. As several writers have already noted, ‘event cinema’ is becoming an artform of its own. I’ve elsewhere compared it to the early days of television, when viewers had to become used to the idea that this was neither a film in a box nor radio with pictures, but something else.
In the case of ‘Norma’, there is one additional intriguing aspect. Almost uniformly the London critics disliked the production, and indeed it was apparently booed on the opening night. Now, it’s certainly not a conventional production: the Catalan director Alex Ollé has replaced the Druidism of the original with a fanatical modern sect that is very like, but not identical to, aspects of the Catholic Church. The ‘sacred grove’ of the original is made up of a forest of hundreds of crucifixes. The High Priestess Norma is dressed like a modern day bishop—something that will be more shocking in the director’s home country than in Anglican circles! The critics seem to have found this shift confusing, wrong-headed or excessive.
Now, for me and for the friends I was with, in the cinema in Edinburgh, the production was almost completely comprehensible and persuasive, and was much more dramatically pointed than would have been a faithful evocation of the world of 1st century AD Gaul. Was this because we had had the advantage of hearing the stage director explain his approach, and of seeing how the camera director presented that vision to us? In that respect, were we actually better off than the audience in the Royal Opera House?
Event Cinema is not going to go away: rather, it’s going to continue to grow. At many venues the entire New York Met season of relays sells out within days of being announced. For many smaller venues, especially outside the cities, it has become both a financial lifeline and a valuable way of expanding the cultural offering to their communities. The big national companies that so far dominate the scene say that they’ve seen no drop off in attendances at their live performances as a result, rather the reverse. Cinemas say that they’re attracting a new audience, one that doesn’t come to the normal film programme, and that was certainly the case in the Odeon last Monday. Yet it’s not without its critics. Those who are keen to promote films outside the Multiplex mainstream understandably feel threatened by event cinema. After all, if your programming choice is between an obscure foreign language film, and Benedict Cumberbatch in ‘Hamlet’, which is going to make you more money and, more important, which is going to please a larger audience?
And there is (pardon the pun) a very large elephant in the room. At present there is absolutely no Scottish content being offered through ‘event cinema’ routes. Across Scotland, many audiences are becoming more familiar with the work of the New York Met, or the National Theatre in London, than with the work of the Scottish companies they pay for through their taxes. The scenario is perhaps a bit like the early days of the Edinburgh Festival, which was criticised for bringing in foreign companies and artforms at the expense of homegrown Scottish culture, because at that time there was no equivalent showcase for that culture, at least until Hamish Henderson and others laid the foundations for what became the Fringe. Maybe we need a similar initiative now, so that audiences in, say, Thurso, can have the choice between the Royal Opera, and Scottish Opera.
© Robert Livingston September 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.
We had the good fortune to spend New Year in Edinburgh this year, thanks to the loan of a New Town flat, and among the many cultural delights which we enjoyed was a visit to the National Galleries’ current exhibition Modern Scottish Women . Truth be told, we found the exhibition overall quite disappointing, but among the revelatory highlights were a number of sculptors whose names were previously unknown to me. Most impressive of all was the work of Gertrude Alice Meredith Williams, who, together with architect Robert Lorimer, created Paisley’s War Memorial, The Spirit of the Crusaders, which must be one of the most imposing of all UK War Memorials, fit to stand comparison with Charles Jagger’s Royal Artillery Memorial in Hyde Park.
In my Regional Screen Scotland role I’ve been doing some work with contacts in Paisley, so when I was in the town for a meeting last week, I took the opportunity to see Meredith Williams’ masterpiece ‘in the flesh’. It’s even grander and more powerful than the exhibition photographs, and the plaster maquette, had suggested. Yet I imagine that most Paisley folk pass it on a daily basis and never give it a second thought. Like so much public art of the past, it’s effectively ‘hidden in plain sight’.
But as I stood at the base of the memorial and looked around me, it occurred to me that Paisley as a whole was also ‘hidden in plain sight’. The assemblage of grand architecture before me, from the 14th century Abbey to Victorian civic buildings, is truly exceptional, and only partially marred by some truly horrid 60s and 70s infill and a number of very poor quality shop fronts. Just round the corner are three grand churches in a row, one of them housing the Wynd Centre, which includes a handsomely equipped small venue, with retractable seating, lighting and sound equipment.
Paisley is of course bidding to be UK Capital of Culture 2021, an ambition that I can imagine being greeted in some metropolitan circles with disbelief, even ridicule. But those imposing buildings are testimony to a long and rich history, even if that history has become largely invisible to the rest of Scotland. With a population of 75,000, Paisley is considerably larger than Scotland’s three most recently created cities, and as I’ve been finding, there’s a creative energy in the community that, whatever the outcome for 2021, demands that Paisley achieve a more prominent place in Scotland’s identity.
It could be argued that it’s not just Paisley, but Scotland’s towns in general that are ‘hidden in plain sight’. After last week’s meeting in Paisley I took a train back to Edinburgh that avoided me having to change stations in Glasgow, but took a roundabout route through Motherwell, Wishaw, Carluke and Carstairs. Now, in my various professional capacities over the years I’ve visited very many parts of Scotland, including such remote spots as Barra, Unst, and the Mull of Kintyre. But I don’t believe that, in all of my 61 years, I’ve ever visited any of those four towns. Yet they have a combined population almost as large as that of Paisley, and each has a distinctive history and culture.
I also visited Dumfries last week, and in the bizarre world of Scotland’s rural transport system, I could get there from Edinburgh much more quickly by taking a train to Lockerbie, and then a bus to Dumfries, than by training it all the way. So I set foot in Lockerbie for the first time. Like Dunblane, whose own sad history was being commemorated last week, ‘Lockerbie’ is a name that has become forever associated with a single atrocity, only mentioned in the media when inextricably linked to the word ‘bombing’. The reality, today, is that Lockerbie is a neat country town, with, as far as I could see, a pretty full complement of High Street shops, a piece of modern public art in the central square that should make anyone smile, and, as I waited for my bus, what seemed to be a cheerfully interacting community. But for the rest of the world the ‘real’ Lockerbie is hidden behind a single moment in history in which the town was only the victim of collateral damage.
Much the same could be said for the much larger town of Dumfries, which usually only comes to national attention as a result of one of the Nith’s frequent bouts of flooding. Dumfries is a special place for me, as, at the end of my first year as a University Drama student, we took over the Georgian Theatre Royal for a three week summer school—a period of sheer, unalloyed, unforgettable pleasure. So I’m delighted that the theatre is now the subject of a major restoration project .
The more time I spend in Scotland’s many and various towns, and the more opportunities I get to work in places as diverse as Banff, Aberfeldy, Cowdenbeath, Galashiels, and Campbeltown, to name just a few that I’ve been involved with recently, the more convinced I become that, as Nicholas Crane argued in his TV series, towns are the future. Yet, despite the best efforts of bodies like Scotland’s Towns Partnership and Can Do Places it seems to me that Scotland’s towns, as a whole, are Hidden in Plain Sight, too often the subject of neglect, or the butt of humour. Deprived of proper political representation, yet home to almost half of Scotland’s populations, Scotland’s 500 towns deserve better.
Do you like Westerns? Back in the 60s, when I was a kid, you didn’t have much choice in the matter. The schedules of the only two TV channels were dominated by long running Western series, from ‘Davy Crockett’ and ‘Wyatt Earp’ for children, to the more mature ‘dramas’ of ‘Wagon Train’ or ‘Bonanza’. Westerns then were even more ubiquitous than US cops shows today, and at least as pervasive of UK culture—especially if you were a boy under 10.
Of course, in the movies, the Western genre has led to many great peaks, and the first film I was allowed up to watch all the way through, on our black and white TV, was John Ford’s masterpiece ‘She Wore a Yellow Ribbon’. It was a formative influence, though I was an adult before I realised the original film was in colour. And Ford’s achievement was matched by directors like Howard Hawks (‘Red River’, ‘Rio Bravo’) and Anthony Mann (the series of 50s Westerns with James Stewart, such as ‘The Man from Laramie’ and ‘The Far Country’).
But those pinnacles were atop a mountain of other Western movies, stretching all the way back to ‘The Great Train Robbery’ in 1903. And a lot of those Westerns were ‘B’ movies. We all know what a ‘B’ Western looks like, don’t we? The good guys wear white hats and the villains black. There’s a saloon with a honky tonk piano and a good time girl with a heart of gold. There’s a dipsomaniac doctor who patches up the gunshot wounds (usually, conveniently, in the shoulder). Oh, and ‘the only good Indian is a dead Indian’. And the whole thing would have been filmed on the studio lot or, at best, in the nearby Hollywood hills. Well, if you think that, then you saw too many episodes of ‘Gusmoke’ as a nipper. The truth is both richer and stranger.
In recent weeks I’ve been exploring the more distant reaches of the Freeview schedules, and have come across a range of little known Westerns, none of which I have any memory of seeing before (not even on a wet Sunday afternoon), and all of which depart from the usual stereotypes in almost every respect. They range from just after the Second War until the late 60s, when the influence of spaghetti westerns was beginning to be felt in Hollywood.
The first is ‘Canyon Passage’ from 1946, starring Dana Andrews, and directed by the great (and still undervalued) Jacques Tourneur, just after his collaboration with producer Val Lewton on the great run of horror films that included ‘Cat People’ and ‘I Walked with a Zombie’. ‘Canyon Passage’ is immediately unusual in opening in a downpour. This is because it’s set in Oregon, among the mining community, and Andrews plays a very untypical Western hero, a man trying to make his fortune in business, through running mule trains of supplies from the coast up to the miners. It has a detailed sense of realism. Men stick their guns in their trouser belts, rather than in tailor-made holsters. There’s a fantastic sequence of a house-raising that must have influenced both ‘Seven Brides for Seven Brothers’, and ‘Witness’. And the characters are complicated and uncliched, with no straightforward heroes, and only one outright villain, whose actions place him beyond the bounds of this emerging ‘civilisation’. It’s as rich as a novel, and the use of the unusual locations, in saturated Technicolor, is outstanding.
Coincidentally, my next example is the last film produced by Tourneur’s collaborator Val Lewton, before his early death. If, with its generous running time and big stars, ‘Canyon Passage’ is perhaps not truly a ‘B’ movie, ‘Apache Drums’ is the real deal. No big names (the lead is Stephen McNally, good enough to deserve being better known), and a taut running time of just 75 minutes. But there’s the same unusual choice of location, this time among a Welsh (!) mining community in New Mexico, so all the buildings are made of a rich orange adobe, which positively glowed in the good print that was screened. The bulk of the film tells how, after an Indian attack, the survivors of the town, and of a cavalry patrol, are besieged overnight in the adobe church by marauding Apaches. It is a genuinely original, chilling and tense half hour of screen time, which must surely have been a big influence on John Carpenter’s seminal ‘Assault on Precinct 13’, not to mention ‘Zulu’. In fact there’s one sequence, which I won’t spoil, that makes the ‘Zulu’ link certain.
‘The Last Frontier’ is from just four years later, 1955, and is one of the astonishing long run of Westerns directed by Anthony Mann that began with ‘Winchester ‘73’ in 1950 and ended with ‘Cimarron’ in 1960, just before he switched to epics and made the greatest of them all, ‘El Cid’. Mann’s Westerns are often called ‘psychological’ because the drama so often turns on flaws and quirks of character, rather than external plot devices. ‘The Last Frontier’, probably the least known of the set, is very much in this vein. Victor Mature gives a career-best performance (yes, really!) as a scout who’s been brought up as a ‘child of nature’, and Robert Preston is the career-driven Army officer who leads his command to destruction. Oregon is again the location, far from most of the normal Western stereotypes, and Mann uses the landscape as imaginatively as his namesake Michael Mann (no relation) would do on ‘The Last of the Mohicans’, a film surely indebted to this older Western
My last movie is a much later example. On the face of it, ‘Day of the Evil Gun’, (1968) starring those two Western stalwarts Glenn Ford and Arthur Kennedy, shouldn’t really be considered a ‘B’, but the director, Jerry Thorpe, mostly worked in TV and will never be called an ‘auteur’. The film shows the influence of Sergio Leone’s then popular movies in being set in Mexico, and the high body count certainly mirrors that of the average spaghetti western. But something odd is going on: Ford, ostracised by the community as a former gunslinger, never actually shoots anyone in the course of the film. Instead the film traces the descent of Kennedy’s character, from ‘man of peace’ to ruthless killer, with pitiless detachment.
For all their differences, and the time range of over 20 years, these films have a surprising amount in common. I’ve already alluded to the unusual settings, and the complexity of the characterisation. But the biggest contradiction to the stereotypes of such films lies in the treatment of Native Americans. In all four films the ‘Indians’ are shown as being brave and resourceful, with a rich culture, a strict honour code, and legitimate (and often very explicit) grievances against the ‘white man’ . Even in ‘Day of the Evil Gun’, where the plot requires them to be both renegade and dangerous, there’s a remarkable sequence where the Apaches are shown carefully collecting their dead after a shoot-out, whereas their white opponents walk off, leaving their dead companions where they fell.
The female characters, too, are often strong, individual, and self-motivated—no mere props for the male heroes. The community in which each film is set, from mining town to cavalry fort, is lovingly realised, with a wealth of ‘bit part’ characters of real individuality. Fight scenes are often surprisingly realistic in their clumsiness, brutality, and ultimate failure to resolve anything. And all four films, short or long, tell their stories with great economy and subtlety, relying heavily on visual narrative, or on dialogue that is spare and distinctive.
If we want to find a present day equivalent to films of such richness and depth, we have to look to TV, to ‘Games of Thrones’ perhaps, or the revisionist Western series ‘Deadwood’. In Hollywood, the studio system that produced these little gems is now locked into blockbusters, sequels and franchises. So my recommendation is, study your Radio Times carefully—with a magnifying glass, if need be—as there are treasures to be found at 9.30 on the morning on 5USA, or 3.00 in the afternoon on FilmFour. And if, as I do, you record them, they make a great distraction while doing the ironing!
Welcome to my blogsite, and to the website for Kirkhill Associates, an arts, heritage and culture consultancy. You can read my latest blog post below, browse past posts, download a copy of my current CV (where you’ll also find my contact details) here and check out past and current Kirkhill Associates contracts here .
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.