Archive for the ‘General’ Category

Nicholas Hytner’s Julius Caesar at The Bridge

Tuesday, March 6th, 2018

I have a confession to make. Even though, after Hamlet, it’s probably my favourite Shakespeare play, I’d never seen Julius Caesar on the stage before last weekend. I studied it for A level. Large parts of it have stuck with me, not least because A levels coincided with my political awakening (I briefly joined the Young Liberals, who, in my neck of the woods, were a small cabal of anarchists. I also got involved in the referendum to join the EU). So why did I miss it? Well, I went to a working class comprehensive that never organised theatre trips (though we did have one daytrip to London, where I bought my first Nick Drake LP, and they put on a Gilbert and Sullivan every year). But that’s little excuse. My partner’s seen it five times, the same number of times I’ve seen Hamlet. I suppose it’s because it hasn’t been done in Nottingham in the forty years I’ve lived here and I’ve never seen a production that I fancied enough to travel. Until now.

The available seats at the matinee of Nick Hytners first production at the flashy new Bridge Theatre (by London Bridge) were in the £95 range, more than I’ve ever paid for theatre tickets (I’ve only exceeded it twice for gig tickets). Otherwise I might not have considered the promenade tickets. Then I saw that they were only £25 each and realised that the play had been cut for two hours and played without an interval, so you’d only be standing for the length of an average gig. I later discovered that a few of my other theatre-addict friends had made the same calculation. Wisely.

The play’s staged in the round with plenty of room to walk around. We got there twenty minutes early, as requested, and, as we wandered in and got out bearings, a band began to play punky anthems to warm up the mob. I stood back a bit, having been warned that there could be a fair bit of pushing and shoving from stage hands clearing the way for actors. This turned out to be nonsense. The only time I got jostled was a couple of minutes later, when someone pushed past me to get to the stage. I looked to see who it was and it was some bloke in a tracksuit top that read Mark Antony on the back. A moment later, David Morrissey jumped on stage and joined in with the band, establishing himself as a rabble rouser. After he left, the play proper began.

I don’t intend to write a review full of production spoilers (here‘s The Stage’s round-up of reviews, with links to the full versions), rather to interest you in going to see the play, the most visceral, exciting production I’ve seen in 50 years of Shakespeares (since a Primary School friend took me to see Macbeth in Birkenhead for his birthday treat and I learned you weren’t allowed to eat boiled sweets with crinkly wrappers in proper theatres – it was a long while before I went again). From the arrival of David Calder, in red baseball cap, to the explosive battle scenes in the final act, the play was gripping and utterly contemporary. The outstanding Calder didn’t portray Caesar as Trump (As a recent New York production mistakenly did – Caesar is far too intelligent to be Trump) but a charismatic demagogue. While Brutus’s naive, idealistic, intellectual approach to politics has elements of Corbyn, this isn’t stuff you think about while you’re watching him make the fatal mistake of not having Mark Antony killed alongside Caesar. In the weekend of the Italian elections, it’s a play that speaks to every country’s politics yet remains utterly of itself. The gender neutral casting – with Michelle Fairley a taut Cassius and Adjoa Andoh a striking Casca – works fine.

If you can, up close is the way to see it. You have to move out about a bit because the set erupts at different points in front of you and you may need to change positions to see the actors (better than being in a seat, where you don’t have the option), but so what? At one point, I leant against the stage only for Ben Whishaw to sit on the sofa two feet from me. He delivered a monologue so powerfully that I was barely conscious that most of the theatre could see my every reaction. Then I had to step back quickly. He’d moved a guitar to let a co-conspirator join him on the sofa and was putting it down where my hands were resting. Later, David Morrissey came over with a cheeky grin, pushing me and others aside to make way for his army to come through, then gestured us forward to him as he mounted his final attack on Brutus’s forces. The war scenes, less than vital on the page, here worked brilliantly. Two hours shot by.

There’s a National Theatre cinecast of the production later this month (not, sadly, on the Ides of March, but a week later, on the 22nd) which is decidely worth going to if you can’t get to London before April 15th. There are 250 promenade tickets for every performance. After hearing us talking about it, my nephew and his girlfriend (who’ve never seen any Shakespeare on stage) decided to go, and we discovered that if you’re under 26 you can join The Bridge for free and promenade for a mere £15 each. Tickets still available. Friends, students, countrymen, go!

Serendipitous Reading

Saturday, December 30th, 2017

Serendipity is, I think, one of the keys to a happy reading life. If you only read in a strict order: books by friends, books that you feel you have* to read, books by authors you always read**, there’s no room for happy accidents, or borrowed books that someone shoves in your hand, or, indeed, rereading.

We had a long trip planned, with multiple flights and train journeys. With that in mind, I had both Tim Shipman’s big Brexit Book*, Country Overboard (or whatever it’s called – too depressing, anyway) and Paul Auster’s** off-puttingly long and trite-sounding 4-3-2-1 on Kindle. Neither got started. On the other hand, the day before we left for Japan, I found two disposable looking third hand books in the charity bin at Wilko. Each looked ideal for reading on the plane and leaving behind. Both were by authors I used to enjoy but haven’t read in well over a decade: Reginald Hill and Ross Macdonald.

Hill’s An April Shroud is an early, and rather silly Dalziel and Pascoe novel, with a slow start that builds into an intricately plotted panto type plot: ideal for plane then hotel reading as I slowly shook off jetlag in Higashi-Hiroshima (home of the world’s best sake, and the university that, so kindly, invited us to work for a week). Before the jetlag set in I also read George Saunders’ Booker winning Lincoln in the Bardo* over two sittings. I’ve read a lot of Saunders, with occasional enjoyment, some admiration but no great love or desire to emulate his bloodlessly show-offy work. I felt the same about this undoubtedly clever story. I’m interested in ghosts. I’d been invited to Hiroshima to talk about my ghost stories, so the genre was on my mind. I don’t think Saunders added a great deal to it. It was occasionally moving, but, overall, the set up felt more Hellazapoppin in the Bardo than MR James. That this OK story won the Booker prize while Colson Whitehead’s The Underground Railroad* didn’t make the shortlist tells you a lot about English literary culture, which admires cleverness more than storytelling. And while we were away the Arts Council announced that sales of literary fiction are in crisis.

We’d taken The Underground Railroad because we both wanted to read it, and weren’t disappointed. Gripping, sharply written, occasionally confusing (we couldn’t entirely agree on whether he tried to cram in too much, nor whether some timelines were deliberately confusing or cleverly patterned). I knew nothing about the underground railroad until a visit to Boston early this century, but this books tells you a great deal about its place in the history of slavery. Occasionally it’s fantastical, at other times gruelling, but the novel’s never boring, and we become deeply engaged with the characters. Superbly structured, it’s mythic, in an uplifting way that – as Saunders proves – is very hard to achieve. Anyway, I don’t want to use Whitehead’s novel (it won the Pulitzer Prize, the one that William Gass said ‘takes dead aim at mediocrity and never misses’) to berate the Booker winner, which I did like, more to draw the novel to your attention, as it’s a cracking, important read.

As was my other Wilco find, Ross Macdonald’s terribly titled The Instant Enemy. I read a load of Macdonald – Chandler’s most direct successor – thirty-odd years ago when John Harvey introduced me to him. Fantastic hard boiled style and intricate plots, often rooted in family secrets, that wind up making much more sense that Chandler’s. That said, I can only have read half the Lew Archer novels, recently collected by the Library of America, and I need to rectify that. This one, from 1968, is notable for its (convincing) use of the then new psychedelic drug, LSD. If you can find a copy, read it.

My other plane read was meant to be the most recent Sue Grafton, but – my Kindle having died, I’ve adopted Sue’s,which she doesn’t use – I happened upon a novel that she’d read a year or two ago, William Boyd’s Sweet Caress, the fictional autobiography of a female photographer who happens to have been around at some of the most interesting points of recent history eg The Vietnam War. It’s not one of the most serious of Boyd’s novels. In some ways it reminded me of J David Simon’s fine 2017 jeu d’esprit A Woman of Integrity** (which I wrote about here). You can tell that the author had fun writing it. Perfect plane read, taking up the first six hours of a nine and a half hour flight from Tokyo to Helsinki.

Last night, I learned that Sue Grafton has died of cancer, aged 77. I didn’t know her, only saw her speak once, alongside John Harvey, who lent me A for Alibi in the mid-80s (John introduced me to a lot of crime writers). I’ve worked my way through the whole alphabet with her. A fine crime writer who never allowed TV or movies to sully the reader’s impression of her convincing, early feminist, intelligent, always entertaining private eye, Kinsey Millhone. Deservedly one of the first winners of the Ross Macdonald literary award, for stories set in California. Her fictional Santa Teresa isn’t a million miles from Macdonald’s fictionalised version of Santa Barbara. I’ll be saving the new Y is for Yesterday to savour at a later date, for her final book, always intended to be called Z is for Zero will now never be written, except in her readers’ heads. RIP.

I got a nice pile of books, pictured above, for Christmas, and these will doubtless form some of my reading for the next few months. Though, let’s be honest, Sue just made me move an eighteen inch pile that included several of last Christmas’s books up to my office. The book I’m about to finish is one that James from across the road lent me on our return from Japan: Jiro Taniguchi’s classic graphic novel A Distant Neighbourhood (pictured above, with Geoff Nicholson, Budd Shulberg et al – the really big book is Chris Ware’s Monograph). Pretty sure I’ve read it before, last century, but it stands up brilliantly and means more when you’ve just traveled extensively in Japan (after working in Hiroshima, we also visited Kobe, Kyoto, Kanazawa and the less alliterative Narita, observing vast amounts of the country from Shinkansen bullet trains). A 48 year old man suddenly find himself back in his fourteen-year-old self, just before his father disappeared. It’s a gripping, beautifully illustrated tale about coming to terms with memories and, fittingly, I can’t remember how it ends. But I’m about to go downstairs and find out.

All the very best for the new year to each of you readers.

Exploring Nottinghamshire Writers

Friday, December 8th, 2017

 

Hearty congratulations to Rowena Edlin-White, whose five years working on this splendid anthology (originally intended to come out before our UNESCO bid went in) was time well spent. Over 200 writers are discussed in this book, from David Herbert Lawrence to David Lawrence Belbin (no relation), with the living writers doing their own entry (some from beyond the grave, like Derrick Buttress, who sadly died this year). It’s a bargain, at £12.99 (or £25 for the signed, limited edition hardback pictured) and also includes several essays, on comics, the Forest Folk, Dickens in Nottingham (by Derrick) and Graham Greene in Nottingham (one of mine). I wish I had time to say more, and maybe I will, once I’ve read it all. Meantime, read this on our City of Lit site. So far, I’ve only got through the living writers, all but one of whom I know, to some extent. It’s also a delight that Sue and I are one of two living literary couples in the book, the others being our friends Stephen Lowe and Tanya Myers. I was in Five Leaves Bookshop (the publishers) yesterday, and Ross told me that they plan to publish an online appendix to include the writers who have emerged (and continue to emerge) since the book’s contents were finalised. I hope to see Mansfield playwrights James Graham and Beth Steel, both of whom have great work (I know, I’ve already seen both plays) in Nottingham next year, amongst many others, like Mukaro Makubika, whose Fagon award winning Shebeen opens next year, Anyway, that’s my book recommendation for Christmas this year. Music recommendations above.

Not Meeting Bob Dylan

Saturday, May 6th, 2017

‘Mr Dylan is not able to take up your invitation’, said the email from Bob’s manager on Thursday evening. I confess to feeling less disappointment than relief. Yesterday was Bob Dylan’s first visit to a UNESCO City of Literature since he became a Nobel laureate. NUCOL’s director, Sandeep Mahal, knew what a huge Dylan fan I was, and what a coup it would be to have his Bobness visit our headquarters, so, a month ago, she wrote to  his manager to offer Bob a private tour of Bromley House Library. His manager said it was unlikely, but possible, so she’d written to remind him of the invitation that morning.

I collect signed first editions of books by my favourite authors. Not signed albums, which have never interested me. But it would be great to have something from my large Dylan collection signed by Bob (only, which of his two books – Tarantula or Chronicles to take? The latter is better, the former rarer.).

More pressingly, what do you say when you meet your heroes? It’s OK to have a conversation with them, I’ve found, in the context of a promotional interview, as I have with Kevin Coyne, Richard Thompson, Aimee Mann and a few others over the years. Or socially, if – say – introduced by a mutual friend. But I’ve never been tempted by meet and greet type events for fans. I haven’t chased an autograph since meeting Leonard Cohen when I was seventeen. The safest thing would be to talk about the historic building, answer his questions about Bromley House, ask him to sign a book or two, and wish him well for that night’s gig. But that would feel like a wasted opportunity. Was it safe to ask Bob what he thought of Eddie Marsan playing him in that silly play on Sky last year? Or wonder aloud whether he’s considered reviving It’s Alright Ma, I’m Only Bleeding in the age of Donald Trump? I’m pretty good at making conversation with people I’ve not met before but Dylan is Dylan, and there’s nobody who would daunt me more. There was a pretty good chance of my saying something that would embarrass me for the rest of my life. Happily, as I warned Sandy from the outset, there was virtually no chance that Mr Dylan would take up the invitation, and so it transpired.

Which leaves me at the gig where, due to luck as much as superb planning, I found myself in the middle of the third row, the best seats I’ve ever had at a Dylan show. This is my 40th year of going to see Dylan. The first time, in ’78, I queued overnight outside Leicester De Montfort Hall to get tickets for the first night at Earls Court. The last time, in 2015, was only the second time in a concert hall, Manchester Apollo. It was bittersweet, as it was only a few days after the death of my oldest and closest friend, Mike Russell, who I had seen so many Dylan gigs with over the years. This time, I was with my friend Terry, veteran of more than fifty Dylan gigs since the Isle of Wight Festival, and playwright Michael Eaton, who had only seen Dylan once in recent years, from a great distance, at his first Nottingham appearance, a notoriously dull concert, lifted only by a rare rendition of ‘Blind Willie McTell’.

This was my fourth time seeing Bob really close up, which is always a thrill. The sound was tremendous, the band in great form and the setlist a terrific blend of new songs, old songs, and standards. We got a jaunty ‘To Ramona’, which I’ve never heard him play live before. Yet again, he changed the words of ‘Tangled Up In Blue’, my favourite song of the night (doubless someone will transcribe his improvised ruminations along the days of ‘today might as well be the future’). Terry and Michael loved it. He played for an hour and fifty minutes, concluding with a fantastic ‘Ballad of a Thin Man’. The standards were nicely peppered through the set (Sean at the Post has the setlist with his review). My favourite was the first, an entirely appropriate ‘Why Try and Change Me Now?’

The setlist has stayed the same for a while, by the way, but there was one unusual thing about the show, which I’ve never seen at a Dylan gig before. Bob kept smiling. He was really enjoying himself. And so were we.

I obeyed the instruction not to take photos during the set but did snatch a slightly blurred one at the end, just before the stagehand removed two props that were illuminated throughout the performance, even when the stage was black. One was the Oscar that Bob won for the song ‘Things Have Changed’, with which he’d opened the show. The other was the small statuette that came with his Nobel Prize for Literature. A few seconds after I took the shot above, it was put into a bright green plastic bag, which was then put into a large hatbox and taken off stage, ready for the next show, and the next. My twelfth Dylan show, and, if it turns out to be the last, a brilliant one to finish on.

Mind you, I’ll be pissed off if, when I go to Bromley House next week, the librarian says to me: ‘guess who showed up at our door on Saturday morning?’

Roy Fisher 1930-2017: a tribute & film of his last reading

Wednesday, March 22nd, 2017

I came late to the poetry of the great Roy Fisher. Early this century, my friend John Lucas persuaded him over to the Lowdham Poetry Festival, where, on a blustery day, under a tent, Roy read some of his poems and played a little piano (he was a fine Jazz pianist). Roy talked with my partner about their shared experience in teacher training and we were given his new and selected, The Dow Low Drop, the first of many books that Roy signed for us. A few years later, planning the Beeston International Poetry Festival, I suggested we try and get Roy to give a reading, though he didn’t get about much, being wheelchair-bound. His friend, the poet, Ann Atkinson was still alive then, and acted as chauffeur. Roy read with Matt Welton at the Flying Goose Café in Beeston. He began his set by establishing his bona fides, as he put it, with ‘Poetry Promise’. I filmed this poem and ‘Inner Voice’ for a facebook group. Last year, with his permission, I put both of these videos on YouTube. The quality’s not great, as they were taken with a Flip-camera, but this was the last reading that Roy gave and it was a lovely, packed event. I filmed all of the 13 minute second set that closed the evening. Today, in tribute to him, I’ve uploaded the whole thing. You can watch it above. That’s Ann Atkinson, sat to his right, and John Lucas on his left.

We visited Roy at his home near Buxton the summer before last. He didn’t get about much, but had plenty of friends who came to help, and was good company. I gave him a DVD with highlights of the many Jazz and Poetry evenings I’d filmed, which he would have enjoyed being at. He gave us a copy of An Easily Bewildered Child, his collected occasional prose. We would have gone again, but my partner became seriously ill, and now Roy’s gone. He died this week after, I’m told, slowly fading for a couple of weeks. I’d hoped to see him in the summer, and take a copy of the next issue of New Walk magazine. I’ve written a review essay called ‘Poetry and Old Age’, about Prynne, Ashbery and Roy’s final book Slakki: new and neglected poems. He had stopped writing by 2015 and there will be no more. It is to Peter Robinson’s great credit that this book came out.

Here’s a bit from that review:

These may be final poems, but there is no falling off in them, only an inevitably elegiac quality. The last new poem, ‘While There’s Still Time’, from 2014, threatens that the poet will return ‘in the form of a nut-brown silver banded bassoon.’ In its comic, confident conclusion, the great poet imagines himself being played ‘on the tarmac triangle/at the crook of Kentish Road’.

Make no mistake:

My voice will be heard once again,

and as never before.

I was pleased that Ian McMillan (one of Fisher’s biggest fans – Ian chose Roy’s collected poems as his book on Desert Island Discs) chose the same lines to cite in his review for The North. I’ll have to add another paragraph to my piece now. Not of mourning, but of celebration: for a sweet, sweet man, a fine jazz pianist, a true educator and poems that will last for as long as poetry is read. He had a life well lived and we’re lucky to have been around for some of the same time. R.I.P.