LETTER FROM LONDON: THE TURNER PRIZE

In addition to gorging on the performing arts in London last week, we also partook of the visual kind.  Here's how we spent one afternoon, at the Turner Prize exhibition:

Turner Prize 2010

Since 1984, the Turner Prize has been Britain's most prestigious arts competition.  The prize is awarded to an artist under 50, born, living or working in Britain, for an outstanding exhibition in the year through April.  Beginning in October, the finalists, as picked by a jury, have their work exhibited at Tate Britain. (That's the Tate with neither the smokestack nor the 100 million porcelain sunflower seeds.) Then, in December -- drumroll -- a winner will be picked.



It's a big deal in Britain. Like the Whitney Biennial, the reviewers usually have a field day with their criticism. But also like the Biennial, the Turner Prize gets press coverage and is fiercely argued about in art circles.  Even Ladbrokes and William Hill, the British betting shops, post odds on the Turner Prize contestants.


In earlier years, some of the prizewinners have gone on to fame, fortune, and, in some cases, notoriety, including Howard Hodgkin (1985), Gilbert & George (1986), Anish Kapoor  (1991), Rachel Whiteread (1993), Antony Gormley  (1994), and Damien Hirst (1995).


Four artists were short-listed this year and have their work on display now at Tate Britain.  That is, three rooms have art on display; one room is totally empty. There is absolutely nothing to see in this room, because it's exhibiting an aural piece of art.  Yes, you can actually look at this artwork with your eyes closed. Or you can stare at the bare walls and listen to recordings of the "artist," Susan Philipsz, singing folk songs over loudspeakers.  The program describes these songs as "aural interventions."  Well, as Samuel Goldwyn said, include me out. Susan is on my really really short list. Yet, weirdly enough, The Guardian lists Philipsz in second place in the betting. Go figure.

Dexter Dalwood: Burroughs in Tangiers

Dexter Dalwood: Death of David Kelly

Leading the betting is the painter Dexter Dalwood, former member of a punk rock band. Well, maybe not an oil-on-canvas painter, but a painter-collagist.  In any event, and this is radical among Turner Prize finalists, there are images in frames that can be hung on a wall. How radical!  Not only that, but I actually liked some of them.

More evocative of my perception of a leading-edge art contestant is The Otolith Group. Their entries are long, pretentious videos that are explained in the catalog, but both the videos and the explanations left me struggling.  It was here that I started to appreciate aural interventions. Otolith is in last place among the oddsmakers.

Angela de la Cruz: Clutter I

Finally, there is Angela de la Cruz.  What she is doing is worth discussing. Her point of departure, according to the program notes, is that she 


"breaks the stretchers of her canvases...she becomes occupied with liberating painting from the sacred boundaries of its support, allowing it to expand from the flat picture plane into a third dimension."

Angela de la Cruz: Deflated IV

As is so frequent in the arts today, what seems innovative has often been done before.  In literature, in its most blatant form, this is called plagiarism. (Tom Lehrer: Let no one else's work evade your eyes, plagiarize, plagiarize, plagiarize.)


In the visual arts, it's considered less as copying and more as flattering:  building, if you will, on the shoulders on giants. Appropriation, it's called.  And what Angela de la Cruz has done is to build on, to emulate, to pay tribute to, or to appropriate what American artist Sam Gilliam did more than a generation earlier. In the 1960s, Gilliam became the first painter to introduce the idea of an unsupported canvas. From his WikiPedia entry:

Sam Gilliam: Double Fashion

He works on stretched, draped, and wrapped canvas, and adds sculptural 3D elements. He is recognized as the first artist to introduce the idea of a painted canvas hanging without stretcher bars ...Around 1965 Gilliam became the first painter to introduce the idea of the unsupported canvas. He was inspired to do this by observing laundry hanging outside his Washington studio. This was the first of its kind and was of huge influence throughout the art world. His drape paintings were suspended from ceilings, arranged on walls or floors, and they represent a sculptural, third dimension in painting.

Sam Gilliam

The two italicized passages are remarkably similar. In both: removing the canvas from the stretcher and adding a third dimension.


Angela is doing something imaginative, and does it OK.  But Sam imagined it first, and does it brilliantly.


There you have it.  In December we'll know who wins -- the aural artist, the painter-collagist, the videographer, or the emulator.  Here's the betting from Oct. 7 poll in The Guardian:

And you thought the Super Bowl was big.

Letter from London -- A Little Art

In addition to gorging on the performing arts, we also partook of the visual kind.  Some impressions:


TURNER PRIZE   Since 1984, the Turner Prize has been awarded to an artist under 50, born, living or working in Britain, for an outstanding exhibition in the year through April.  Beginning in October, the finalists, as picked by a jury, have their work exhibited at Tate Britain. (That's the Tate with neither the smokestack nor the 100 porcelain million sunflower seeds.) Then, in December -- drumroll -- a winner is picked.


It's a big deal in Britain. Like the Whitney Biennial, the reviewers usually have a field day with their criticism. But also like the Biennial, the Turner Prize gets covered and fiercely argued about in art circles.  Even the .

LETTER FROM LONDON: A LITTLE THEATRE

We've just returned from London. Eight days of theater, art, dining, and enjoying some of the best eight days of London weather in memory–pleasant temperatures, not a drop of rain. Were we really in London? Is this what climate change is all about -- extreme pleasantness? The eight days included six theater performances, a dinner at the British Museum with trustees, dignitaries, and American friends of the Museum, and a 35th wedding anniversary party at Annabel's.  It was my first time back to Annabel's in a couple of decades, and little has changed. Well, one thing had changed. Men no longer need neckties.

Getting to London from New York wasn't half the fun, as the old Cunard ad used to promise, but it wasn't bad.  In fact, I'm about to do something unusual -- praise an airline other than one that flies to an emirate or to Singapore. We took a relatively new service of British Airways that has made flying to Europe about as painless as it gets nowadays. It was on a 32-passenger, all business-class, fully-flat-seat Airbus 318 that lands at London City Airport. Much closer to center of town, London City Airport is the un-Heathrow. No crowds, no waits, no unpleasantness – it's almost like flying into a private airport.

But the most unusual aspect of the round-trip was the return flight, which left from London City Airport. An hour after departure, the aircraft stops in Shannon, Ireland, for a 45-minute refueling (the departing runway is too short to allow the aircraft to take off with a full fuel load). Now that sounds like a downer, doesn't it --  landing just after you take off? However, there's a silver lining. During the interval on the ground, passengers go through US customs, thus permitting landing at JFK at the domestic terminal.  No unpleasant the JFK customs experience, and no long waits for baggage (with only 32 passengers).

Passion -- Donmar Warehouse -- 2010

PASSION  Though we went to the theater six times, we saw just five different shows. The theatrical highlight of the trip, and the show we had to see again, was Passion. First produced on Broadway in 1994, this musical by Stephen Sondheim (music and lyrics) and James LaPine (book and direction) won Tony awards that year for best musical, score, book, and actress (Donna Murphy). It was based on an 1869 book, "Fosca," by the Italian writer Uginio Ugo Tarchetti, and a 1981 movie,"Passione d'Amore," by Ettore Scola.


Taking place in mid-19th-century Italy, Passion traces Giorgio as he gradually and improbably shifts his love from Clara, his gorgeous, voluptuous, married mistress, to the sepulchral, sick and obsessive Fosca.  Unlikely?  Absolutely.  But through the magic of the music, lyrics and book, the improbable becomes possible.  Giorgio realizes that the only true love is one that is unconditional. Thus he breaks off his romance with the beautiful Clara, who has put conditions on continuing their relationship. Georgio asks Clara

You think that this is love?

Love isn't so convenient.

Love isn't something scheduled in advance,

Not something guaranteed you need

For fear it may pass you by.

You have to take a chance,

You can't just try it out.

What's love unless it's unconditional?

And Fosca asks Georgio

Would Clara give her life for you?

...I would live,

And I would die for you.

And Giorgio, in realization of Fosca's love, tells her


No one has ever loved me
As deeply as you.
No one has truly shown me
What love could be like until now.


We and the rest of the audience watch for an uninterrupted hour forty-five minutes in rapt concentration. No one stirs.


In addition to the terrific cast (Elena Roger, David Thaxton and  Scarlett Strallen) and direction (Jamie Lloyd), the emotional impact of the evening is heightened by the fact that this small musical is being performed in the 250-seat Donmar Warehouse, in effect a chamber show in a chamber theater. A perfect match. Sitting a few feet away from the actors, who perform with no microphones and no amplification, the viewer gets a completely different experience from that in the typical large theater, sitting a distance from the stage, and listening to voices emanate from loudspeakers.


Seeing it once just wasn't enough. We changed our plans. Five days later we returned, enjoying it even more the second time.

DEATHTRAP  This comedy thriller was written by Ira Levin, a New Yorker whose previous works included the films Rosemary's Baby and The Stepford Wives. On Broadway, Deathtrap ran for 1,793 performances and starred Michael Caine in the leading role. It was also a successful movie.  Our main reason for seeing this otherwise modest show was to marvel in the performance of one of the consummate stage actors of our time, Simon Russell Beale. He is a force of nature.

HOUSE OF GAMES  Originally a movie by David Mamet, one of our favorite playwrights, screenwriters and directors, this stage version at the Almeida Theatre was only moderately entertaining. But I happen to like plays and movies that involve cons and stings, so I probably enjoyed this more than the work itself or the acting would merit.

LOWER NINTH  A short, three-person drama that is set in post-Katrina New Orleans. Played in a tiny theater off-off-West End, the entire action takes place on the roof of a flooded house in the lower ninth ward just days after the storm. It had a short run in New York off-off-Broadway a couple of years ago. Fine acting, emotional, worth seeing.  

YES, PRIME MINISTER  Based on the very funny 1980s television series, this spoof on British governance was amusing. Yet an hour later, it was out of mind.  A pleasant trifle. Perhaps it works better as a half-hour British television series than as a two-hour-plus West End production.

What we didn't catch and wish we had:  We saw Hamlet on Broadway last year with Jude Law, and recently re-watched both the Laurence Olivier and Kenneth Branagh films.  As a result, we're Hamlet-satiated.  So we passed on seeing this new National Theatre modern-dress production of the melancholy Dane. But what we heard from a friend in the theater who saw it last week: "The first act was the finest theater I've seen in 50 years.” Next trip, perhaps.

LETTER FROM LONDON

We’ve just returned from our semiannual theater trip to London. It’s not as if there weren't enough performing arts opportunities here in Manhattan, especially considering that we live only a few blocks from Broadway and Lincoln Center. Nonetheless, there’s something weirdly compelling about flying across the ocean, holing up in a hotel for eight days, and cramming in nine performances.

The good news about our recent trip is that five of the nine shows were must-sees and only two were outright disappointments. Here’s the play-by-play summary:

MUST-SEE SHOWS

All My Sons: I had long considered Arthur  (“Death of a Salesman”) Miller to be a one-hit playwright.  I was wrong. Until this year I had never seen first-class productions of either “A View from the Bridge “ (produced earlier this year on Broadway) or “All My Sons” (now playing on the West End). The latter production, originally mounted in New York in 1947 by Elia Kazan, opened recently in London, with masterful performances by David Suchet and Zoë Wanamaker in the lead roles.  

The London critics could not contain their adulation, and in this case, they were right: “time to bring out the superlatives…tremendous acting” (the Guardian), “potent” (Evening Standard), “extraordinary… stunning… will never forget” (Telegraph), “gripping” (The Stage), “splendid” (Independent), “excellent” (Times).  As the Michelin Guide might say, “All My Sons” is worth a special detour.  Love, loyalty, guilt, greed – it’s got it all.

The Late Middle Classes: Simon Gray, British playwright (“Otherwise Engaged,” “Butley”), died two years ago without having seen his 1999 play reach the West End.  Set in England just after the end of World War II, the play deals with (a lot of) relationships -- husband-and-wife, parents and son, son and music teacher, music teacher and his mother, adulteries, and with ambiguities informing all these relationships.

First-rate acting by all (especially Helen McCrory and Eleanor Bron). Another example of the seemingly never-ending stream of great productions coming out of the tiny (250-seat) not-for-profit Donmar Warehouse.

London Assurance: Farce as only the English can do it, especially when directed by the artistic director of the National Theatre, Nicholas Hytner. It was written by a prolific  (over 200 works) 19^th century Irish-born British playwright, Dion Boucicault, when he was just 20 years old.  This rollicking production, first performed in 1841, is currently the hottest ticket in London.

A large part of the play’s success is due to Simon Russell Beale, one of the finest actors on the stage today.  His performance in “London Assurance” is among the great comic turns ever. And Fiona Shaw, another bastion of the British Stage, stays right with him.  One doesn’t stop smiling or laughing throughout.  A treat.

After the Dance: Another National Theatre revival, this play takes place in England in the years just before World War II as the European political situation is deteriorating rapidly. Despite the imminence of war, within a stratum of society the dancing and drinking goes on unabated. 

Terence Rattigan wrote the play. It holds its own with some of his better-known successes, including “The Browning Version,”  “Separate Tables,” and “The Winslow Boy.”

Sweet Charity: In 1966, this musical comedy opened in New York starring Gwen Verdon, and with her husband, Bob Fosse, directing. It was a big hit then, but two subsequent Broadway revivals failed to make it. The current revival in London’s West End, which was incubated at The Menier Chocolate Factory, includes the key ingredient that prior revivals lacked -- a first-class singer/dancer/actress playing the title role of Charity Hope Valentine.

British actress Tamzin Outhwaite gives the kind of performance that has star written all over it. The songs by Cy Coleman (music) and Dorothy Fields (lyrics) include two blockbuster numbers: “Big Spender” and “If My Friends Could See Me Now.” Great dancing, terrific supporting cast and well directed – enough to overcome a rather weak Neil Simon book. And it’s one of the few musical comedies you’ll ever see that ends on a downer -- the gal actually doesn’t get the guy.

ONLY IF YOU HAVE THE TIME

Women Beware Women: Two of the major dramatists of the 17^th century were Thomas Middleton and what’s-his-name from Stratford-on-Avon. “Women Beware Women” exemplifies why Middleton is less remembered than Shakespeare and why he is revived far less often. The plot is typical 17^th-century -- seductions, infidelities, duels, and endless machinations. The entire cast performs at a very high level, typical of National Theatre productions, but one stands out -- the great British actress, Harriet Walter.

Some peeves:  A 1621 production performed in modern dress -- why?  A 1621 production accompanied by contemporary music -- why?  And a 1621 production with an over-the-top and endless Fellini-esque ending -- why?  Not a great evening, not a terrible evening–it’s just that there are more rewarding ways in the theatre to spend three hours.

Billy Budd: An opera by the quintessential British composer, Benjamin Britten, and based on the Herman Melville story of a doomed seafarer. The production at the Glyndebourne Festival was first class -- performances, sets, and direction (by the Donmar Warehouse artistic director, Michael Grandage, in his maiden opera engagement).  But it wasn’t a great experience for us. Here’s why.

We’re spoiled by our proximity to the Metropolitan Opera House in New York -- 225 high-quality performances each season of 25 operas and located just three blocks from our apartment. To attend the Glyndebourne Festival Opera -- everyone tells us you must go to Glyndebourne -- is not easy.  It means leaving your London hotel in the early afternoon for a two-hour car or train ride to make a late-afternoon curtain. It means dressing up in black tie.  (You will be elegant!)

One of the purported rewards of this extended excursion is that on arriving at Glyndebourne, you can enjoy tea (or something stronger) on the elegant lawns and have a dinner picnic between acts.  Except, when it’s chilly and rainy, as it was on our visit, you bundle up and seek shelter.  And you eat a multiple-course dinner during the interval that's served in 60 minutes flat. Not so elegant after all.  And you get back to the hotel at midnight, ten hours after you set forth.  Long day, modest reward.

Should we ever get the hankering to go back to  Glyndebourne, I’ll immediately get out the Victrola and play Stephen Sondheim’s cabaret song, “I Never Do Anything Twice.”

Incidentally, if you ever get the urge for a Benjamin Britten tragic opera about the sea, pass on Billy Budd and instead go see Peter Grimes – better opera, better score.  And should you ever think about going to Glyndebourne, insist on a fair-weather guaranty.

WATCH A CRICKET MATCH INSTEAD

Macbeth:   We used to love to go to Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre in London when Mark Rylance was artistic director and often the lead performer. Since Rylance left the Globe a few years ago, it hasn’t been the same. The physical charm is still there in the theater’s resemblance to the original Globe, but judging by the production of Macbeth that we saw recently, I would much prefer seeing Shakespeare performed elsewhere.

One problem: The director of this production, Lucy Bailey, is not content to let Shakespeare’s words speak for themselves. Example:  While these murderous lines are being spoken:

Lady Macbeth   “I have given suck, and know

How tender ‘tis to love the babe that milks me,

I would, while it was smiling in my face,

Have plucked my nipple from his boneless gums,

And dash’d the brains out, had I so sworn as you

Have done to this.”

Macbeth    “If we should fail…”

Lady Macbeth   “We fail!

But screw your courage to the sticking-place,

And we’ll not fail.”

As these dramatic lines are being spoken, their impact is being completely emasculated by a dozen other members of the cast who are singing, humming, playing musical instruments, and otherwise dissipating entirely the power of the words. 

Note to Lucy, the director: it’s not about you.  It’s about Shakespeare.

 

Enron: We had tickets to see “Enron” in New York, but after receiving a lukewarm review from The New York Times, the show closed before we had a chance to see it. Luckily (we thought), we’ll see it in London where it originated and was still playing.  The London production had received absolutely rave reviews from all the critics (“dazzling production… thumping good plot… highly theatrical… enormously enjoyable”). Guess what?  The New York Times was right and the London critics were dead wrong. It was a stinker. 

“Enron” the play is not dissimilar to Enron the company – a façade.

Coming soon -- “BP, The Musical”?

POTPOURRI

RED 
Looking for a must-see play in New York?  "RED" is the one. Starring Alfred Molina as Mark Rothko, written by John Logan and directed by Michael Grandage, it's one of the two theatrical works we've seen that brilliantly explores creativity in the visual arts, the evolving of art, and the angst of the artist. (The other is "Sunday in the Park" by Sondheim and Lapine, a musical about Georges Seurat.)  "RED" focuses on a specific issue that Rothko agonized over -- whether to fulfill a multiple-painting commission by the Four Seasons restaurant in New York.  This dilemma for Rothko serves as a platform to explore broader issues that he and all artists have always faced. "RED" is a play that combines first-class acting, writing and direction -- you can't ask for more than that.

RORY STEWART RUNS FOR OFFICE
This remarkable 37-year-old person, who has walked across Afghanistan, spent time in the foreign service, governed an Iraqi province, run an NGO in Kabul, served in the British Army's Black Watch regiment, written two books, produced a BBC documentary on Lawrence of Arabia, and held a professorship at Harvard, is now actively campaigning for the MP seat in Penrith and the Border (northwestern England).  It amuses me to see photos of this erstwhile international star now in the hustings talking (and listening) to farmers and pensioners about their parochial issues.

The election has been called for May 6.  Penrith is a safe Tory seat, so whatever happens to the Conservatives nationally -- whether the party can snatch defeat from onetime certain victory -- it's a pretty sure bet that this wunderkind will enter Parliament next month and become a force in British politics.

I'VE BEEN THROWN OUT OF BETTER PLACES
Imagine my surprise.  Last week, Donna and I were dinner guests at the Opera Club in the Metropolitan Opera House, with Tosca to follow.  We were all dressed up in formal attire (as is required by the club). Upon arriving at the club on the dress-circle level, we  were greeted by the maître d' with this gracious declaration to me:  "You cannot dine here unless you take off your waistcoat. You must take it off." Why, I asked?  "Because it has color."  "You're joking, I said."  He wasn't. 


Now, I'm pretty proud of my waistcoat collection.  Vests are one of the few opportunities for a man to dress formally and yet add a subtle individual touch.  But not at the Opera Club.  Black and white only!  Absolutely no color allowed.


Yes, my waistcoat did indeed have color -- see photo.  I violated the high aesthetic standard of the Opera Club.


So we reached a stand-off.  I wouldn't remove my waistcoat, and this officious maître d' wouldn't let me in.  (His tux, by the way, was properly 100% black and white.)  


Resolution?  We ditched the Opera Club all went instead to the Grand Tier restaurant, where, even though completely booked, the refreshingly gracious maître d' found a table for our party, and, as they say, a delightful meal was had by all.


And as to Tosca?  This new production, which opened in the fall, was excoriated by the critics.  In the performance we saw last week, there was a new cast, but pretty much the same maligned staging as earlier in the season.  Guess what?  It was fine.  Even more than fine. The cast was top-notch:  the versatile Patricia Racette as Tosca, the rising star tenor Jonas Kaufmann as Cavaradossi, and bass-baritone Bryn Terfel as Scarpia -- a meaner, more villainous Scarpia you'll never see.  These singers, along with some pretty good music to work with by Puccini, made us not only love the performance but forget about some earlier unpleasantness. 






ON WINE REVIEWING
Robert Parker makes a good living from the wine industry, with the Wine Advocate newsletter, his 100-point rating system, books, columns, lectures, consulting, et al.  What he doesn't make is good sense.  At least to me.  


He used to have a column in BusinessWeek, but it hasn't appeared for a while. (Wonder why?) I went back to some of his old BW columns to remind me of how obtuse his wine reviews actually were.  Admittedly, it's not easy for anyone to describe the taste of wine in words, and to differentiate among the thousands of different varieties and vintages.  And no one will pay you for writing that "this wine tastes good, that one is really good, that other one not so good..."  You need a gimmick.


Parker has a gimmick -- a vocabulary that is mind-boggling in its pretentious obscurity.  What in the world is he talking about?  To illustrate, I've plucked some descriptive words (from hundreds) that appear in his columns, words that purportedly are there to help the reader discern the taste of wines:

Crushed rock

Damp forest

Forest floor

Guava

Leather

Lemon oil

Marmalade

Menthol

Mineral

Nectarine

Pencil lead (I kid you not)

Pie-crust

Smoke

Steak tartare

Underbrush

Wax

Wheat thins

"Hey, Mr. Sommelier.  I'd like to order a bottle of wine with, say, a hint of pencil lead, a trace of forest floor, and a suggestion of steak tartare?  But please, no crushed rock today -- I just came from the dentist."

MY FAVORITE FINANCIAL CRISIS PICTURE

Former Treasury Secretary, former Citigroup Chairman of the Executive Committee, former Goldman Sachs Co-Chairman, former Master of the Universe, photographed recently testifying before Congress, responding to the question: "Mr. Rubin, how do  you explain the reasons for the financial crisis?"

ON TALENT

Some are blessed at birth with talent:  

Mozart - music

Picasso - art

Shakespeare - writing

And then there are those of us who are born with ridiculous talents.  For instance, the ability to balance just about anything on one's nose or chin.  This, by the way, is a talent that has absolutely no known utility.