Check this out. It’s beautiful.
Then check out how she made it thanks to We Transfer.
Check this out. It’s beautiful.
Then check out how she made it thanks to We Transfer.
Viv is about 60 but she retains the spirit of her 20-something Slits guitarist days. She wrote about that eloquently in Clothes. Clothes, Clothes, Music, Music, Music, Boys, Boys Boys, Boys.
The title of that autobiography was drawn from her mother’s criticism that that was all she thought about as a late teenager.
It’s an absolute belter.
But now we’re considering her SECOND autobiography and it raises the bar even further.
What a thing this is.
It’s not a laugh, I have to say, but there are humorous moments.
Essentially, it takes the form of a description of the day her 95 year old mother died, told in short snippets interspersed with Albertine’s memoire of her family, and love, life.
It’s grim, abusive stuff.
Midway into the book she finds her estranged father’s diaries and later her mother’s. Both forensically detail a period in the young Albertine’s life where they are preparing to divorce and it ain’t ‘Little House on the Prairie’ that’s for sure.
But what Albertine does most in this history of her life is reveal her inner thinkings in a way that is uncommon on autobiographies. She was a punk, a rebel, a man-hater – that loved sex with men – OK, maybe not a man-hater, quite, but a fierce feminist for sure – and with reason. And underpinning that personality trait is self doubt, insecurity, self loathing at times. All explained, all considered, all consuming.
It’s gripping, utterly compelling stuff and as the death of her mother plays out we are treated to, shall we say, an unusual farewell.
It’s also beautifully crafted. Viv Albertine can wield a pen even more successfully than she wielded guitar in her Slits days.
Highly recommended and only £3 at Fopp.
It was announced that Local Hero could be a possibility while I was still on the Royal Lyceum board three years ago and it seemed like a wild dream, almost a fantasy really; that one of Scotland’s most iconic movies could be turned into a stage play, and a musical at that.
Even though it rates only a solid, but unspectacular 7.4 on IMDB, it has been taken to Scotland’s heart. I only watched it myself, a month ago, in anticipation of this production finally, miraculously landing. But I wasn’t overly taken with the movie I have to say. It has dated and I found too many of the performances pretty easy to criticise and that let it down. So I approached last night nervously.
There was no need to worry. This is a smash hit in the making. The buzz around The Lyceum was palpable and the after show party felt like the West End had dropped into Edinburgh.
The Director is John Crowley for God’s sake – he of the Oscar-nominated movie Brooklyn: the man who has just directed the most anticipated movie (for me anyway) of 2019; The Goldfinch.
The set designer is Scott Pask – Book of Mormon – heard of that?
And, of course, the music was developed and expanded by none other than Mark Knopfler himself.
The cast is not a Take The High Road reunion, indeed only two of the 15 have ever appeared on The Lyceum stage, and have Girl From The North Country, Kinky Boots, Our Ladies of Perpetual Succour, Les Mis, This House, Wolf Hall , School of Rock and Sweeney Todd, amongst many others, littering their CVs.
This is the real deal. This is monumental ambition for a 600 seat theatre in Scotland. (Albeit the Old Vic are co-producers).
So, onto a couple of old upturned fish boxes sidle Matthew Pigeon, as Gordon the hotel-owner and chief negotiator, and Ownie (Scott Ainslie) to conclude Ownie’s accountancy requirements with change from a fiver. If only Gordon had change.
It’s a quiet start that does not prepare you for the technical wizardry that underpins the first showstopper of the night, “A Barrel of Crude”. And there’s a laugh right from the off. Light humour that litters an excellent script.
Through the opening half hour the lilting lament that formed the musical motif of the movie slips and slides into earshot before finally emerging fully formed. It’s beautiful.
The story is pretty much as per the movie, but the morals feels somehow even more upfront as we chart the greed of the locals over the environmental consequences of their signing away their home village of Ferness (You can’t eat scenery though).
The big bad American oilman (played impeccably by Damian Humbley) is a great foil to Katrina Bryan’s Stella and Matthew Pigeon’s Gordon in a love triangle that doesn’t really quite come off (that would be my only real criticism of the show).
I particularly liked the movement in this (directed by Lucy Hind). It’s a play about contrasting scales (big skies, small villages, small-mindedness and big ambitions) and what she skilfully does is play with that scale through subtle but lovely choreography to bridge scenes and dramatise that juxtaposition of scales. It’s really nice to see great movement that’s NOT trying to be John Tiffany: again.
The dance movement is slick and light of touch. With a big mixed-age, mixed-size cast that’s no mean feat.
The band is top notch and excellently MD’d by Phil Bateman on keys.
Although the score is inspired mainly by the Celtic canon it succeeds much more than Come From Away (that I saw on Monday) which too draws from that canon – but does it to death. Here we have ballads, tangos, a bit of rock and roll and, yes, that plaintive motif.
The light and shade in this production’s musical content, for me, frankly blows the multi Olivier-nominated Come From Away out of the water. Indeed, on every level this is a much more enjoyable evening of theatre – so roll on the Oliviers 2020.
The comparisons can’t fail be made – both are Celtic musicals set in tiny communities, in wildernesses where big America comes to visit.
The Local Hero ensemble is universally excellent, the direction superb but the showstopper of it all is the scenic design. You’ll need to see it to appreciate it. I ain’t gonna do it any justice here. All I’ll say is this. You haven’t seen the aurora borealis until you’ve seen Local Hero at The Lyceum.
Bravo Lyceum. Bravo.
The show richly deserves both its standing ovation and the Sold Out boards you’ll find in Grindlay Street for the next six weeks.
(I did take a peek at the website box office and you CAN get tickets for late in the run. I’d do it if I were you.)
This show has been an absolute smash in North America and I can see why. It has a certain saccharine sweetness that, for me, gets in the way of a more gripping retelling of a charming and heartfelt story.
Maybe there is no hiding from the truth. It’s just nice.
Also 9/11 happened there and this is one of the few shows that doesn’t mourn it but finds a nugget to celebrate the human positives that emerged.
The actions concern those of the residents of Gander, Newfoundland, (The Rock) home of the biggest airport in the world that no-one ever uses anymore (since jet planes’ fuel tanks got bigger the planes don’t have to stop there for transatlantic refuelling – for the record).
The residents of Gander’s is a modern day ‘evacuees’ act of human kindness, in that they took the 7,000 stranded passengers, strangers, of 38 planes, that couldn’t land in New York, on 11 September 2001, into their community and then to their homes.
But it’s all a bit hokey for me. The relentless 180bpm Oirish/Newfie folk music gradually starts to do your head in as its one tune relentlessly ploughs a furrow towards your amigdila but in my case bypassed it and hit the cranial nerve instead.
It’s storytelling on steroids. $ for $ you get more words here than you will anywhere else in the West End. But it feels too crammed in – too worthy perhaps. just too much. There’s absolutely no room made to stop and take stock. No light and shade (or very little anyway).
Sure, it has its moments and some of the subplots are interesting (real). For me the most successful concerns a mother who’s fireman son is working on the twin towers and she is beside herself with worry. It leads to one of the few really poignant moments in this marathon jig.
The showstopper numbers; the opener ‘Welcome to the Rock’ and ’38 planes’ are certainly enthusiastic and well received and the finale has significant gusto and was met with the audience leaping to its feet almost as one.
But, I’m sorry, it missed the spot for me, almost completely, and I found myself sneaking looks at my watch despite its 90 minute run time.
One last thing. The seating in The Phoenix Theatre was clearly designed for Victorians at a time when people were six inches shorter than today. Horrendously uncomfortable.
Ricky Gervais has never, ever written a bad script.
And although he is pigeonholed as a comedian, writing comedy-drama he is far more than this.
He is an observer of the deepest human emotions and psyche. How else could David Brent exist? How else could Derek be considered even remotely acceptable to be the star of a comedy, let alone have Gervais portray the part he had written, rather than cast an actor with learning difficulties?
In this latest offering, brought to us by Netflix, Gervais has reached a creative zenith. In episode four there is a moment with a rice pudding that is the funniest thing I have ever seen on TV. In episode 6, I wept for 15 minutes solidly.
It’s the story of a local free newspaper journalist who works to live, it’s not a career, it’s a job to fill the time between leaving his home, and his beloved wife Lisa (Kerry Godliman – Godly talent more like), and returning to spend each and every night with her.
The trouble is she’s just died of cancer and Tony (Gervais) can’t cope. Only the dog is keeping him alive and it brings his dark cynicism and sarcasm to the fore. It gives him a super-power. The power to be a total **** to everyone and anyone. Sometimes to bad people who deserve it, like the school bully, but at other times to borderline cases (like a cheeky chugger).
His dad has Alzheimers and doesn’t recognise him.
His therapist is a moron.
His colleagues, led by the truly outstanding Tony Way as ‘photographer’ Lenny, are all ‘arseholes’. Except they aren’t. They’re just ordinary people.
He gradually falls for the nurse who works in his dad’s care home and that has a touch of joy about it.
But more than anything this show just shows that people are largely good. Even the bad ones like Tony’s naughty postman.
The moments in the graveyard with a grieving widow, played by the magnificent Penelope Wilton, are pure philosophy.
And we have Diane Morgan (Philomena Cunk).
And during the cremation of a junkie that results in Tony standing in the smoke with a nun, it means he has to say to her, “Don’t breathe that in sister, you’ll be off your tits.”
We watched all six episodes back to back and I urge you to do the same.
Better than any TV I have seen in an awful, awful long time.
Thank you Netflix for having the bravery to commission this.
(Oh, and the soundtrack is brilliant too.)
(And so is the dog.)
And it is.
Only 48 hours ago my wife and I belatedly watched the Oscar-winning Moonlight (a very odd choice for the best movie Oscar in my opinion), also written and Directed by Barry Jenkins. Today we saw Jenkins’ follow up. Across the two movies it’s notable that Jenkins doesn’t do ‘action’,as both are glacially paced. He also doesn’t do white actors. There are none at all in Moonlight and only 3 or 4 in Beale Street.
Visually, Beale Street is stunning. Jenkins is not left down by his cinematographer, James Paxton, who was also shot Moonlight. This has moments of jaw-dropping beauty, and in Kiki Layne and Stephen James he has two faces that make for simply beautiful close ups. In creating a love story Jenkins has certainly cast a couple that you truly believe are besotted with another, and that is both sweet and charming.
The movie also boasts am excellent soundtrack that has an epic central theme and a great deal of jazz to create mood where dialogue is in short supply.
But the movie is letdown by a pretty unengaging story, some very dense dialogue (it’s famine or feast in that respect) that is virtually indecipherable in places and central performances by the star struck lovers that are more lovely than moving.
The only performance that, for me, leapt off the screen was that of the mother of Kiki Layne, Regina King. It is nuanced, engaging and powerful and she deserves the recognition she is getting.
This is a year of huge black movies: Black Panther, BlackkKlansman, Green Book and this, all of which have been heavily nominated at The Oscars and BAFTAs. Of the four through it’s only Spike Lee’s terrific KKK movie that does it for me.
It’s slim pickings in the best movie department in 2019. Roma is a terrible bore, The Favourite is excellent, but is Lanthimos’ third best feature. For me the movie of the year is Cold War with The Favourite and A Star is Born close behind. Not this, that’s for sure.