BY Danielle Coxon
If you haven’t already, don’t read anything about Spyski. Don’t Google it. Don’t read the Arts Centre’s brochure (apart from to check the time). Don’t do anything. Part of the enjoyment of Spyski is that you genuinely don’t know what’s coming next, and even the slightest bit of info gives away too much. In fact, I think I’ve given away too much just by saying that - it is about spies, after all (that much I can say, the title makes it obvious), so secrecy is the best policy.
Not saying anything about a production makes a review quite difficult, so rather than giving a blow-by-blow account, I’m going to tell you what I didn’t expect to see:
Monty Python-esque ham acting
An interesting use of props (watch out for the hospital close-up)
A surreal dream sequence
Doubling or even tripling up of roles – the cast consists of only 5 people
A spy story that’s not a spy story but a spy story in a play not about a spy story – this is why you have to see it, if only to figure out why this sentence makes perfect sense
A lot of very random comedy, including my favourite line, ‘I’M VERY TENSE’, shouted in a similar manner to Brick Tamland’s ‘LOUD NOISES’ in Anchorman
The acting, by the way, is supposed to be overblown, especially in the first ten minutes, which may make you question what you have stumbled in to. The acting, and the ingenious props (which often have as many roles as the actors do) all serve to give it a thrown together style, which is exactly what the storyline requires. And it does demonstrate how good the actors are when they can play themselves so badly.
I could go into an in-depth analysis about how the fragmentariness, multiple personalities and actors playing themselves reflect the post-modern theatre that the Peepolykus company obviously immerse themselves in. But this would be far too fancy-pants and would detract from the fact that this is a very funny piece, done in a highly tongue-in-cheek manner, by skilful and underappreciated actors. The only sad thing about the performance was that the room was half-empty, which must be very disappointing for them in what is a very audience-aware show.
If you are a Bond fan, the show is probably even funnier. I say this because I got the distinct feeling that, having never watched a whole Bond film (shocking, I know), I was missing out on some of the spoof. But I think thespian types will get a kick out of the main Russian character ‘Stanis Lavski’, a nod to the famous Russian director/actor, whose system of acting is no doubt is rather tested here.
The show runs until Saturday, so if you haven’t seen Quantum of Solace yet, don’t bother. Go for two hours of complete randomness instead. Just watch out for the Chinese…
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
BUIKA- la estrella nueva española
By Yosra Osman
There’s nothing like a bit of Latin music to warm up these cold November nights- and that’s exactly what Warwick Arts Centre is welcoming in the form of Concha Buika, a Spanish singer who seems quite different from your Enrique or Julio Inglesias. Everything about Buika is unique, from her name to her fusion of flamenco, jazz and funk.
While browsing the internet for some information, I noticed that on the webpage for one of Spain’s major recording companies, ‘Dro Atlantic’, Concha Buika is described as being ‘one of the most lively and spontaneous artists in the current Spanish musical scene’. This made me think about the Spanish musical scene at the moment, and then that led me to realise that there aren’t that many singers or bands from Spain that are big globally. Think about it this way, if the only Spanish band that I can recall as having a hit in the UK is Las Ketchup, then we’re not really off to a good start.
It may be that there is a big gap in the market for Latin music in general. Once a Latin-American singer goes into the mainstream, it’s as if there has to be some sort of pop influence to make the song a hit and Buika’s music seems to be more authentic. For example, ‘Jodida Pero Contenta’, which is available to listen to on her myspace (see link below), has a definitive Latin feel to it- the flamenco vibe fused in with her soulful voice and a bassline typical of funk or jazz works fantastically.
Buika is a naturally talented singer, and her music is both passionate and refreshing. The fusion of different genres compliments her voice, and I for one think that it would be amazing to see her enter the UK charts. I really hope that concerts like her set at the Arts Centre will help her to become a popular singer in the mixed up world that is the UK music scene, just to add that little bit more variety and to represent Spain for the passionate country that it is.
To hear some of Buika’s music, then you can check out her myspace: .http://www.myspace.com/conchabuika.
Youtube also has a variety of her videos- here’s the link for one of her most popular ‘No habrá nadie en el mundo’.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
ENGLAND - Art for art’s sake?
At first glance, England, ‘a play for galleries’, appears to deliberately set out to bewilder and bemuse it’s audience. This is perhaps attributable, however, to Tim Crouch’s preoccupation with blurring the lines between theatre and conceptual art; England is suitably ‘staged’ (if I can use such a term) in the Mead Gallery. As the performance began, a litany of questions were immediately posed, if not expressly asked by the audience (like the couple stood behind me): “where is this supposed to be?”, “who’s speaking?”, even, “why are we in a gallery, I thought we were going to the theatre?” The confusion continues as two actors (Crouch and Hannah Ringman) narrate the first act by both speaking for the same character, maintaining fixed grins throughout and gazing at the audience with eyes as vacant as their smiles. Although initially disquieting (why are the English so bad at holding eye contact?), I found that the impression produced was strangely beguiling, coupled as it was with simple and honest dialogue.
It initially appears that there is a complete absence of staging, however, it soon becomes obvious that the art which already fills the space, namely, sculptures by Phyllida Barlow, serves to mould our responses to the performance, as well as providing the immediate setting of an art gallery. For instance, the blank banners that fill one corner seem to bolster the politics, both personal and global in scale, that are at the centre of England. Certainly, the audience is left to infer and make assumptions throughout the narrative that spans the globe, as the character struggles to recover from heart disease, culminating in a meeting with the widow of his/her eventual donor (whom we presume lived in an Arab country, though we are never told for sure). The piece as a whole demands an active engagement with the questions that are posed and the performers implore us to “LOOK!” at what is in front of us. What we see, however, is often far from pretty.
The exploration of the role of art in today’s frequently messy, ugly, dishonest world (some rather unsavoury details emerge as to the possible circumstances under which a replacement heart was procured) is what I found most fascinating when watching the play. “This is art”, we are told. However, precisely what ‘this’ is is never made explicit. At one point the character proudly asserts that “my boyfriend says that art is universal”, but then only minutes later, proclaims: “my boyfriend says good art is art that sells”, and seems just as satisfied with this particular edict as the last. Certainly, more questions are asked than answers offered. Is a certain level of cultural intimacy required for genuine communication to take place? Is art truly universal, or only culturally specific? Amusingly, we are told to look at the “clean lines” of the art that surrounds us whilst the character simultaneously observes her/his American boyfriend, who sells art to international clients, speaking in Dutch, on a telephone line that stretches 4000 miles.
However, the idea that art can no longer act as a common language in world riddled with such vast inequalities is forcibly communicated in the second act, when the character visits the grieving widow of his/her donor. She/He offers “a gift! A work of art, from England!”, ‘valuable’ no doubt, yet contemptible in its inadequacy compared to a lost husband whom the widow believes to have been murdered. The painting becomes an unfeeling abstraction from the realities of her hash, day-to-day existence: “we have nothing”, and art is rendered bogus and obtuse. Both the character and the audience are left feeling helpless and frustrated at their inability to communicate with the widow: “How am I to have a conversation when I can’t see her face?”, the character protests, alluding to the Islamic veil, but also indicating the extent of the widow’s revulsion at her gift as she physically turns away.
Ultimately, I found England to be an intensely layered, almost sculpted piece of work. In fact, if anything, there are perhaps too many ideas clamouring for attention, particularly in a piece that is barely an hour long. However, the world we live in today is far from simple and England succeeds in presenting what amounts to a very human account of the problems we often refuse to face.
England is at Warwick Arts Centre in the Mead Gallery until Saturday 15th November.
It initially appears that there is a complete absence of staging, however, it soon becomes obvious that the art which already fills the space, namely, sculptures by Phyllida Barlow, serves to mould our responses to the performance, as well as providing the immediate setting of an art gallery. For instance, the blank banners that fill one corner seem to bolster the politics, both personal and global in scale, that are at the centre of England. Certainly, the audience is left to infer and make assumptions throughout the narrative that spans the globe, as the character struggles to recover from heart disease, culminating in a meeting with the widow of his/her eventual donor (whom we presume lived in an Arab country, though we are never told for sure). The piece as a whole demands an active engagement with the questions that are posed and the performers implore us to “LOOK!” at what is in front of us. What we see, however, is often far from pretty.
The exploration of the role of art in today’s frequently messy, ugly, dishonest world (some rather unsavoury details emerge as to the possible circumstances under which a replacement heart was procured) is what I found most fascinating when watching the play. “This is art”, we are told. However, precisely what ‘this’ is is never made explicit. At one point the character proudly asserts that “my boyfriend says that art is universal”, but then only minutes later, proclaims: “my boyfriend says good art is art that sells”, and seems just as satisfied with this particular edict as the last. Certainly, more questions are asked than answers offered. Is a certain level of cultural intimacy required for genuine communication to take place? Is art truly universal, or only culturally specific? Amusingly, we are told to look at the “clean lines” of the art that surrounds us whilst the character simultaneously observes her/his American boyfriend, who sells art to international clients, speaking in Dutch, on a telephone line that stretches 4000 miles.
However, the idea that art can no longer act as a common language in world riddled with such vast inequalities is forcibly communicated in the second act, when the character visits the grieving widow of his/her donor. She/He offers “a gift! A work of art, from England!”, ‘valuable’ no doubt, yet contemptible in its inadequacy compared to a lost husband whom the widow believes to have been murdered. The painting becomes an unfeeling abstraction from the realities of her hash, day-to-day existence: “we have nothing”, and art is rendered bogus and obtuse. Both the character and the audience are left feeling helpless and frustrated at their inability to communicate with the widow: “How am I to have a conversation when I can’t see her face?”, the character protests, alluding to the Islamic veil, but also indicating the extent of the widow’s revulsion at her gift as she physically turns away.
Ultimately, I found England to be an intensely layered, almost sculpted piece of work. In fact, if anything, there are perhaps too many ideas clamouring for attention, particularly in a piece that is barely an hour long. However, the world we live in today is far from simple and England succeeds in presenting what amounts to a very human account of the problems we often refuse to face.
England is at Warwick Arts Centre in the Mead Gallery until Saturday 15th November.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
England
England for the English…
By Rebecca Sykes.
As Warwick Arts Centre warms up for Tim Crouch’s England, in the aftermath of America’s much lauded ‘re-birth’ last week, ideas relating to a nation’s identity have become significant both politically and culturally. However, America, as a country whose national identity has been fiercely contested since its conception, has long appeared comfortable with attempting to project its personality on the big screen. A glance at Hollywood film titles reveals that what is ‘American’ is at the forefront of many film makers minds, even if they promote wildly varying characters: Psycho; Beauty; Gangster; Gigolo; Pie.
Now, this may offer a rather oblique notion of ‘Americanness’ but it is perhaps most important that a benchmark for cultural introspection exists. In contrast, it seems an especially English trait to label such behaviour as indulgent navel-gazing and dismiss it as isolationist jingoism. However, the willingness of American cinema to engage with its own national and cultural origins has resulted in genuinely insightful critical work as well as chest-beating Americanism. For instance, Citizen Kane, whose script bore the working title ‘American’, is perhaps the finest example of a film that attempts to deal with the hypocrisies entrenched in national culture.
However, the mentality of American exceptionalism, there’s us, and then there’s everyone else, also harks back to an age when the magnificent isolation of England was venerated by the English. By way of illustration, Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World is a film which attempts to capture the spirit of an age when the ideals of English heroism and military might seized the imagination of the world. Set in the midst of the Napoleonic Wars, the ship that takes centre stage in the film, the Surprise, is described as “this wooden world” and becomes an explicit image of England in Captain Aubrey's rallying speech before the final battle: “Though we be on the far side of the world, this ship is our home, this ship is England.” The film depicts a time when the people united under the banner of King and Country, (we few, we happy few, we band of brothers) certain of their ascendancy in the world. Indeed, as Captain Aubrey rouses his men with the cry, "Do you want to see a guillotine in Piccadilly? Do you want your children to grow up singing the 'Marseillaise'?" The answer is simple enough; we did not.
However, times change, and the answers are no longer so palpable or candidly expressed. For one, the centrality of class in English culture is something that cannot be ignored; “it is the situation in our comedy and the costume in our drama” (Rafael Behr). However, a film that seeks to squarely address class and racial antagonisms, both explicit and implicit, in its exploration of English identity is Shane Meadows’ This Is England. As the resolute title suggests, the film brazenly confronts, and seeks to transpose, the diffidence that has characterised many attempts to define a recognisable ‘England’ since the latter half of the twentieth-century.
The film documents the style and substance of a uniquely English tribe: Skinheads. Set in the summer of 1983, in the shadow of the Falklands war and Margaret Thatcher, Meadows attempts to reclaim skinhead subculture from its neo-Nazi image. He depicts the susceptibility of the young protagonists in the film to the extremist political right, as a doleful syndrome of their fatherless culture. In fact, the film shares its title with an essay by the cultural critic Dick Hebdige; This Is England And They Don't Live Here, which was itself inspired by an infamous comment made by an East London skin: “Don't get me wrong - I've got a lot of coloured friends. And they're decent people. But they've got their own culture. The Pakistanis have a culture, it's thousands of years old. But where's our culture? Where's the British culture?”
It is this quest to find emotional truths that is vital to artistic endeavors. When a piece of creative work is able to render an authentic vision of people’s hopes and fears, it can engender a narrative that becomes embedded in a nation’s consciousness. For instance, Mel Gibson’s particular brand of reactionary Scottish nationalism (“Freedom!”) and its impact on the Scottish political climate should not be underestimated. Historical perversions aside, the film is credited as having played a significant role in cultivating Scottish nationalist sentiment in the mid to late 1990s. You would be hard pushed to find a film that has produced a similar impact on the English imagination for many years, if at all. Why is this?
It is possible to suggest that the English are just naturally less demonstrative than other nations; it’s just not English to feel the need for self-advertisement. But this seems to be something of a cop-out. Furthermore, we should be wary of allowing Hollywood financed films to do the necessary introspection for us. For a case in point, see Johnny English, where ‘England’ is depicted so as to be easily recognisable to audiences living in lucrative foreign markets, complete with tourist-cliché shots of London and a heavy-handed title that pre-empts the most exhaustively spoofed English franchise; 007.
Therefore, a spot a blinkered self-examination may not be a bad thing after all. The meaning of England, it seems, is still up for grabs.
By Rebecca Sykes.
As Warwick Arts Centre warms up for Tim Crouch’s England, in the aftermath of America’s much lauded ‘re-birth’ last week, ideas relating to a nation’s identity have become significant both politically and culturally. However, America, as a country whose national identity has been fiercely contested since its conception, has long appeared comfortable with attempting to project its personality on the big screen. A glance at Hollywood film titles reveals that what is ‘American’ is at the forefront of many film makers minds, even if they promote wildly varying characters: Psycho; Beauty; Gangster; Gigolo; Pie.
Now, this may offer a rather oblique notion of ‘Americanness’ but it is perhaps most important that a benchmark for cultural introspection exists. In contrast, it seems an especially English trait to label such behaviour as indulgent navel-gazing and dismiss it as isolationist jingoism. However, the willingness of American cinema to engage with its own national and cultural origins has resulted in genuinely insightful critical work as well as chest-beating Americanism. For instance, Citizen Kane, whose script bore the working title ‘American’, is perhaps the finest example of a film that attempts to deal with the hypocrisies entrenched in national culture.
However, the mentality of American exceptionalism, there’s us, and then there’s everyone else, also harks back to an age when the magnificent isolation of England was venerated by the English. By way of illustration, Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World is a film which attempts to capture the spirit of an age when the ideals of English heroism and military might seized the imagination of the world. Set in the midst of the Napoleonic Wars, the ship that takes centre stage in the film, the Surprise, is described as “this wooden world” and becomes an explicit image of England in Captain Aubrey's rallying speech before the final battle: “Though we be on the far side of the world, this ship is our home, this ship is England.” The film depicts a time when the people united under the banner of King and Country, (we few, we happy few, we band of brothers) certain of their ascendancy in the world. Indeed, as Captain Aubrey rouses his men with the cry, "Do you want to see a guillotine in Piccadilly? Do you want your children to grow up singing the 'Marseillaise'?" The answer is simple enough; we did not.
However, times change, and the answers are no longer so palpable or candidly expressed. For one, the centrality of class in English culture is something that cannot be ignored; “it is the situation in our comedy and the costume in our drama” (Rafael Behr). However, a film that seeks to squarely address class and racial antagonisms, both explicit and implicit, in its exploration of English identity is Shane Meadows’ This Is England. As the resolute title suggests, the film brazenly confronts, and seeks to transpose, the diffidence that has characterised many attempts to define a recognisable ‘England’ since the latter half of the twentieth-century.
The film documents the style and substance of a uniquely English tribe: Skinheads. Set in the summer of 1983, in the shadow of the Falklands war and Margaret Thatcher, Meadows attempts to reclaim skinhead subculture from its neo-Nazi image. He depicts the susceptibility of the young protagonists in the film to the extremist political right, as a doleful syndrome of their fatherless culture. In fact, the film shares its title with an essay by the cultural critic Dick Hebdige; This Is England And They Don't Live Here, which was itself inspired by an infamous comment made by an East London skin: “Don't get me wrong - I've got a lot of coloured friends. And they're decent people. But they've got their own culture. The Pakistanis have a culture, it's thousands of years old. But where's our culture? Where's the British culture?”
It is this quest to find emotional truths that is vital to artistic endeavors. When a piece of creative work is able to render an authentic vision of people’s hopes and fears, it can engender a narrative that becomes embedded in a nation’s consciousness. For instance, Mel Gibson’s particular brand of reactionary Scottish nationalism (“Freedom!”) and its impact on the Scottish political climate should not be underestimated. Historical perversions aside, the film is credited as having played a significant role in cultivating Scottish nationalist sentiment in the mid to late 1990s. You would be hard pushed to find a film that has produced a similar impact on the English imagination for many years, if at all. Why is this?
It is possible to suggest that the English are just naturally less demonstrative than other nations; it’s just not English to feel the need for self-advertisement. But this seems to be something of a cop-out. Furthermore, we should be wary of allowing Hollywood financed films to do the necessary introspection for us. For a case in point, see Johnny English, where ‘England’ is depicted so as to be easily recognisable to audiences living in lucrative foreign markets, complete with tourist-cliché shots of London and a heavy-handed title that pre-empts the most exhaustively spoofed English franchise; 007.
Therefore, a spot a blinkered self-examination may not be a bad thing after all. The meaning of England, it seems, is still up for grabs.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Liberty: the old, the new...and what the public wants
BY JULIAN GYLL-MURRAY
I knew by the end of the first scene that there was something in the language of Glyn Maxwell's adaptation of Anatole France's Les Dieux Ont Soif that was different from most of what I see at the Arts Centre. It seemed that, despite the exploration of a post 9/11 attitude and the odd swear word, the language was...well, old-fashioned.
It's only a little while later that my stupidity finally dawned on me: the play was, of course, written in verse. And in many ways that makes sense: Glyn Maxwell is a poet, and Liberty was first premiered at the Globe, home of the Shakespeare plays. But should I really be linking it to another time? Glyn Maxwell claimed in an interview to Globelink that "verse on stage is nothing to do with lyrical uplift, or the past, or mystery. It’s right here right now." But to be honest, what is enjoyable about the play is that it does seem to genuinely immerse itself in another type of theatre, while never shying away from modern dillemas.
Terrorism and US foreign policy seems to have been explored on stage in every way possible in the past few years: namely, through the medium of interpretative dance (as the saying goes)in Hungry Ghosts. It is refreshing to see a piece that doesn't think it's clever just because it finds parallels between the Terror of late 18th century France and the modern world of surveillance and the Patriot Act: it's intelligence is rather in its decision to not force those parallels down the audience's throat. It is perhaps this quality, however, that cost the play its widespread appeal: at the showing I attended, the theatre was curiously far from full.
The promotion of Liberty never hinted at the story's relevance to today. I would have perhaps made the same move: after all, the Bush-baiting in modern culture is verging on tiresome. It sneaks into the most unlikely forms of entertainment with, more often than not, a heavy hand. Take Frank Darabont's The Mist, a low-budget horror that had characters stop and say we're-talking-about-Bush dialogue with slow, meaningful looks at each other. Take The Dark Knight, examining how much of a "monster" Batman has to become to deal with the Joker, referred to as a "terrorist". I, for one, am no longer sold alone by the idea that a play or film will deal with the post 9/11 world, beacause, frankly, so many plays, books and films already do.
Perhaps I am alone in this. The fact that I didn't read about the play's contemporary relevance on the pamphlet and that those themes were dealt with intelligently and subtly perhaps made for a case of fantastic theatre played to a less-than-fantastic turnout. With Oliver Stone's clumsy Bush biopic W. coming out this week and the looming end of the republican era in the USA, there is a possibility that most of us want to keep seeing the political climate of the past 6 or 7 years criticised again and again. Which would mean that plays like Liberty could be criminially underseen, even though it supplies exactly our Bush-blood lust; it's just too French, too flowery, too...well, old-fashioned.
Don't be fooled: however much it seems like it has come from another time, Liberty is using that very period to talk about now in a way that W. fails to do completely. Despite the verse, despite the historical nature of the story, the play is about, as Glyn Maxwell said, "right here right now". And that's also when you should go see it.
Liberty is on at the Warwick Arts Centre until Friday 7th November.
I knew by the end of the first scene that there was something in the language of Glyn Maxwell's adaptation of Anatole France's Les Dieux Ont Soif that was different from most of what I see at the Arts Centre. It seemed that, despite the exploration of a post 9/11 attitude and the odd swear word, the language was...well, old-fashioned.
It's only a little while later that my stupidity finally dawned on me: the play was, of course, written in verse. And in many ways that makes sense: Glyn Maxwell is a poet, and Liberty was first premiered at the Globe, home of the Shakespeare plays. But should I really be linking it to another time? Glyn Maxwell claimed in an interview to Globelink that "verse on stage is nothing to do with lyrical uplift, or the past, or mystery. It’s right here right now." But to be honest, what is enjoyable about the play is that it does seem to genuinely immerse itself in another type of theatre, while never shying away from modern dillemas.
Terrorism and US foreign policy seems to have been explored on stage in every way possible in the past few years: namely, through the medium of interpretative dance (as the saying goes)in Hungry Ghosts. It is refreshing to see a piece that doesn't think it's clever just because it finds parallels between the Terror of late 18th century France and the modern world of surveillance and the Patriot Act: it's intelligence is rather in its decision to not force those parallels down the audience's throat. It is perhaps this quality, however, that cost the play its widespread appeal: at the showing I attended, the theatre was curiously far from full.
The promotion of Liberty never hinted at the story's relevance to today. I would have perhaps made the same move: after all, the Bush-baiting in modern culture is verging on tiresome. It sneaks into the most unlikely forms of entertainment with, more often than not, a heavy hand. Take Frank Darabont's The Mist, a low-budget horror that had characters stop and say we're-talking-about-Bush dialogue with slow, meaningful looks at each other. Take The Dark Knight, examining how much of a "monster" Batman has to become to deal with the Joker, referred to as a "terrorist". I, for one, am no longer sold alone by the idea that a play or film will deal with the post 9/11 world, beacause, frankly, so many plays, books and films already do.
Perhaps I am alone in this. The fact that I didn't read about the play's contemporary relevance on the pamphlet and that those themes were dealt with intelligently and subtly perhaps made for a case of fantastic theatre played to a less-than-fantastic turnout. With Oliver Stone's clumsy Bush biopic W. coming out this week and the looming end of the republican era in the USA, there is a possibility that most of us want to keep seeing the political climate of the past 6 or 7 years criticised again and again. Which would mean that plays like Liberty could be criminially underseen, even though it supplies exactly our Bush-blood lust; it's just too French, too flowery, too...well, old-fashioned.
Don't be fooled: however much it seems like it has come from another time, Liberty is using that very period to talk about now in a way that W. fails to do completely. Despite the verse, despite the historical nature of the story, the play is about, as Glyn Maxwell said, "right here right now". And that's also when you should go see it.
Liberty is on at the Warwick Arts Centre until Friday 7th November.
Monday, November 3, 2008
Liberty: France, Land of the Free
BY JULIAN GYLL-MURRAY
I recently found myself rambling about a film (Jean- Jacques Annaud’s Quest for Fire) to someone. The conversation went thus: “it’s about a bunch of cavemen who set out to find fire, and they a meet more sophisticated tribe who teach them progress, and that ends up with them experimenting with different sexual positions and it’s all very…”- and at this point my friend interjected, completing my sentence- “French.”
We all have a set of mental images for our neighbours across the channel, generally involving baguettes, moustaches, berets and outrageous accents. The idea of the sexually liberated French, however, is a stereotype that somehow seems to stick the most. After all, you only have to compare the Lewinski-Clinton outrage to the complete lack of scandal caused by (French president) Sarkozy’s whole string of affairs, divorces and marriages. As if to drive the point home, Parisian actress Julie Delpy also happened to point this out while promoting her film 2 Days in Paris, a film which had a neurotic, prudish American have trouble dealing with the complete ease the French have around him while discussing physical intimacy. One would also only need a quick glance at the country’s literature to see that novelists were able to depict sex far before most of the western world. It is startling to see that The Scarlet Letter, whose main theme is adultery, is forced to shy away from scenes that French novelist Stendhal had no trouble describing decades beforehand in The Red and the Black.
Perhaps you wouldn’t even need to look that far for confirmation of the liberal stance of our favourite croissant-munching continentals, however. After all, new Lifeblood production
Perhaps it is fitting, however, that the story focuses on the break down of idealism and generalizations, as main character Gamelin sees the ideals of the French revolution quickly lose themselves as he becomes a magistrate in 1793. Interestingly, many novels, plays and films coming from across the channel explode the stereotype of the liberal French. What better example than Kieslowski’s film trio the Three Colours Trilogy, which took the ideals that the three colours of the flag represent –liberty, equality and fraternity- and explored their limits within society with small, personal stories? Three Colours: Blue, challenging the idea of personal freedom, saw Juliette Binoche’s character constantly trapped, sexually and psychologically, by the boundaries set down by her past. In the same way, Micheal Haneke’s work in many ways upends the myth of French liberality. Not only did Hidden show a man being chased by some unknown stalker who prevents him from escaping the country’s violent past, The Piano Teacher depicts a woman so emotionally wrecked that her sexual encounters quickly turn into disturbing power games.
It would seem that even the most convincing of the French stereotypes is only true to a certain extent: after all, Baise-Moi was banned for being pornographic in 2000 (something almost unheard of in the land of croissants), while it had both a
Coventry: centre of...melancholy beauty?
Someday I will be gone…
When I fist heard these words, taken from Lewis Garland’s song Someday, I took them to be somehow conveying living in
Lewis Garland and the Kett Rebellion, playing at the Arts Centre on Saturday, play what they call “acoustic folk”, but have called, much to their bemusement, “medieval pop”. Support act The Bellows even go a step further in linking their tunes to the minstrel-led music of ancient times: their songs tell folk-tale narratives of people mostly ending up being hung. What links both acts is an unshakeable sense of melancholy, drawing from the moody blues of
Well it would seem that I could not have been more wrong. When voted BBC Warwickshire Band of the Month in June, Lewis Garland and the Kett Rebellion stated that they love
What we are perhaps witnessing is a sort of inverse example of a location shaping an artist’s music. If a band like Sigur Ros takes inspiration from the empty dramatic landscapes of
The cities closing in around us all
And I can’t see the forest for the mall..
In any case, rendezvous Saturday 8th November for tales of broken hearts. Check out the bands’ myspaces here:
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