Friday, 13 November 2015
(Yes, I know this post has little to do with Wagner but with my main site down for maintenance, I'm using the Wagnerian associations of its predeccesor, "Morse" as my flimsy excuse for putting it here for the time being! Oh and I've squeezed in one legit Wagner reference.)
First I should admit that I’m not a fan of detective and crime shows in general. I don’t usually care whodunit and often, by the first commercial break and a glass of wine, I’ve forgotten just what was done. However, a few months ago, I moved into a house with a tv after years of living without one. Like millions across the land, I scanned the schedules in desperation for something other than trashy reality shows and landed, again I’ve discovered like millions of others, on "Lewis". Well, that’s daft, I thought when I saw the name. Fancy trying to milk the popularity of "Morse" by featuring his more mundane sidekick. How wrong I was.
"Lewis" turned out to be ”strangely magnetic” in the words of an Oxford academic friend of mine - who should know what she’s talking about. True, it was a bit schlocky but what glorious schlock it was - all those bonkers deaths and bizarre corpses: pokers through the eyeball (to the accompaniment of Wagner's, Magic Fire Music from Die Walküre), St Sebastian-style arrows on a naked corpse, brains bashed out by a bust of Vulcan - the more academic the murder the better.
Of course as a detective show, it had to make that strange emotional demand on the audience that the genre makes as a matter of course: that we engage with the dilemmas, angst, heartaches etc of people we've only just met (the victims and perpetrators) , who have no back-story but just come in, maybe do something terrible, are then found out and get about 5 minutes of really big, almost gigantic, acting before being carted off in a hearse or police van. That explains the presence of all the well- known thespians in the casts. In the meantime, the detectives, whom some of the audience have been dropping in on for almost a decade of their lives, don’t get developed that much. We get just the occasional teasing glimpse of who they are, where they live, what they want. It’s a tantalizing and, frankly, frustrating genre for all but the most avid puzzle-solver.
But still the show exerted that magnetic force. A Cambridge friend of mine confessed that he was just happy to pour a glass of sherry and gaze at "the gorgeous golden light on those Oxford rooftops." I soon found out that all sorts of people I know have been quietly devoted to the series that I had scorned for years: a lonely airline pilot on layovers, a similarly lonely opera singer, the guy who fixed my boiler this week and my friend’s firefighter son in the backwoods of Canada. They described it variously as "reassuring, comforting, beautiful, batty, excessive" and had all grown deeply fond of the workaday, stolid Lewis and his cosy bond with his young brilliant sidekick Hathaway. Add to this, the show’s surprising sexual "heat" in the form of this same gangly, blonde, virtually celibate, DS Hathaway, and the magnetism was guaranteed.
And so this week, Lewis, Hathaway and those golden rooftops left us, ostensibly, forever.
In a "closing of the circle", Hathaway took Lewis to Heathrow airport where he’d picked him up 10 years earlier. Robbie was wearing a Hawaiian shirt then and a plumper, greyer Robbie wore a Hawaiian shirt now. A very boyish, unmarked young Hathaway picked him up then ; a harder, wearier man drops him off now. But where Lewis was the lonely widower, he now leaves for New Zealand with the lovely Laura. His circle is complete. And the deep loneliness belongs entirely to Hathaway whose story seems to have been left suspended in mid-air in the Heathrow terminal. Ever the steadfast tin soldier, he manages just a pat on Lewis’s back as the older detective leaves.
The loneliest of cops in a profession of lonely men, Hathaway ends the series watching sadly from the terminal as one of his father figures, Lewis, flies away across the world. Meanwhile, his real father awaits in the care home, dementing and unable to recognize the son with whom he never formed a real bond. I reached for the box of Kleenex as the ever-excellent Laurence Fox walked towards the camera for the last time. But I was left unsatisfied by this part of the drama: Hathaway’s character and his story feel uncomfortably unfinished.
That rule about ”no love life” for the cops was first established, I think, back as far as 1928 by American art critic William Huntingdon Wright who said: There must be no love interest. The business in hand is to bring a criminal to the bar of justice, not to bring a lovelorn couple to the hymeneal altar. (The Americans often throw that rule clean out of the window : q.v. dumpy Detective Sipowitz’s shower scene in NYPD)
In the case of Hathaway, perhaps the writers took that rule a tad too far. Nobody expects shower scenes - the cops in "Lewis" don’t get to remove a sock though Hathaway did once take off his tie to imitate phone sex?! And it would have been a disaster to domesticate him or give him a standard happy ending. But here was this brilliant, detached, emotionally and sexually repressed character who was never given quite enough to do.
Passionate, buttoned-up Hathaway who longed for connection but had no idea how to to achieve it, managed just a couple of liaisons in the decade he was on our screens. One in, "Life Born of Fire" almost had him burned to death before it was consummated, and the other in, "The Dead of Winter" resulted in a betrayal by an accomplice to murder. I’m not even going to include a very small subplot of a steady girlfriend that was tacked on to the end of "Vanishing Point" because that just felt like an afterthought. "Hey we have this virile, attractive young man in our story who never seems to get any sex so we’d better throw in a departing girlfriend and a broken romance that was never once alluded to before".
So we left this shy, yearning, sexy character with no arc, no resolution, not much of anything. I’m hoping that means that he may well show up again in a spin-off, a one-off drama, a Christmas special - something, anything that might give a great actor a chance to do more than, in Fox’s own words: "ask where someone was between 8 & 12 on a Saturday night." I’ve a few ideas of my own if ITV are interested but please, don’t leave him wandering the lonely corridors of Heathrow. He, and Laurence Fox, deserve so much more.
Thursday, 5 February 2015
Oh dear, oh dear - some poor benighted stage-hand apparently forgot to turn off a light at the back of the stage in Canadian Opera's Die Walküre last night in Toronto. There we all were, back for Act 2 after a rather gloomy, galumphing but beautifully sung Act 1 and there was this lighted area at the back of the stage. The front of the stage was a sorry sight: Wagner's gods had, apparently chosen to gather around the tree in a sandpit on a pile of rubble that had stood in for Hunding's hut in the dark and dreary 1st act. But now we got to see all the guts of a stage production: scaffolding, arc lights and ladders - the stuff that makes the magic but usually has the good grace to stay out of the magic.
Here, in what I assume was a stab at some 'nudge, nudge, wink, wink' post-modern deconstruction, here it all was - big, irrelevant and ugly as sin. And all lit up by this glaring light at the back of the stage that, as I said above, a stage hand must have forgotten to switch off. At first I thought something marvellous was about to happen back there. Perhaps a backdrop hinting at Valhalla or even a humble old everyday mountain - you know the ones the gods are supposed to be hanging out on. But when nothing happened and the light just shone and shone on what looked like a backstage rehearsal area, well, I started to worry that a stage-hand had forgotten to throw a switch and that perhaps I should tell someone because it was mightily distracting.
That said, there was not that much to be distracted from. The truly wonderful singers struggled through the limpest direction of singing-actors I've ever encountered. I did wonder, since producer Atom Egoyan is such a revered name in his home country's cinema, if perhaps he'd been a bit busy on a film-set somewhere and just phoned in his directions - what there was of them. Extraordinary artists like Christina Goerke as Brunnhilde were left to do the minimum of interacting with their fellow singers.
Act 2, to be honest, is tough for even a director like Harry Kupfer, who can ignite his singers into almost too much action or the late Patrice Chereau who could make actors out of the most immobile singer. Act 2 is long and repetitive and requires Wotan to spend most of the time giving us a "Previously on the Ring" monologue that lasts for about an hour. There is some extraordinarily beautiful music in that act but if the dramatic action does not feed into it, even that music sags and lags. Here in addition to all the tired design cliches mentioned above, all Egoyan gave us was Wotan digging Siegmund's grave or perhaps it was his own grave or the grave of his freedom or some equally tedious symbolism. Oh who cares? He just looked plain daft wielding his shovel. But this production did not on the whole even dare to be daft, it was just dull beyond belief.
I still held out some hope for Act 3. After all the Ride of the Valkyries and all that follows is rattling good theatre and Wotan's Farewell is one of the greatest pieces of music ever written. But producers rarely miss an opportunity to muck it up. There are exceptions. Seattle's Stephen Wadsworth actually had the temerity to TRUST Wagner and his stage directions and gave us a moment of great beauty and nobility. As did the much-maligned "traditional" Otto Schenk production at the Met. But 2 minutes into the "Ride" (and yes, it was the same hideous set and that light was still on) and I knew all was lost. It was time to beat a retreat before, yet again, that glorious, redemptive music was brought down to the level of a producer who can just about haul himself up to Wagner's big toe in terms of talent. I have never, ever missed the third act and I have sat through good, bad and atrocious Ring Cycles in Munich, London, Bayreuth, New York, Seattle and Vienna. Those last twenty minutes make me glad to be alive but tonight I knew they would be an unbearable travesty.
I love Canada and Canadians. I wanted to believe that a land whose culture is so enmeshed with the natural world, the climate and the elements would give us a Ring that reflected all that. But it was Seattle who managed that. Canada, instead, could claim the prize for "Ugliest Wagner Production Ever" and believe me I've seen some doozies.
As I left the theatre in search of a comforting cocktail, I was feeling sorry for all concerned. Sorry for those poor, wonderful singers who work so hard and bring such shining talent to the dimmest of productions. I was sorry for the orchestra, tucked away beneath the stage doing wonderful work and having it cancelled out by what was going on above them. I was sorry for the audience - all those wolfed-down dinners for the Wagnerian early-start, all those pretty dresses dry-cleaned and smart suits pressed, all those furrowed brows as the more generous, open-hearted among them struggled to show how open their minds were too as they gazed at the mess onstage. I was sorry for Wagner who gave us such beauty but that very beauty seems to drive people entrusted with his dramas to balance it with extreme ugliness. WHY????
But most of all I was sorry for me because as far as I know, I only get one life and well over half of it has gone by and still the rubbish Wagner productions keep coming. What I know for sure, as Oprah would say, is that this music has made my life better, bigger and more beautiful. And I've had a humble hope that I would be able to share that beauty in a theatre where the musical beauty would be matched onstage. But Atom Egoyan, Richard Jones and company, have other ideas. They have had those ideas for far too long. Back in the 1990s, the great British essayist, Bernard Levin, wrote an open letter in "The Times" asking Wagner singers, John Tomlinson and Deborah Polaski in the atrocious Richard Jones "Ring" why they did not just refuse to sing in such tripe. He did not get an answer. Twenty five years on and still the tripe keeps getting shovelled our way.
Oh and if I have made a horrible mistake and a stage hand really did leave that light on, well, I'm sorry for him or her too because, even in a country with strong unions and lenient employment laws, that must surely be a sackable offence.