token update of stuff I did/saw in September
Theatre- saw one of those alarming 'modern dress' adaptations of a classic at the National Theatre- Thomas Middleton's rather fantastic Revenger's Tragedy. I loved that whole era when I studied it but haven't really gone back at all in the six years since. I found it a joy to revisit. The duke's son might dress like Cristiano Ronaldo in a nightclub and his two stepsons -swaggering around in blazers swigging Veuve Cliquot from the bottle- be more Wills & Harry than Medici, but while you're adjusting to it, or just closing your eyes, it's wonderful to drink in that poetry, that imagery. Morbid, hilarious, thought-provoking and very entertaining.
Films- I investigated the recent remake of Sleuth with Michael Caine and Jude Law. I don't know the original and this one is directed by Kenneth Branagh; but scripted by Pinter, which reeled me in. It's a face-off between a cuckold and cuckolder in the rich cuckold's house, as they meet to resolve the matter "like gentlemen", and there's plenty for Pinter to get his teeth into. Masculinity, struggles for dominance, rampant aggression that's (not really) papered over by decorum, youth against age, a prick against a wallet. The script is just as effervescent as you'd hope from all that. They play it cool when really they're at each other's throats. I thought of The Collection more than once. Plenty of good jokes; "Never trust in legal justice. Do you know what legal justice is? It's farting Annie Laurie through a keyhole."
We're not in Pinter's room, though. The artifice of the set is suffocating, and not in Losey's baroque way. It's laughably hi-tech, with walls that disappear at the touch of a remote and all kinds of gadgets, Anthony Gormley sculptures, coloured floodlights, &c. The first half hour, you're able to sit back and appreciate the script and chuckle at the silliness of everything else (Jude Law's acting included. Caine is very good). Then Jude Law is shot, zoom forward three days, and Jude Law turns up with dyed black hair, a moustache and a thick West Country accent, claiming to be a detective looking for Jude Law and managing to fool Caine. It falls flat at this point and never recovers, despite a nod to The Servant when it gets vaguely homosexual and it all hinges on whether Caine will go fetch Law a brandy.
After a clichéd film that depends on violin, cello and piano to create some semblance of atmosphere, it was very refreshing to see a good British film. No crap songs, no crap jokes, no cameos by people from Spaced or Peep Show. Unrelated, by first-time director Joanna Wood, caught my eye for its good reviews and for being set in Tuscany, where we've just been on holiday. Astonishingly the only places it's on are in Clapham and Hampstead. Worth the trek nevertheless as it's a very well made film.
Slow and minimal, a bit Chantal Akerman. Events and actions are few and far between; what she does is put people, and places, under the microscope. You get a collection of snapshots of their day; a minute or two when they're sitting around their villa and nothing's happening, but quite a lot's happening under the surface. What matters is the body language, the glances, the expressions. The haiku-like scenes are spaced out by Herzogish shots of dandelions in the breeze. There's no great orchestra hammering home that this is a dramatic bit- all the tension you need comes from the hum of the crickets. Composition is excellent, in 95% of scenes the camera doesn't move an inch, and she manages to make the rolling Tuscan hills look as arid and inhospitable as the Sahara.
Also, a trip to the NFT where Michael Winner was talking at a screening of I'll Never Forget Whatsisname, a very good 60s pop satire. Oliver Reed is a top advertising man who wants to quit and do "an honest job". The resignation is refused by his boss Orson Welles, who tells him "Silly boy! There aren't any". Winner has a fantastic repertoire of visual gags. The opening scenes have Oliver Reed purposefully striding through the streets of Mayfair, in a nice suit, with a gigantic axe over his shoulder. Orson Welles' mogul is addicted to Scalectrix, and standing on the roof garden of his office hitting golf balls into the streets. One ball hits a topless girl sunbathing on her roof. "Oh no", he groans, "landed in the rough again!" There's a sex scene where a tin of white paint gets knocked over, and a love scene which abruptly jump-cuts to binmen emptying rubbish into their lorry. Halfway between Bunuel and Carry On, is Michael Winner.
Reed wants to go back to his old job, assistant editor on the literary journal of his university pal (cue lots of nice shots of Kings College, Cambridge) so Welles buys his pal out, takes over the magazine and shuts it down. Reed decides that he'll try to burn his bridges by making one last film that gets him sacked. The film is meant to be a camera advert and ends up a howl of despair, footage of Auschwitz and Hiroshima mixed with shots of his sobbing ex-wives and mistresses slamming the door in his face and asking to be left alone. It gets premiered at a festival, and of course everyone thinks it's genius and it wins the big award. As they give it a standing ovation, Welles creeps us behind him and whispers "They like it. They think you're a clever boy." Hats off!
Been up to the Lane a couple of times this nightmare season (and there's still a Bolton Wanderers ticket on the kitchen noticeboard, chiding me each time I look up), though I shouldn't have bothered. Played off the park by Villa and unable to penetrate the chastity of Wigan's back four. How could it go so, so wrong? Last year we had Berbatov, Keane, Defoe and Bent- a forward line to match the best in Europe. The current roster is like a Beatles reunion made up of Ringo Starr, someone from Herman's Hermits and someone from S-Club. I'm off to Belfast for a long weekend on Thursday and my dad has bought us Linfield - Glentoran tickets, which I'm hoping will provide a little light relief in these bleak times.