The Wig Sanctuary

For unwanted or abused toupees ...

Fight, Fight, Fight!: The Theatre Award Season Commences

Tonight, within the undoubtedly sumptuous setting of the Savoy Hotel, the theatre awards season really gets going with the presentation of the Evening Standard Theatre Awards. With a slew of famous names presenting the awards (Karen Gillan and Gemma Arterton to name just two, presenting the awards for Best Design and Best Actress respectively) and Dame Edna Everage in the role of host bringing the requisite razzle-dazzle and frivolity this promises to be a brilliant evening with which to kick-start the season. In the spirit of frivolity, however, what would make it even more exciting would be if the winners were decided by fights …

Bout 1: Bertie Carvel, nominated for Best Actor for his role as Miss Trunchbull in Matilda, versus Dame Edna for the (imaginary) honour of Best Man Dressed As A Woman.

Bout 2: Richard Dear fights himself for the sake of his two plays, The Heretic and One Man, Two Guvnors.

Bout 3: Husband and wife duo Kyle Soller and Phoebe Fox have a domestic over the Outstanding Newcomer prize.

Bout 4: Benedict Cumberbatch and Johnny Lee Miller fight alternate rounds as Victor Frankenstein and the Creature for the honour of Best Actor.

Whilst it's a shame that Dominic West didn't make the cut from the long list for his work in Butley and that Anne-Marie Duff didn't pick up a nomination for her widely-acclaimed performance in Cause Célèbre, the standard of talent represented in the shortlists is nothing if not phenomenal and certainly must have caused some tough decisions for the judges. It will be interesting to see who emerges victorious from the ring ...

Yes, We Know Who You Are

Doctor Who has done strange things to the word association part of my brain. The passive TV consumption part of said brain finds itself in a surprising position of strength against the rational conversational part and the ensuing conflicts have as their catalyst the character of Harriet Jones from series 1-4 of the rebooted Doctor Who show; whenever I see Penelope Wilton in anything, TV brain shouts 'Harriet Jones liiiives!' which is more than a little odd during viewings of Calendar Girls and whenever I hear the word 'MP' it is instantly followed (at least in my mind) by 'of Flydale North'. Attempts to become conversant in parliamentary politics have been hindered by the two second pause required to replace 'of Flydale North' with the appropriate constituency. Attempts to explain which MP is now following me on Twitter are equally problematic. Dear me.The politician with the greatest perceived effect on my life is a fictional one. What does this say about our esteemed party leaders ...?

Lost and Found and Run Over

One witch's hat on the road into Trowbridge. Infinitely more interesting than a soggy, muddy glove. This makes me very happy. It's the little things, you understand ...

How Do You Get Yours?

'Her Brown Back Hanging From Her Pearls'

The other evening I took off the various items strung around my neck and flung them rather haphazardly across the room. When I looked across, I saw they had fallen together, a set of headphones lightly wrapped around four strings of fake pearls. Without reflection, the phrase "her brown back hanging from her pearls" came into my mind. For me, it is one of the most striking turns of phrase - and certainly the one which has stuck with me most clearly and tenaciously - in F. Scott Fitzgerald's Tender Is The Night; whereas pearls hanging from any part of the body would be a typical, banal image, an easy image to marry with Fitzgerald's  repeated thematic treatment of the beautiful rich, the idea of a back hanging from pearls has always seemed to me somewhat macabre and has always presented itself in very visual terms in my imagination. The pearls became fixed, a superficial point (much like the indulgence in conspicuous consumption practiced by both Rosemary and Nicole) from which to hang various parts of Nicole Diver. Nicole herself, however, was verbally dismembered, her precarious grip on being whole presciently questioned in this image. The phrase came to me so violently when looking at my clutter that I wasn't sure whether I was hearing it in my mind, remembering an image from having read the book or seeing the words in front of me. The sight of the headphones entangled with the necklace played into this momentary confusion and led me to consider the method of literary consumption today. Although there is much to recommend the tactile experience of a physical book and equally plenty of advantages offered by e-books and Kindles there need not be a preferred or superior medium for all literature; a great image (and indeed, a great story) must surely be able to transcend this, if presented simply and concisely. In this case, the visual reminded me of what I had read which I then consolidated by capturing the visual in watercolours. Due to the strength of the phrase, I am certain that it would have retained its initial impact had I not read the Tender Is The Night, but rather listened to it on an audio file or book. That is not to say that all books can be equally served by all mediums; I have recently finished Ford Madox Ford's immense (in both senses of the word) quadrilogy Parade's End, whose impressionist language and open-ended sentences drawing out images and ideas often cannot make the same impact that Fitzgerald achieves so concisely. Rather, it is so beautifully and intricately constructed and uses such words - astutely chosen but both intellectual and now obsolete - that the audience needs to have the time to re-read the sentences and roll the words about on the tip of their tongue to be able to savour and thereby appreciate the flavour of them. I doubt I would have been struck in quite the same way had I dropped my headphones onto the branch of the Groby Great Tree. But somewhere in this rambling paragraph there is a perhaps an argument: all methods of literary consumption are viable and all are to be encouraged and explored, but some are more viable for different works. To quote Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, "it [is] an aesthetic choice more than a moral one". Here the aesthetic is that of the work and not that of the medium - it's just unfortunate (and unavoidable) that an aesthetic is only truly understood in retrospect.

Midsomer Mundanity

This Wednesday, for the first time ever, I found I had no desire at all to watch Midsomer Murders. I elected instead to record it, feeling that I was perhaps obliged to watch it at some later date so as not to reveal any inconsistency in my character. Previously, I had moaned whenever I found out that I was missing it or that it had been replaced by football coverage. Having stripped the college DVD library of all (7) episodes that it contained, I stacked them proudly by my pint in the bar and primly defended my choice of entertainment by asserting that I was “practising being middle-aged”, and was, in fact, ahead of the game. But now I am suddenly finding it very difficult to care. This is to do neither with the change in protagonist (John Nettle's affable DCI Tom Barnaby has been replaced by Neil Dudgeon's equally well-acted DCI John Barnaby) nor with the racism row that erupted over casting choices earlier this year. Quite simply, in its 14^th year, the series has gone on too long and, for want of a facelift, the strain is showing. The easy charm and mild intrigue of earlier series has faded to give way to a sameness. The acting is inoffensive but utterly bland, often through no fault of the actors, but rather due to an inability to create a dialogue, direction or style which can keep up with the increasingly exotic, or rather, mad plot lines. The writers have by now mined the very depths not just of traditional motives but also of folk traditions, local myth and pagan potential perhaps in keeping with the endearingly mad spirit of Glastonbury but hardly representative of the West Country as a whole. This need not in itself be a bad thing, but the programme frequently lacks the slightly more tongue-in-cheek style more evident in earlier series which proves necessary to let the audience buy into such themes comfortably.

Relief was often offered before in the form of wry or I-know-it's-bad-but-it's-still-funny comments made by DCI Tom Barnaby or, for example, in Troy's behaviour around Cully Barnaby (inexplicably reminding me of Bambi) but is sadly lacking later on. Last week's episode (The Night of the Stag) started off well enough – body in a vat of cider – but quickly deteriorated into a farce of misogynistic tribal attitudes and the frankly ridiculous sight of male characters traipsing around the countryside dressed as deer to take advantage of their neighbours' women. This story was executed awkwardly either because all involved succumbed to the need to take it seriously or because they shied away from allowing the psychological and emotional motives to manifest themselves fully. Echoes of the Dead (S14E3) suffered precisely from the second of the above issues; a religious man decides to murder people whom he considers to have acted immorally, but the inability of both the actor and the director to do justice to the complexity of this motivation whilst believing in it utterly left the episode somewhat limp. By eschewing both humour and horror (as well as embracing a sadly dull display of direction) it failed to create any sense of freshness or engagement, which is so vital when a show has been running this long, and has to overcome transitional difficulties which arise in the change of protagonist.

We have never been led to expect a big reveal à la Christie/Conan Doyle or the forensic exploration of CSI or the grittiness of the superb Scott & Bailey which stood out magnificently this year from other detective dramas by creating its own path. But we have been led to expect if not great cerebral stimulation something more than 'inoffensive'. But never fear, I have a plan: When Simon Pegg Met Midsomer. You may say that Hot Fuzz has already got that covered, but the possibilities are endless ...

Review: Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy

I was fortunate enough to see Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy at the Cast & Crew screening the weekend before it premièred in the UK, which means, of course, that this review is somewhat belated. However, in anticipation of going to see the film a second time later this week, it seemed a good time to explain precisely why this film is worth the second visit.

Spending the last five minutes of a film valiantly fighting tears is hardly a novel experience but I have never before had to do it simply because of the sheer beauty and triumph of a film. Looking at the film, perhaps it seems odd to talk of beauty; tonally, the piece is a palette of shadows, grey and neutral, from the clothes (with the notable exception of the rather natty threads of Peter Guillam, played by a superb Benedict Cumberbatch) to the locations and right on through to George Smiley himself. Colourless and undefined, Gary Oldman's Smiley becomes part of the wallpaper, a perfect spy. What is beautiful, then, is Tomas Alfredson's aesthetic. As with his masterful Let The Right One In he brings a sense of aesthetic indulgence to Tinker Tailor, focusing on the path of a drop of sweat, a hand, a long shot of Smiley walking. It's never rushed – indeed, there's a significant wait before Smiley even utters a full sentence – and these moments come together piece by piece to explain a whole such as the ordinariness of a spy or the nerves of a waiter. Only once or twice, very briefly, does a shot become a little self-indulgent, but even when moving at its slowest it is utterly engaging. Alfredson exercises absolute mastery over his direction, instinctively knowing how to construct a narrative through his aesthetic and how to engage an audience both viscerally and intellectually without ever patronising, compromising or resorting to large loud explosions.

Large loud explosions do, of course, have their place in films. Whilst the 'more is more' ethos of Michael Bay's films perhaps constitutes an abuse of the film-maker's right to use them, they are a thrilling and bombastically fun part of the Bond and Bourne legacies. Nevertheless, even there they are incapable of delivering a truly visceral impact as gunshots are dwarfed by bigger explosions, which are subsumed by even larger set-pieces. A gunshot has little meaning and certainly does not on an empathetic level. Alfredson's moderation, however, and his ability to create suspense and invoke a truly empathetic response in his audience resurrects our understanding of the violent finality of the gunshot. The sharp crack across the shades of grey impacts on the gut and the mind, not just on the cornea.

But this alone would not constitute a great film were the acting not also there. Fortunately, it is and in spades. This role has provoked an Oscar buzz around the always excellent Oldman. He is phenomenal – restrained and wry, a spider quietly and inconspicuously setting up his trap. His re-enaction with an empty chair of his interrogation of the faceless, shadowy Karla is a highlight of the film. Nevertheless, this film was never meant to be a one-hander. It is an ensemble piece and my word, what an ensemble it is. A great performance can be understood as one where, as a critical audience member, you find that there is not a single gesture, pause or articulation you would change. To get this level of authenticity in the performance of one actor is impressive; to get it in the work of an entire ensemble is something quite extraordinary. Mark Strong as the crippled and quietly devastating Prideaux has never been better. Colin Firth continues to build on his success of recent years by capturing the precise charm, spirit, and motivation of Haydon. Kathy Burke, Toby Jones, John Hurt, Ciarán Hinds, and David Dencik all excel equally. My only complaint that Burke's Connie Sachs and Dencik's nervous Esterhase do not get nearly the amount of screen time they deserve. Particular praise, however, must go to the 'young' members of the cast, Benedict Cumberbatch and Tom Hardy (Ricki Tarr), who not only meet the game of the rest of the cast but beat them at it, dominating every scene that they are in. Cumberbatch presents an extraordinarily layered performance with the subtlest of shifts, flashes of outright humour and a raw devastation which lingers long after the moment has passed. Hardy is just as affecting as a scalphunter with a heart, moving easily and truthfully between studied nonchalence, desperation and grief. One of Le Carré's great strengths as a writer is his ability to sketch a unique, fully rounded and human character within just a couple of sentences; one of the great strengths of this cast is their ability to translate precisely this just as concisely within a single gesture.

This is a cinema of understatement and subtlety, of intellectual rigour and engagement. Its style reflects not only the content of the story, but also the integrity of Alfredson's film-making. It demands active participation from the audience who must follow carefully to understand fully the denouement, but the journey is a very beautiful one and absolutely worth the effort.

WELCOME!

Just want to welcome everyone to this new blog which aims to provide a commentary on media and the arts. There will be reviews of films, TV shows, plays, and books - old and new alike - as well as general comments on media and arts development. I hope you find it informative, interesting, and entertaining.