Bristol Old Vic is celebrating it's 250th Anniversary this year, which is pretty awesome. To do so, they're putting on four plays from the four centuries it's been open. So far so good. The specimen representing the 20th century is Eugene O'Neill's classic, A Long Day's Journey Into Night, starring Jeremy Irons and Lesly Manville.
Although this is a classic play, I'd very little idea of what I was in for. What I was in for, it turned out, was three hours of dysfunctional family, drug-taking, consumption, alcohol and criminally negligent behaviour.
I'd like to give credit where it's due, so first of all I'll say that Lesley Manville is an amazing actress and I'd turn up to see her again in anything. Also Jeremy Irons has a lovely sonorous voice and since I was stuck behind a pillar admiring the plaster roses on the ceiling for a good part of the play, it was rather like listening to a radio play with somebody rolling Shakespearianly in the background. I'm not cross about the pillar, it gave me something to cringe behind when Jeremy forgot his lines.
Now, *clears throat* I don't blame Jeremy for this debacle. Or indeed any of the actors on stage. I blame, in descending order, 1) Eugene O'Neill, who wrote this play in the first place, 2) the Director, who thought it was a good idea, 3) whoever greenlit this at Bristol Old Vic, and 4) The Patriarchy.
Oh and Eugene O'Neill's Dad, the 19th Century, and the Catholic Church, but I figured I covered that under the Patriarchy. Anyway, without giving away too many spoilers, this play is about the Tyrone family, a miserable bunch featuring a self-pitying bully, a morphine addict, a consumptive, and an alcoholic. Who shout at each other a lot. Apparently it's based on Eugene O'Neill's actual family, which is why I blame his Dad. It is very long, and entirely without hope. Well, I did experience a brief spark when I realised it was 1912, and that soon, World War One would be along to put the younger family members out of their misery. Then I remembered that they'd have to wait an extra three years, being American, and that a consumptive and alcoholic wouldn't get conscripted anyway, at which point I found no further cause for optimism.
Mrs Tyrone, the mother of the family, is apparently a morphine addict due to her husband's stinginess in providing medical care, and her repeated breakdowns down to the fact that he won't provide her with a stable home. Both the children are wrecks, ditto. This is billed as a family tragedy. I hate to be politically correct here, but that's not a tragedy, is it? It's one person with all the power, and that person being an arsehole, and failing in their responsibilities. Which doesn't meet the Greek standard of tragedy which is some sort of unavoidable woe which is handed out by fate. All these woes are apparently the result of drunkenness, self-regard, and greed, which aren't tragic vices, they're just nasty, petty mean ones. I didn't feel a speck of sorrow for patriarch Tyrone as he bewailed how he wasn't what he could have been. I was just rolling my eyes so hard it's a wonder they didn't fall off the balcony, onto the stalls, below.
This is a terrible, terrible, self-indulgent, boring, interminable, play, and I have no idea what possessed anyone to consider it a classic, unless it were a bunch of old white men thinking that old white men woes are woes of the world, and nothing is ever their fault.
I don't blame Jeremy for forgetting his lines, I'd forget 'em too, if I was expected to learn three hours worth of this repetitious drivel.
Anyway, I'm a bit puzzled as to why this play was picked, as there are so many good plays from the 20th Century that do have contemporary resonance. The BBC put on an amazingly contemporary version of An Inspector Calls last year; or Plenty, which mirrors the slow disillusionment of post-war Britain; or An Accidental Death of An Anarchist, which could happily be played in modern Turkey, or Greece. But instead somebody chose this, which left me contemplating only one, really salient question: was there
ever a chandelier in the middle of the Old Vic ceiling, and if so, what
happened to it? How did they light it? Most importantly, can we have it back?
Anyway, I think Kneehigh are coming round next month, with The Flying Lovers of Vitebsk, and I'm sure it'll be fantastic, chandelier or no, so you might want to book tickets, for that.
Showing posts with label Americas. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Americas. Show all posts
Monday, 4 April 2016
Friday, 3 August 2012
Review: Nostalgia For the Light
Before I start I should say that I love film documentaries, especially any about a) space or b) weird places. So I got really excited about seeing Nostalgia for the Light, about the Atacama Desert in Chile, where the air is so thin and dry that you can easily see space. Some of the world's largest telescopes are located there. The dry air preserves everything, so the desert is full of archaeological remains, the still-clothed, mummified remains of prehistoric Indians, their artwork, and roads. It also hides the newer and more awful remains of the disappeared, who were buried there by the Pinochet dictatorship which ruled Chile from 1973 to 1990.
Now, I'm fascinated by what science is discovering about the universe outside our solar system. I'm also really interested in archaeology, and in human rights. So I was looking forward to this film, for more than one reason. But in the end I came away a little bit disappointed.
This isn't to say don't go and see this film. It is a beautiful film, and fascinating. The shots of the desert are amazing, as is the brass and wood telescope on which the Director, Patricio Guzman was first introduced to star-gazing. The pictures of the milky way above the desert are stunning. It is, however, quite a sombre film, and I was a bit disappointed not to get more about the astronomy, or the archaeology.
The main thrust of the film is that everyone in it is digging up the past. The astronomers mine light sent out by the stars, which takes centuries to reach us; the archaeologists mine the pre-Colombian past, and a group of women who lost relatives to the dictatorship scratch the sand with spades, trying to find the bones of their loved ones. Guzman interviews an astronomer: he talks about how thin the present is, compared to the past, and how everything, even a word you said a second ago, is in the past by the time it's been heard.
So far, so good, but the film is really much more interested in the disappeared from the Pinochet era than in either of the other two searches. I felt a bit frustrated with one of the elderly ladies combing the desert, even after some bones of her missing relative had been found. They were known to be dead, but she wanted him 'whole'. The act of combing the desert seemed like a protest, or an act of crazed grief: but what it didn't really seem to be was any way of moving into the future.
This was my central gripe about the film: it seemed to me very much an old person's perspective. It didn't seem to have any sense of the future. There are only two younger people in the film. Both were shown talking about how the dictatorship had affected them. Both worked on the astronomy program; neither was shown talking about that. I felt a bit annoyed on behalf of 29-year old engineer Victor, who worked on the telescopes: he clearly had a job most guys of his age would kill for, yet Guzman seemed to find him of interest only to validate the experiences of his own, older generation.
I was also left frustrated by not being told more about the pre-Colombian mummies, who, weirdly, seemed much more real than the dead of the Pinochet era. Unlike the fading photos from the 1970s, these remains had substance, their thick woven clothes still brightly-coloured. But just at the moment when I thought we were going to be told about these, the film insisted on cutting back to the endless, unresolved grief of recent history.
I do think this was a fascinating topic for a film. I just wonder what it would have been like if it'd been made by Werner Hertzog, instead.
MASSIVE THANKS to the very awesome Watershed for giving me a review ticket, by the way.
This isn't to say don't go and see this film. It is a beautiful film, and fascinating. The shots of the desert are amazing, as is the brass and wood telescope on which the Director, Patricio Guzman was first introduced to star-gazing. The pictures of the milky way above the desert are stunning. It is, however, quite a sombre film, and I was a bit disappointed not to get more about the astronomy, or the archaeology.
The main thrust of the film is that everyone in it is digging up the past. The astronomers mine light sent out by the stars, which takes centuries to reach us; the archaeologists mine the pre-Colombian past, and a group of women who lost relatives to the dictatorship scratch the sand with spades, trying to find the bones of their loved ones. Guzman interviews an astronomer: he talks about how thin the present is, compared to the past, and how everything, even a word you said a second ago, is in the past by the time it's been heard.
So far, so good, but the film is really much more interested in the disappeared from the Pinochet era than in either of the other two searches. I felt a bit frustrated with one of the elderly ladies combing the desert, even after some bones of her missing relative had been found. They were known to be dead, but she wanted him 'whole'. The act of combing the desert seemed like a protest, or an act of crazed grief: but what it didn't really seem to be was any way of moving into the future.
This was my central gripe about the film: it seemed to me very much an old person's perspective. It didn't seem to have any sense of the future. There are only two younger people in the film. Both were shown talking about how the dictatorship had affected them. Both worked on the astronomy program; neither was shown talking about that. I felt a bit annoyed on behalf of 29-year old engineer Victor, who worked on the telescopes: he clearly had a job most guys of his age would kill for, yet Guzman seemed to find him of interest only to validate the experiences of his own, older generation.
I was also left frustrated by not being told more about the pre-Colombian mummies, who, weirdly, seemed much more real than the dead of the Pinochet era. Unlike the fading photos from the 1970s, these remains had substance, their thick woven clothes still brightly-coloured. But just at the moment when I thought we were going to be told about these, the film insisted on cutting back to the endless, unresolved grief of recent history.
I do think this was a fascinating topic for a film. I just wonder what it would have been like if it'd been made by Werner Hertzog, instead.
MASSIVE THANKS to the very awesome Watershed for giving me a review ticket, by the way.
Wednesday, 22 February 2012
RIP Marie Colvin
In the last few hours, Sunday Times journalist Marie Colvin has been killed* in Syria, in Homs, in shelling by the forces of Bashar Al-Assad. Colvin was one of those old-fashioned beasts, a proper war-reporter. She'd done every war since Bosnia, and lost an eye in a grenade attack in Sri Lanka. She was also, clearly, female. So what? you might say. Aren't dozens of other people, many female, dead, as well? Yes, that's why Colvin was there.
But I still think it matters. It matters if you care about knowing what's going on in the world, and it matters if you're a woman.
First, many news organisations these days are so twitchy about accusations of bias and protection of their journalists that they like to station reporters in neighbouring countries where nothing is actually happening, or endlessly obsess about negotiations at the UN while the real action happens elsewhere. This strategy does not always pay off. Last year in Libya, dozens of journalists got stuck in the Rixos Hotel in Tripoli, effectively hostages of the Gaddafi regime, parroting press releases that became more and more surreal. When rioting broke out in London, the BBC were so concerned about the safety of their journalists that they didn't even have any pictures until about an hour after the riot was underway, and were totally trumped by other stations who had (perfectly safely) obtained footage.
As Colvin herself pointed out, none of this is a substitute for actually going to where the action is really happening.
Consequently, this gap, matched with improvements in internet technology, means that the space is often filled by bloggers and citizen journalists with a mobile phone. This is no bad thing in terms of getting the truth out, but it does mean that the unfortunate person has no backup in terms of medical, legal or consular support. They have to take their chances with the local population, of which they are usually a part.
Many of these amateur news gatherers, reporters and commentators are female. The point about this is that when you are a girl, you grow up with lots and lots of injunctions about looking after your own safety. Don't do this, don't do that, or something terrible will happen to you. And this is in a peaceful, Western Society, which is, by global standards, really pretty safe. Sometimes the worst offenders behind these well-meaning injunctions are other women. The amount of ear-bashing any young woman receives about 'safety' could lead them to believe that being 'safe' is the single most important thing in life, ever.
However, a little intellectual investigation shows that safety is a pretty negative concept. You could get so anxious about safety that you never left the house, and had a heart attack on the sofa instead. In the end, safety is a false concept. There are only greater and lesser risks, and things which might or might not be worth those risks. But there are also things of greater and lesser value, and for some people, letting the world know what's happening, trying to get out news of a great wrong, is worth that great risk. It's the moment when you fight your urge to run away, to hide in the cellar, and you go back towards the noise, instead, to find out what's happening.
If you are a woman, this flies in the face of everything that you're taught. It is a deliberate repudiation of the idea that safety is the most important thing to you as female. It shows that you think truth, accuracy, curiosity, a desire for knowledge - or even your career, or the adrenaline rush - are more important than that all-nebulous, disabling thing, safety. I really believe that the moment when you choose something else over safety is the moment when you stop being a honorary child (women and children, etc) and stake your place as a fully-fledged member of the human race.
And that's why Marie Colvin was important. Female war reporters. Standing up for your right, as a woman, to do something completely frikkin' stupid, and dangerous as well. Which is a right worth dying for, in my opinion.
RIP.
Respect.
And by the way, if you are planning to follow her example, read this.
*I think 'murdered' is actually the correct term, since they were not in a military installation but a press centre next to a hospital.
** I don't have a picture because I can't find a copyright free one and I don't want to get sued by News International.
But I still think it matters. It matters if you care about knowing what's going on in the world, and it matters if you're a woman.
First, many news organisations these days are so twitchy about accusations of bias and protection of their journalists that they like to station reporters in neighbouring countries where nothing is actually happening, or endlessly obsess about negotiations at the UN while the real action happens elsewhere. This strategy does not always pay off. Last year in Libya, dozens of journalists got stuck in the Rixos Hotel in Tripoli, effectively hostages of the Gaddafi regime, parroting press releases that became more and more surreal. When rioting broke out in London, the BBC were so concerned about the safety of their journalists that they didn't even have any pictures until about an hour after the riot was underway, and were totally trumped by other stations who had (perfectly safely) obtained footage.
As Colvin herself pointed out, none of this is a substitute for actually going to where the action is really happening.
Consequently, this gap, matched with improvements in internet technology, means that the space is often filled by bloggers and citizen journalists with a mobile phone. This is no bad thing in terms of getting the truth out, but it does mean that the unfortunate person has no backup in terms of medical, legal or consular support. They have to take their chances with the local population, of which they are usually a part.
Many of these amateur news gatherers, reporters and commentators are female. The point about this is that when you are a girl, you grow up with lots and lots of injunctions about looking after your own safety. Don't do this, don't do that, or something terrible will happen to you. And this is in a peaceful, Western Society, which is, by global standards, really pretty safe. Sometimes the worst offenders behind these well-meaning injunctions are other women. The amount of ear-bashing any young woman receives about 'safety' could lead them to believe that being 'safe' is the single most important thing in life, ever.
However, a little intellectual investigation shows that safety is a pretty negative concept. You could get so anxious about safety that you never left the house, and had a heart attack on the sofa instead. In the end, safety is a false concept. There are only greater and lesser risks, and things which might or might not be worth those risks. But there are also things of greater and lesser value, and for some people, letting the world know what's happening, trying to get out news of a great wrong, is worth that great risk. It's the moment when you fight your urge to run away, to hide in the cellar, and you go back towards the noise, instead, to find out what's happening.
If you are a woman, this flies in the face of everything that you're taught. It is a deliberate repudiation of the idea that safety is the most important thing to you as female. It shows that you think truth, accuracy, curiosity, a desire for knowledge - or even your career, or the adrenaline rush - are more important than that all-nebulous, disabling thing, safety. I really believe that the moment when you choose something else over safety is the moment when you stop being a honorary child (women and children, etc) and stake your place as a fully-fledged member of the human race.
And that's why Marie Colvin was important. Female war reporters. Standing up for your right, as a woman, to do something completely frikkin' stupid, and dangerous as well. Which is a right worth dying for, in my opinion.
RIP.
Respect.
And by the way, if you are planning to follow her example, read this.
*I think 'murdered' is actually the correct term, since they were not in a military installation but a press centre next to a hospital.
** I don't have a picture because I can't find a copyright free one and I don't want to get sued by News International.
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