In the Times today, Geoff Brown gives a four-star review to Pincher Martin, the new one-act opera by Oliver Rudland
Chalk up one more British opera soaked in the wake of Peter Grimes. Sea sounds are everywhere: gulls crying, the waves’ rolling thunder, growlings from the ocean floor. There’s also the visual component: video footage of monster swells, exploding warships — all in aid of another uncomfortable story taken from a literary source, William Golding’s Pincher Martin.
The composer Oliver Rudland, just over 30, took a gamble in wresting his third opera from an existential novel exploring the levels of consciousness in a torpedoed Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve in the Second World War; a novel, moreover, with much aqueous music in its prose. But the gamble paid off handsomely. This is an eloquent, succinct opera that creates much more pleasure than you’d imagine from the spectacle of an unlikeable egotist besieged by hallucinations on an Atlantic rock.
In the Royal College of Music’s Britten Theatre, the cast, it’s true, didn’t always make their words distinct. Yet the drama of the moment still drove us on. Britten’s direct influence popped up occasionally, as did John Adams: friendly visitors in a tonality-washed score that offered Miles Horner’s damaged hero and the figments of his mind plenty of lyrical ammunition. Indeed Colette Boushell sang so exquisitely that I wanted much more of her character, a peacetime victim of Martin’s jealousy and lust. In the pit, Mark Austin’s Faust Ensemble incisively handled Rudland’s individual scoring — string textures flecked with lone brass notes, percussion shivers and droplets of harp.
What a joy, too, to find music and film seamlessly integrated. I wasn’t so convinced of the rock encrustations creeping over scattered props: a perky green car, desk, a grandfather clock. But it didn’t much matter: in music and design, if not always in words, Pincher Martin pinched and gripped. This opera deserves to live.
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Submitted by peterwhittle on Wed, 2014-07-30 16:31.
You are invited to hear
Anne Marie Waters, founder of Sahria Watch, speaking on
One Law for All?
Sharia law in Britain
on Tuesday July 22nd 6.30pm to 8pm
55 Tufton Street, London SW1P 3QL
Writer and human rights activist Anne Marie Waters recently founded Sharia Watch, www.shariawatch.org.uk , a new campaigning group which aims to challenge the growth in influence of Sharia law in Britain, whether through formal and informal Sharia courts or by integration into existing institutions. She was previously spokesperson for the One Law for All campaign, and a council member of the National Secular Society.
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Submitted by peterwhittle on Thu, 2014-07-10 09:58.
In the current edition of Standpoint, Roger Scruton writes that 'opera is a crown to be won, a sign that the composer has finally stuck his head above the clouds on Mount Olympus.'
In this article, which can be read in full here, Scruton gives a beautifully considered explanation and defence of opera. He highlights in particular the work of rising young composer Oliver Rudland (right), whose new one-act opera, Pincher Martin, has its premiere at the Royal College of Music on July 24th:
'...Sacred things are especially intolerable to those who no longer believe in them. An urge to desecrate is the inevitable successor to a lost habit of reverence. Hence Siegfried is dressed in schoolboy uniform, Mélisande is lying on a hospital bed in sheltered accommodation, Rusalka is taking a bath in a whorehouse, and — well you know how it goes. The best one can hope for in the state-subsidised opera houses of today is that the singers will all be dressed in Nazi uniform, but otherwise allowed to get on with the plot.
New operas can escape that fate, since the composer is around to prevent it. In Rudland's Pincher Martin music, words, sets, gestures and lighting are integral parts of a unified dramatic conception, and Rudland is determined that the opera should be realised exactly as he conceived it. Without an official subsidy and all the paraphernalia that tends to come with it, a composer can take full control of the performance, and not just of the score. Equally it is when subsidies are not forthcoming that we see how unnecessary they are. Singing automatically places the actors in an imaginary world, and properly crafted melodic lines will shape the passions, the relations and the gestures according to the inner logic of the drama...'
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Submitted by peterwhittle on Thu, 2014-07-10 09:45.
Whittle's London in the new edition of Standpoint looks at the capital on film:
'Like politics, acting seems yet again to have become dominated by the privately educated, rather than working class boys like Michael Caine or Bob Hoskins'
Lionel Bart's pre-Oliver! stage hit Fings Ain't Wot They Used T'Be is currently being revived at the Theatre Royal in the East End. I wonder what London audiences today will make of it. Joan Littlewood, the legendary producer who got the original 1959 production together, was evangelical about the need for working-class actors not only to be seen and heard but to be heard in their original voices, untouched by Rada and its belief that only received pronunciation bestowed the authority required of all real actors. The following decade gave us a slew of famous figures from genuinely working-class origins — Michael Caine and Terence Stamp (pictured), both London boys, became bona fide Hollywood stars — and finally it seemed that working-class actors had broken out of their "character and comedy" ghetto.
That era is as dead as the notion of Swinging London. Like our political class, acting seems yet again to have become dominated by the privately educated. The bullishly agitprop-spouting Littlewood would doubtless be horrified at the way in which economic restraints and the breakdown in social mobility have led to a remarkable rise in solidly public school performers, and she'd be right.
But it's not the whole story. Of all the changes that have taken place in the capital in the past couple of decades, the gradual disappearance of traditional working-class communities, indeed of working-class identity itself, is the most stark. As an older Lambeth resident says in Michael Collins's wonderful book about London's working class, The Likes of Us, "It's like we were never here."EastEnders, the BBC's series of largely working-class life in the modern East End, is little more than a polite fiction. What this means is that audiences who are still quite versed in, as it were, the more upmarket costume drama aspects of London's identity will have little familiarity with that group of people who once made up the bulk of its population. No working-class culture, no working-class actors. Fings definitely ain't wot they used t'be.
Bob Hoskins, who died last month, was born far from the sound of Bow Bells (in Bury St Edmunds) but his popular persona was certainly that of the rough but goodnatured cockney. Again, his voice — superficially threatening yet warm, humorous, even innocent, underneath — must strike younger audiences unfamiliar with London's past social terrain as exotic, even a bit corny, rather like Dick Van Dyke's infamous cockney impersonation in Mary Poppins. But it was the kind of voice that surrounded me growing up in the Sixties and Seventies.
Two of Hoskins's most memorable films, The Long Good Friday, set amid the decay of London's docklands in the Seventies before gentrification set in, andMona Lisa, in which he played a driver charged with ferrying a high-class call girl, depicted a city which was either in decline or simply hole-in-the-wall seedy. It always seemed particularly hard for London to rise to the occasion on film; its grey tattiness always worked best as the backdrop for a certain sort of clichéd urban grittiness. Too heavy for romance and too parochial for big scale action — it was always more The Sweeney than The French Connection — London only really came into its own as an all-purpose setting for Olden Times. The majestic colonnades of the Royal Naval Hospital, just along the road from me on the banks of the river at Greenwich, have stood in for everything from Tsarist St Petersburg (for Crime and Punishment) to revolutionary Paris (Les Misérables) and been pressed into service for enough movies set in 18th-century Whitehall to give them an identity crisis.
This cinematic treatment of London has certainly changed in the past decade or so, as it has become a different kind of city. It has gone in two distinct directions: there's the glossy and loved-up oeuvre of Richard Curtis, or the gangster and geezer version, pioneered by Guy Ritchie, which now seems to form a whole sub-genre. Rupert Everett beautifully summed up Curtis when he described him as the Leni Riefenstahl of Blair's Britain: all liberal sensibility, multicultural harmony and well-meaning posh chaps. When seen from a Notting Hill window, this shiny, happy London — easy in its own skin, as the cliché has it — certainly looks like a great place to be. Less inviting on the other hand but with a new, harsh glamour, the crime-ridden world of movies such as RocknRolla and Layer Cake portrays a city of designer suits, good-looking hard men and billionaire interlopers.
What these pictures of London have in common, however, is a distinct air of self-consciousness. While we might recognise aspects of the city in each, neither version feels genuinely familiar. Few of Curtis's characters could now afford to inhabit their beloved West London, which, with its acres of empty investment properties, is in danger of becoming a ghost town. And Ritchie's duckers and divers look increasingly like exercises in masculine nostalgia. Neither Michael Caine nor Bob Hoskins would, I'm sure, feel much at home in either landscape.
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Submitted by peterwhittle on Thu, 2014-05-29 15:30.