K.A. Laity's Blog, page 149

Review: Terry Gilliam's The Damnation of Faust

I had a lot of trepidation about the ENO production of Berlioz's The Damnation of Faust; not because Gilliam hadn't done opera before, which seemed to put some people off—after all what better to do with an over-sized imagination than put it to use in the heightened spectacle of opera?—but because of the trailer and the thought, "Oh, not Nazis again." The ultimate banality of evil is that it can be used without controversy or effect. Apart from bizarre extremists of various stripes, most people are are board with the whole Nazis=bad, so I imagined some ham-handed club about to be wielded over the audience.



But yeah, I got my ticket anyway. It was bound to be spectacle, right?



Gilliam did not disappoint. The production literally starts with a bang that clearly startled many in the audience. Enter Christopher Purves as Mephistopheles with a few of his lost souls, announcing himself as our infernal compere for the evening. His hellfires seem to always be ready to lick at the feet of the players, ever present. As our shock-headed Faust, Peter Hoare enters the pastoral opening his work literally on his back as he ignores the courting couples in the forest in search of solitude to return to his calculations and contemplation, but the spirit of the spring invades, including a Krampus and Holda as if it were almost a mythic spring. How can he resist?



Mephistopheles persuades Faust out of his cell at last; the cell looks not like a monkish scholar's room, but a holding cell in an asylum. Coupled with Faust's later appearance in a straight-jacket, it may be a way to cast doubt on the veracity of all that occurs, but it's not really important.



I have to admit, the Nazi motif worked perfectly; after all, Berlioz's opera unfolds against a backdrop of war. The slight relocation in time suits. We see the rise of the fascist movement gradually as Faust's own story unspools. In the tavern scene a few brown shirts stand out, but as the scene unfolds we see them gradually muscle through the crowd and gradually more chorus members remove their jackets to reveal brown shirts and uniforms underneath, until the majority of the tavern crowd has joined up. It works.



It works too that Marguerite is a Jew that Faust first sees singing the role of Brunhilde in the Ring wearing a blonde wig. Mephistopheles' careful maneuvering of Faust into her room occurs on a setting that I knew at once would turn into Kristallnacht, but Gilliam kept the audience waiting for it then in the midst of the scene, rolls back time restoring all the broken windows and returning people to their homes to replay the scenes slightly differently with more direct interference from the demon. You begin to suspect that all the mayhem in the land has been his doing.



I find Berlioz's opera a lugubrious affair and I much prefer Marlowe's Faust to Goethe's sappy romantic, but Gilliam had the story cracking along with the most amazing visuals that combined good old fashioned stage craft, projections, puppetry and a good bit of flash and explosion. The mad race to "save" Marguerite was a fantastic hell journey, the final damnation an incredible glorious release of the hellfire, and so many moments were simply cleverly apt and nimble. It was a great way to employ Gilliam's tendency to excess without the impression that anything was superfluous.



Of course the cast was superb: Purves' Mephisto had the right combination of oiliness and menacing bombast. Hoare's Faust managed to convey the emotional wrenching of his character without ever tipping over into bathos. Christine Rice's Marguerite offered up a silky heroine with a voice anyone might fall for. The role is so small yet so important; Marguerite really has to knock your socks off in her opening song and then break your heart soon after. Rice was amazing; when Marguerite sang her breaking heart on the way to the gas chambers, there were a lot of wet cheeks in the audience. The whole orchestra and chorus were superb of course; the practically filled the stage at the curtain.



The good news is that there was a crew from the BBC (and a huge group of folk attending as well) so perhaps there will be the opportunity to see some of this even if you couldn't be there for the final performance. Gilliam looked giddy as he joined the cast on stage for the final bows. And why not? Well done, indeed.

Alt-Fiction

Alt.Fiction Festival 2011

25th-26th June

QUAD, Market Place, DerbySaturday 25th June, 10am - Midnight

Sunday 26th June, 10am - 5pm



Weekend pass £45

Saturday pass £30

Sunday pass £20



Alt.Fiction marks its fifth year with a fantastic weekend for readers and writers of science fiction, fantasy and horror. Bringing together some of the UK's leading talent in the genre, Alt.Fiction presents a two-day programme of readings, panels, workshops, film, podcasts and much more, giving you the chance to hear from your favourite authors, find out more about the world of publishing and learn more about the writing process.

This year's Guests of Honour are bestselling science fiction author Alastair Reynolds and acclaimed comic book writer and novelist Dan Abnett. They will joined by speakers Tony Ballantyne, Keith Brooke, Mark Chadbourn, Paul Cornell, Peter Crowther, Stephen Deas, Paul Finch, John Jarrold, Graham Joyce, K. A. Laity, Juliet McKenna, Graham McNeill, Mark Morris, Adam Nevill, Mark Charan Newton, Sarah Pinborough, Robert Shearman, Adrian Tchaikovsky, Ian Whates, Conrad Williams, Chris Wooding and many more.

Alt.Fiction is truly a weekend not to be missed for book lovers and writers alike.

Contact the QUAD Box Office on 01332 290 606 or visit www.derbyquad.co.uk/altfiction

Visit altfiction.co.uk to find out about Alt.Fiction's year-long programme of events.

Running to Catch Up

That's a misleading title as I plan for this to be a very lazy Sunday. I may wander out to a museum this afternoon and get myself a Sunday roast dinner, but that's about as far as my ambitions run at present. I often have the thought of how little time I have in London this trip nipping at my thoughts, but that only makes it more grand to luxuriate in idleness. I have been busy nonetheless and it will take a while for me to get caught up on writing about all my adventures. Among  things done:



I got a poem published (yes, me!). Some print copies of Chronogram should have arrived by the time I return, but you can read "Lullaby" online (albeit in a rather unexpectedly awkward layout).



I played a theremin!



I visited the wax head of Jeremy Bentham!



I saw a giant fox!



I've been to plays, museums and galleries!



Pubs!



Hanging out with friends and laughing -- and a whole lot more. I love this city, and the truth about London is that you never know what might lie around any corner. Such as naked people on bikes...

Much Ado about Ghosts

First things, first: HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO THE QUEEN OF EVERYTHING!!



My latest column exploits my theatre madness by making it work (as if seeing a good play were really work, but shhh! mustn't let people know how much fun we're having, right?). I ran off to the theatre after a good chat with pal Gordon Murphy which was much fun. Must do it again. But here's the write up:

David Tennant & Catherine Tate Do ShakespeareBy K.A. Laity
What we really need isn't a summer blockbuster, but a summer fling.



The Wyndham's lively 80s-themed production of Shakespeare's most popular comedy, Much Ado About Nothing, as directed by Josie Rourke offers a sunnily irresistible brightness. Despite its self-deprecating title, this frothy comedy has at its heart a painful tragedy: the ease with which men in power can destroy the lives of women on a whim. It doesn't help that the lover in question, Claudio, is a drama queen of the first order. He falls madly in love and when his boss Don Pedro works to persuade the girl to wed his friend, immediately assumes the prince wants her for himself and bitterly pouts until assured the wooing was done entirely in Claudio's name...

Read the rest over at BBHQ: http://culture.bitchbuzz.com/david-tennant-catherine-tate-do-shakespeare.html#ixzz1OroHmhBg



Yesterday I headed over to the Tate Modern, where I was delighted to find the Rothkos back from their tour and safely ensconced in their little temple of quiet. Good to have that little oasis available again. Withluck -- if I figure out how to get there, I will be seeing Sarah Angliss/Spacedog tonight in Hackney at an unusual event. Anon -- more fun than writing at present :-)

Town & Country

I will get to the Fall concert, but anon. Earlier in the day I had a fabulous lunch with Hannah Priest who ran the Werewolf Women Conference last fall and will be part of the Gender and Punishment Medieval Conference in January (which I'll probably go to since I'll be near by). We had a great chat about academia—and how to survive it successfully—publishing and her new murder-mystery company. Always glad to get to know other dynamic women :-)



Saturday morning I caught the train to London, but once I got there, I hopped on the tube and headed out to Epping with the final destination Great Dunmow, land of bacon (at least since the Middle Ages). Jo and James took me for a ramble around the village. Last time I'd stayed with them it had been pouring so I only saw the view from a car. It's really a lovely place, although the drought has been so bad that there were huge cracks in ground at the cricket pitch and the river was just about down to a trickle.



It's an odd mix of quiet life and recent arrivals; the new local car dealership sells Rolls-Royces. It's Dick Turpin territory, too. Saturday night we went to a great old pub, The Three Horseshoes. The landlord was rumoured to have been an actor and you could certainly believe it. Small crowd, terrific atmosphere—the maypole was still up out in the back garden, too.





Some much-needed rain arrived overnight, so a relaxing morning reading the papers seemed in order. I had a nice chat with Jo's mum who had been evacuated to Ascot for six years during the war. She had been at a special school for kids at risk from tuberculosis because her father had died from it. We had a nice Sunday roast dinner and watched a couple of Ken Loach films, Looking for Eric and Route Irish: both great, both totally different.





Rain again as I headed back to the Big Smoke. Village life is lovely, but I miss the dirty old town.

Manchester

As always, CCTV is everywhere in Britain. This is on the train from the airport to Picadilly Station. I had managed to get some sleep despite my somewhat disjointed journey that took me to Atlanta instead of NYC due to tornadoes (!?) in western Massachusetts. Oh and then there was the slight "lamination" of the engine, but it was all all right (well, after running from Terminal T to Terminal E!).





Manchester has its own carnivalesque wheel.





Of course it also has historic pubs.





My intrepid native guide David kept me from keeling over with jet lag until I could get into my hotel room and have a lie down.





I had an excellent dinner in Chinatown my first night, although there was an American businessman at the next table eagerly telling a Mancunian all about Shackleton and why he was a great example for leadership training (O_o)





This is the venue where I saw The Fall on Friday night!





Just around the corner is Affleck's which has a wild range of vendors selling all sorts of things...





...including Sailor Moon costumes (oh, Miss Wendy!)





...and this fun sculpture across the street.





Of course as a medievalist I had to pay a visit to the cathedral.





And as always, snap any reference to St. Eustace.





Wow, this camera is really crap unless you're resting your elbows on a secure surface. I tried to take a picture of one of the angels playing instruments that fill the cathedral (double headed drum) and this was the best I could do.





Great gargoyles!





Because I bought my ticket online, I didn't actually get a stub, so the stamp on my wrist was the only tangible proof I was there to see The Fall -- well, that and my ringing ears and soaked-with-sweat clothes and big grin :-) but I'll have to write that up separately. Same for Great Dunmow (with more pictures). Hello from the lobby of my hotel in London. Looks like the rain has ended, so I'm heading out.

Travel Twitterfeed

And Away We Go --

This is how hot it's been: Kipper lying on his back in front of the fan, feet in the air. Undignified. I hope it's not like this in England, but the truth is the last couple of years it has been ungodly hot. I am taking one sweater along just in case (Manchester might be chilly at least at night) but I doubt I'll use it much. Here's the vague schedule:



Land in Manchester, stay for a couple of days where I will lunch with a friend and see THE FALL! Then it's off to Great Dunmow to visit friends, then London where I'll idle for some time seeing museums, plays, concerts and of course, many friends as well as attending the Great Writing Conference. Next I'll be off to Littlehampton and the shore. A first for me (as is actually being *in* Manchester as opposed to passing through), then I'll head up to Derby and the Alt-Fiction conference which ought to be great fun. After that I'm staying with my friend Adele in Leiceister before flying back from Manchester. Whew! It's going to be fun -- and far more relaxing than it sounds because I won't be doing any work but writing.



I'll set up the Twitter feed for a bit until I'm somewhere that I can post actual coverage of the trip. We'll see if--like Robert--I end up with any LaCroix, sweetie darling (doubtful but I just wanted to say that).

Utter Madness

What was I thinking? That I could somehow manage to do all the last minute things I need to do before getting on that airplane tomorrow and go down to Kingston for a reading of my play Lumottu?



HA HA HA HA HA HA!



So, yes, the play reading has been re-scheduled for August 30th. Yes, right before I head off to Ireland, but things will have to be sorted long before that. Um, I hope.



I must be mad; yes, it's the only explanation. I am up early to pack, finish things that need to be done, run errands and then actually teach today, too! My mantra continues to be, "Somehow it will all get done, somehow..."



Not sure exactly how that will happen, but things are bound to get done if you stare at them long enough, right? What? It takes more than staring? I'm doing this all wrong then. Thank goodness I have help: thank you, Catherine, and thank you, Peg! I think there was something else I meant to mention in this post, but for the life of me I can't recall what.

Poetry in Motion

Well, I don't generally consider myself to be a poet, so it may be a bit surprising to hear me announce that I have not one but two poems coming out soon, both inspired by a bizarre headline I reposted here. "Moths" will be coming out in Zouch Magazine , which has also offered poems by talented pals of mine, Alessandra and John (see, all the cool kids are doing it!). I love their visual aesthetics. "Lullaby" will be in the June issue of Chronogram , which is available in upstate NY and probably western MA as well. I think they eventually put things online, too.



I suppose Shelley might be spinning in his grave at the thought of this, but hey, if they idea comes to me, I write it. And more often than not, someone somewhere seems willing to publish it.



I have a couple of humour pieces to come out as well. "Soap Opera Digest" will be in the next issue of Dragnet Magazine (another beautifully designed site). And coming soon, although I'm not sure when, from Defenstration Magazine (love that name!) will be "Review: Dracula X" which some fellow Horror listers may recognize as the expanded edition of a rather silly April Fool's joke.



Hope everyone who's got a holiday today is appreciating it. I'd appreciate it more if it were less warm. Bleh. Hope it's cooler in England this year than it has been the last few years. Where's my rain and fog?!