A man’s whole life can be changed by one book…

Dear Ta-Nehisi –

I am truly sorry. I did not know. (And had not searched, researched, or inquired.) I did not know the burden you have always worn – and still wear. I did not know what – or how; or why – your eyes bear witness; your mind carries; your heart feels. And I apologize for being afraid – lost in the humid canyons of Richmond, Virginia – when I did not know what it was to fear.

But you loaned me your eyes; shared fragments of your soul with me. And, perhaps, I began to understand. A little, anyways. Thus, even if I make mistakes in doing so, I had to reach out to thank you – as well as apologize. To say thank you for the streams of tears; the laughed recognition of the similar and the dissimilar; the sympathy and empathy. (It is not hard to make me cry, to feel; but this was something fresh, which filled me anew.)

I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills.…

One moment…, above all, had characterized my ascent. As I closed the gate behind me… I glanced backward…. All I could think was how magnificent this view is; how wonderful it is to live here; and how miraculous it was that previous generations had allowed the place to evolve – that glorious medley of stone and brick; of slate and tile – without damaging the heavenly spirit of our miraculous haven.

     But then doubt seized me as hard as any physical pain: and I wondered if this majesty could last; if our children will be the last to see, to enjoy, Tysoe at its best…. I see the prevalence of money (and its cousin greed) beginning to prevail again: dividing, destroying, dominating. I see equality dissolving; monopolies of wealth domineering and discriminating – …and with the power not just to rend the social paradise asunder, but the village’s physical existence, too. Not only that: but those who would fight such change are being quashed methodically and cruelly. What I saw was entropy made manifest… – and made by man.

     Of course, I could thrill in the current material resplendence, and ignore the political shenanigans; roam these splendid pastures, blinkered to their travails, for as long as I am able. But I am not the sort of person who – intellectually – can stand idly by….

A study of 120 neighbourhood forums and plans completed in 2014 by Locality and the University of Reading was not reassuring. Amongst its key findings were that many participants feel oversold on the plenipotentiary powers of neighbourhood planning and that participants do not see neighbourhood plans as radically changing the culture of [the] planning system.

– Nicholas Boys Smith: Is Neighbourhood Planning flourishing or withering? And how can communities do it better?

There are many reasons why I no longer get excited (well, not in a positive way) about the prospect of Tysoe possibly/finally – after years of squabbling; misdirection; bullying; sniping; lack of democratic involvement; character assassination; lack of understanding… – developing/finalizing its own (chimerical) Neighbourhood Plan; and, sadly, many of those “reasons” have been readily rehearsed on this blog. But, in the end (if this is such), there are three main questions to be answered. [My worry being that we will be given the ‘wrong’ responses (again): because, of course, in today’s political climate, we are not meant to (know enough to) actively challenge; just passively and dumbly do what we are told.]

1. Who is it (really) for?

After all this time – probably because no real effort was made to educate (ha!) residents on the back of the stunning enthusiasm that was corralled (mainly by one man) for the original Gladman rejection in Kineton (an easy advantage that was left to rot: principally, from my perspective, as part of a huge stinking pile of arrogance) – I don’t believe many in the three villages know or care what the heck such a beast is; what it should look like; what it can (and, more importantly, cannot) do. Consultations have been tokenistic (even though “meaningful” public engagement is a legal requirement); and no effort has been made – seemingly deliberately (if you can do nothing “deliberately”: which, of course, you can… it is indeed at the core of the majority of such political decisions) – to discover why the Village Hall hasn’t regularly had a queue outside it stretching all the way back to Oxhill Road. Villagers therefore feel utterly excluded; that it (whatever “it” is) is the preserve of a strangely invisible cabal; and do not – like myself – know (as they should do) if it is ‘owned’ (as it should be) by their elected representatives: either at Parish, District or County level. (The obvious response, here, is that it should belong to each and every resident: but, considering many of the previous sentences, this soon ‘resolves’ itself into a circular and pointless argument… – which of course, has become the plan’s unremitting methodology.)

Under the [Government’s] localism agenda, the wheels for private-sector encroachment into public planning have been further oiled, with the introduction of neighbourhood plans. Presented as a means of empowering communities, they have in fact left the door wide open for canny developers to move in, host a few community coffee mornings with felt-tips and post-it notes, and engineer a plan to their own advantage. There is no requirement for those who draw up the plan to even reside in the neighbourhood and, although they need a 50% “yes” vote at referendum, there is no requisite minimum turnout.

– Oliver Wainwright: The truth about property developers: how they are exploiting planning authorities and ruining our cities

2. What is it (good) for?

Fundamentally, Tysoe’s Neighbourhood Plan is unnecessary. It is also irrelevant in its constrained, required form; and useless in the form it last appeared in. Two large proposals – for that field again [if we keep on fighting over this tiny patch of land – and once really should have been enough… – it will soon be as blood-soaked as that at Edgehill (if not the room where Parish Councillors are taken to be unceremoniously knifed in the back)]; and for land above Middleton Close (incidentally, initiated by a local resident, for goodness’ sake) have been, respectively, withdrawn, and (I am told) rejected, on rather simple grounds: that there is enough housing stock in the pipeline. [Whether or not this has anything to do with the Lack-of-Foresight Saga that is the adoption of the Core Strategy, I really do not know… – and, to be blunt, really don’t give a tinker’s wotsit about: apart from the fact that we seem to be replicating its power-skewed process within this very parish. (What I do care about is the spirit of many selfless locals – which manifests itself in a repetitive slog of objections… – and the spirit of the place I live in: which, thankfully, being relatively intangible, cannot easily be bought, sold, or conquered (although I am beginning to have my doubts…).)]

Powers to allow communities to draw up Neighbourhood Plans (NPs) are one of the new “community rights” promoted in the Localism Act. At one level this looks like a welcome development – but it comes from a Conservative-led [Government] bent on austerity and privatisation. We need to ask what exactly is going on, and who will benefit?

     By emphasising communities and neighbourhood organisation, Neighbourhood Plans are part of the ‘big society’ agenda. Following disputes over planning policy, they are a government response to rebellious rural parishes and shire counties opposing urban sprawl and top-down government housing targets….

     However, Neighbourhood Plans… are not an open-ended community right; the right depends upon conditions set down by government and local authorities. For example, the government has bowed to pressure from the house building industry and has said that NPs cannot be used to oppose new development – much to the disappointment of many (mainly rural) communities who want to use the power to block new housing schemes they don’t want in their back yard.

     NPs must also conform to the National Planning Policy Framework [NPPF] recently announced by government, and also to local authority approved plans; they cannot buck approved planning policy…. This means that administering the NP process will be highly political….

– Bob Colenutt, Northampton Institute for Urban Affairs: A conditional right: the Localism Act and Neighbourhood Plans

3. Why is it (even) necessary?

If there truly is “enough housing stock in the pipeline” – and, although, once upon a time, I would have been the go‑to guy for the answer, I do not know… – then why are we being asked to nominate parcels of land for developers to cherry-pick? Or, as I wrote sixteen months ago:

We do not need a shopping list of fields for developers to target. What we need is a Tysoe which develops – as much as it can: as much as any “precious stone set in the silver sea” – in a way that we all recognize and wish for; and which does not lead our children and grandchildren continually to curse us for bequeathing them a village that is sterile through repetitious housing developments; even more isolated than now, because we did not grasp the chance to become subsistent in non-fossil-fuel-based power and motivation; or that has crumbled into a hollow, unrecognizable ghost and an uncomfortable locale to inhabit… because all we cared about was now, was instant gratification, was ourselves.

During the last Parish Council meeting I went to – which, for many reasons (health and accessibility being concrete ones; a lack of faith being, well, not theoretical as such, just in line with my fellow villagers’ disregard, disbelief, and dissatisfaction), was quite a long time ago – one of the councillors actually said, confidently, that “having a Neighbourhood Plan will protect the village”. (Perhaps they had imagined building a high Trumptonesque wall out of the rejected drafts…?) Whether this was ignorance, or evidence of subscription to a mis-sold view, or simply political disingenuousness (or even a weirdly-coloured cocktail of all three), I actually could not work out. (The only result, really, was that this was the moment when I had confirmed to me the tenet that if codswallop is repeated often enough, it soon gains, in some people’s wrong-heads, a palpable veneer of authenticity.) At least I knew, in my ultra-puzzled state, that it was blatantly wrong.

Firstly, because, at the time, the Core Strategy was just a fluffy cloud floating above Chris Saint’s head (rather than in his back pocket) – and therefore, even if we had accepted the mess then on the table, it would just have been an inconsequential piece of paper, as waved by Neville Chamberlain. And, secondly… because that is not what it does, or can do, at all. All it is, is another “piece of paper” to be added to the administrative burden of the rapidly shrinking Stratford-on-Avon District Council Planning department, when someone tries it on again with yet another time-wasting, ridiculous proposal. [Have we really got the resources – time, people, expertise, huge wads of cash… – to endlessly take developers to court to enforce a rethink each time they propose something that whoever is ‘in charge’ of Tysoe dislikes? (Oh, and don’t be surprised if they do the same to us – permanently and repeatedly challenging whatever it is we end up with – when they don’t like the look of what we have idealized…!)]

And, yes, I know we can “say” (to quote the latest glossy missive) what we would like such “ridiculous proposals” to look like, once built somewhere inappropriate. But that can also/similarly be ignored and challenged, of course… – and, as I have asked before (two blummin’ years ago), do we really want to stamp our unimaginative Country Life-reading mark all over centuries of beautiful, charming, sporadic and spontaneous architectural evolution with identical clusters of identical ironstone ‘cottages’? (Our parish truly does not need designing: it just needs to evolve – as it has done for millennia.)

If the answer to the previous (admittedly rhetorical) question, though, is “yes” – from those that have (or think, ahem, they have) power (and possibly taste: whichever end it sits on that particular spectrum) – then, the “backward glance” (and its associated deep love for the place I live), as I hauled myself past Old Lodge Farm, that simultaneously lifted my heart and prompted this rant, has absolutely no value. (And this, of course, needs to be multiplied by the number of all those who similarly “love” this place….)

All we want is something simple, that we all can understand:

Nothing complex or beyond us; notions rooted in the land;

A village with a future; where each to each is known;

A place which folk find welcoming; that is everybody’s own;

Where, gradually, in union, with corresponding power,

We spread this presence evenly, and remember well that our

Stay upon this well-tilled soil means little to time’s sprawl;

Though man is one of many visitors whose impact may be small

Next to heaven’s mighty globes and the voyages they’ve turned;

But that yet we must be wary of the furrows that we’ve churned.

And, what is worse (and so much worse): this means that my worry that Tysoe has just become a ‘condensation’, an enclave, a miniature representation of prevalent national right-wing attitudes, government, power – where the proletariat are ignored; ‘otherness’ is actively reviled; and everything is decided by the privileged few for that few… – has in fact become reality: whilst we were cleverly being distracted by the beauty that currently surrounds us; instead of watching out for Boojums with attitudes that you (once?) thought only existed in public school quadrangles. Farewell, democracy.

Rape and pillage; rinse and repeat…

“Those stupid yokels in Tysoe won’t be up for another fight,” says Fat Greedy Bastard No.1 (FGB1) to FGB2. “We almost won, last time,” is the reply, between loosely-gritted teeth; “and I’ve already noticed that there are a lot fewer objections”. “Perhaps it’s because no-one can be bothered to fight anymore… – just as we planned. I certainly haven’t seen any of those notices we had, last time, pinned to trees, fences and lamp-posts; nor any of those huge village meetings.”

“It’s in the can, then, isn’t it?” gloats FGB1. “Instead of eighty houses in one place, splitting them over two fields seems to have done the trick.” “I think you’re right,” smirks FGB2. “Those on the Oxhill side won’t give a flying duck about those in Middleton Close; and vice versa. Divide and conquer. That’s what I always say. Divide and conquer.”

“I do think it’s wonderful that we’re allowed to simply walk in to – and walk all over – a field that cost thousands to defend, and just do it all again. Attrition – that’s my keyword. Grind the buggers down; and they’ll just roll over, and let you do whatever you want. Attrition. That’s the beauty of brass!”

So, where are the leaflets, hand-delivered by the “neighbourhood champions”? Are the People’s Front of Tysoe – or whatever they called themselves (The People’s Front of NoIdea?) – still so pissed-off at being found out (or having the Riot Act read out to them) by the Parish Council, that they’re cutting off their noses to spite their faces… (apart from the Great Tew: from whom I must beg forgiveness…)? Or are all we so happy/pissed-off (delete according to political nous) ourselves at #Brexit that we just haven’t noticed? Great timing, innit?! Chilcot, anyone?

The deadline has passed for the planning application that would literally flood Middleton Close were it to come to fruition – which, to a cynic such as myself, just looks like trying to build houses for thirty families who could then traipse their children up the hill to the nearest nursery, raising even more cash for its progenitor. But, we still have until next Wednesday to object to Gladman Mk.II.

All the previous reasons for not granting this permission, last time, actually apply to both applications; and, if you can be bothered, most of the points made in the following comprehensive document (about a 20 Mb download, I’m afraid) – which I produced, with the help of several others, thirty months ago – actually still also therefore apply to both. Copy and paste as much, or as little, of it, as you wish into the links above; and then barrage your local councillor – and of course, Chris ‘Teflon’ Saint, with as much vitriol as you want. (By the way, has anyone seen our MP, recently… – apart from in this week’s Herald, looking rather fetching in one of George Osborne’s high-vis jackets and matching hard hat…?)

That the planning laws are a whole herd of mega-donkeys, in allowing us to keep having to defend the same parcel of land from rapacious invaders again and again, is in no doubt. But, last time, we showed what we were made of; and I pray we can do it again… rather than slip in it.

I am far too disabled to go through what I went through last time – not sleeping for days on end – continually researching the law; producing leaflets; collating contact details; starting this blog, even… – but we would be just as stupid as the two FGBs above assume if we were not to fight back; and we would just get what we deserve. So that’s me done. Sorry.

Joseph Ashby, my much greater and more virtuous predecessor, must be rolling in his grave. Me, though, I’m off to have my head scanned. Literally.

Then to burst forth – we float…

It felt like careering along on a rollercoaster of emotion. Or surfing upon pounding, ever-increasing waves of the ineffable. At one point – at the climax of Never doubt I love (words that already have special resonance for me… – a meaning which now has multiplied…) – I knew how Gerontius felt, standing before his God. It was not just soul-rending. It was as if someone had reached deep within my heart and mind; unearthed my personal definition of the sublime, the divine, the celestial… and – for one extended moment – magnified it and presented it back to me a million-fold. Truth and beauty are my religions: and tonight, I prostrated myself before their joint altar; and communicated with rapturous angels of the empyrean.

The above movement is the stunning pivot around which Dobrinka Tabakova’s magnificent, essence-shattering Immortal Shakespeare revolves: circumscribing the perfect arc of man’s “exits and entrances” in music of such devastating purity and other-worldly harmony, that to say it was not out of place amongst – nay, was an equal of – three of the greatest works of transcendental radiance by Vaughan Williams, speaks volumes. (However, that is in no way going to prevent me from adding a few more said volumes myself….) This new work – performed here, in Holy Trinity Church – Shakespeare’s resting place – faultlessly (and with great gusto, and even more subtlety) by the Orchestra of the Swan and their Chamber Choir, under artistic director David Curtis, for the very first time – was itself the centrepiece, therefore, of a concert of quite the most “tumultuous and unquenchable power”.

The evening began with RVW’s paean to that most ephemeral of birds, The Lark Ascending. I have heard this orchestra, with the unsurpassable Tamsin Waley-Cohen on violin, play this many times (and if you haven’t yet got their CD of it, go and buy it now…) – and yet everyone involved managed to eke out yet more exquisiteness.

I felt the skylark rise, disturbed, from beneath my feet; the flutter of its rapid wings beating pulses of air into my inner being. I could see it, high above me, rapidly beating above the chalk downs; its loud, distinctive melodic call and warbling trills echoing, echoing…. Then parachuting; before climbing again. And again….

Waley-Cohen performs, interrogates this with such striking intensity – her tone, sublimely matched to the music, ranging from hushed earthiness to a beatific, soaring, incommunicable luminosity – that such images, such feelings, appear readily. This is her work: it flows so beautifully from her bow. And, needless to say, the orchestra are her match. All you need to know about them all is contained within this single piece of wonderment: their celestial dynamics; their shrewd tempi; their translucence….

And then Tabakova’s “Cantata for choir and orchestra” – five words that do not even begin to define this masterpiece. “Dobrinka says of this that it contains some of her finest music to date”, writes Curtis, in his introduction to the programme – and I would not, could not disagree. (And if you haven’t got the CD of some of her previous “finest”, String Paths, go and buy it now. Be warned, though, it will shred your heart and soul with its addictive, profound beauty….)

To me, her music sounds – and feels – both extremely modern, and yet extremely romantic (the nearest comparison, for me, I suppose, is Howard Skempton). And – thinking, for example, of the titles of the movements of her Concerto for Cello and Strings (‘Turbulent, Tense’; ‘Longing’; ‘Radiant’) – and her setting, here, of Never doubt I love (“Hamlet’s letter to Ophelia”) – it is also extremely emotional (which is, of course, A Good Thing).

That it is, in some ways, also ‘simple’ (although with many turbulent, technical undercurrents and textures flowing beneath the surface beauty), implies that I also find her music easy to listen to (again, A Good Thing…). However, it provokes intense feelings that I struggle to describe – in her own words, “music that grabs you and has something to say”.

But it is listening…. This is music that you can’t simply hear…. It pulls you in; questions you; forces you to pay attention – and there aren’t many composers who have that ability. (Few contemporary composers – to me… – seem keen to expose their own hearts – in the way, say, Schubert, Elgar, or, indeed, Vaughan Williams did. The ones that come instantly to mind include the late Peter Maxwell Davies; James MacMillan; and Arvo Pärt.)

But I am evading the issue. How am I supposed to “struggle to describe” what I heard, felt, tonight…?

¶

I have lived with this work for a few months: but only in the form of its orchestral score. That its brilliance shines from the page is testament to Tabakova’s obvious talent and inspiration. Perform it – as it must be performed – and it evokes elation; bliss; ecstasy; and deep, deep turmoil.

If you weren’t there (and if you were…), then you can hear the work broadcast on Sunday at 16:00 on BBC Radio 3 (preceded by Choral Evensong, with this selfsame orchestra and choir, also from Holy Trinity). However, here are my (vivid) reactions – reading back through that now-autographed (and therefore treasured) full score.

The Prelude begins “With excitement”, growing into “wonder and anticipation” (the composer’s own markings) – which I found ethereal; and which the orchestra played with typical great feeling. The soundscape is stunningly original – Tabakova has a way of combining disparate instruments to render something fresh, something (sometimes) disturbing: and her instructions throughout are of great clarity – which is reflected in the resultant music. We are introduced to themes that will reappear – forming that “perfect arc” – one of which is a simple motif ‘spelling out’ the Swan of Avon’s own name. (This is almost a choral symphony: such is its grand scale and structure.) Our attention is grabbed; and the ground is laid.

And then the choir enters (directed, and trained – amazingly – by Suzanne Vango… – oh, my goodness, what power…). “All the world’s a stage”. Words at once so famous, but here so fresh, original. Now we know what we are in for: orchestral and choral delights. That opening phrase grows from mezzopiano to forte – and we will never hear them the same way again. Their magic is unleashed in this short movement. (And I wouldn’t be surprised, if Bill, looking down from his memorial, was grinning from ear to ear!)

This is followed by the somewhat deceptive Brave new world. With The Tempest also lending Prospero’s “set me free” to the seventh section, Dobrinka describes these textual excerpts as “little gems: which bookend the piece; give it symmetry” (more of that “arc”). Commencing with a “Playful, light”, almost jazz-like, syncopated motif for flute, clarinet and vibraphone; the strings and harp enter like little spirits, creeping almost imperceptibly, but adding quiet notes of menace. And then, one of the most gorgeous, rising themes I have ever heard appears (and, remember, we have just listened to The Lark Ascending…). “Arise” – and it does; and how. But, what’s that we hear? The ascent is completed by none other than Waley-Cohen, rising from the string section, with a descant of such purity that my heart may have stopped.

This is so very inspirational – paying tribute, almost; but taking us in glorious new directions. Again, this figure will re-emerge – and it does not lose its vigour in doing so. I stared at that beautiful wooden roof. How could I not? And the first of this work’s many tears streamed down my face. (Sorry, Dobrinka….)

It is a movement of “blessings” in so many ways. There is an air of mystery provided by the violin’s marvellous counterpoint; and yet the choir’s proclamations advance imperiously, wondrously. The trumpet calls, doubling Waley-Cohen momentarily; and yet we keep on ascending with the wonder of it all. “How many goodly creatures are there here! How beauteous mankind is!” The music illustrates Shakespeare’s words with heaven-filling accuracy, potency and grace. And then the opening syncopated motif reappears: gentler, this time; and we go to meet the angels; all earthly matters left behind.

For one moment, there is a hint of a Vaughan Williams-like, gentle, melodic folk-tune “in the shoulder of your sails”. Such beautiful singing; such perfect pauses from Curtis. “And you are stayed for.” The orchestra here provides intermittent, gentle accompaniment (a magical scrape of the cymbal from the uncredited Jan Bradley – my player of the night: mastering the vibraphone, five temple blocks, a tambourine, the timpani, and those cymbals… – indicating “hoops of steel”). This is as magical as choral writing can be…. (In fact, it seems obvious – for example, reading the rhythms of the word-setting; as well as the ‘controlled’ – and, I think, relevant – use of melisma… – that Tabakova really, really enjoys choral writing! We certainly enjoyed the results….)

¶

And then, just when you think you could not possibly be moved any more, tiny earth-tremors appear, in the form of what appears to be a simple, incessant ground bass, split, in fifths, between the violas and cellos. But you have to be wary, assuming anything here is “simple”. This is the movement that probed my very essence…

Doubt that the stars are fire,

Doubt that the sun doth move his aides,

Doubt truth to be a liar,

But never doubt I love

…these powerful words initially, incisively, crisply whispered by the chorus (sending shivers down my spine); again, accompanied by that transcendent solo violin. Gentle murmurings from the bassoon and horn lead to the quietest zenith of spread harp chords and wind for that last line. How could we possibly doubt anything, on this evidence…? (I have written “Phew!” in the score at this point. That just about hits the spot, I think.)

A sustained high note – “Moving forward…” – from Waley-Cohen – and the pressure starts to build. Oh, so, so gradually, though. Those magical spread chords again. (Where did I put my soggy handkerchief?) And there is choral writing – but for the violins and harp. Such magic. The solo violin re-enters: as gentle as rain on a summer’s day. But this feels like a funeral procession, such is the state of my soul. The violin sighs with passion – “Hold back” writes the composer; and Waley-Cohen judges her rubato to shattering perfection. The build continues. Every member of the orchestra is playing, but we are merely at mezzoforte. There is so much more to come.

And then the violin, flute and trumpet deliver a descending theme, which, repeated, gathers with it spread chords of vehement perfection. “Hold back…”. This is it. And then the choir enters, singing those piercing words with instructional fortitude. No, this is it. But it continues to build. “Hold back…”. We have string writing that even Vaughan Williams may have been a little envious of. We fade to pianissimo. “But never doubt I love…”. How could I…?

¶

Curtis paused. We all needed time to recover. And then gentle thrumming strings – “Tense, with suspense” – begin the next movement….

The King John “be fire with fire” speech, which forms the basis of this thrilling fourth section, features some of Shakespeare’s most powerful words (and on a level with anything Henry V declaims). And, again, the music matches it. A side drum alerts us to distant battle; an approaching army launches fanfares; and the choir instructs us not to “see fear”. But this is fearsome stuff.

Those fanfares grow in confidence; but the choir’s is greater. This is a battle of wills (with some superb percussion writing and playing). And suddenly the strings interject with growling, terminated crescendos. The battle is won; and fades away.

The fifth and sixth sections – Truth will come to light and All the world’s a stage – are conjoined; and reintroduce those earlier themes. As Edmund says in King Lear – “The wheel is come full circle, I am here.” But this is no simple repeat. Yes, the solo violin returns; but the music is developed, opened up (the nine-part choral writing at “many parts” is both illustrative and stupendous). Echoed motifs lure us on to the end. But it comes not yet…

…to that glorious “Arise” theme from Brave new world, we move seamlessly into the seventh section – Set me free, also, of course, from The Tempest. This feels inevitable and just. It (just) had to happen.

When it came to the seventh section, Tabakova admits that “I find old age difficult…. So much of what Shakespeare wrote about old age is depressing”. And one only has to take a sideways glimpse at, say, the above-mentioned King Lear, to concur. But, in his “farewell to the theatre”, The Tempest, she finally found what she was looking for. “It felt like a huge relief. The words are a little lighter than Julius Caesar – which was a potential contender. Prospero’s words – especially ‘set me free’ – felt more natural. They hint at immortality.”

So we dissolve into “Ethereal, resolved” woodwind and harp quavers, unsettling motions beneath the choir’s sustained music. But not for very long. The rising theme asserts its stunning supremacy. (But not for very long.) The woodwind and harp return, floating, bobbing almost… until those magical words: “set me free” – and then Shakespeare’s own theme cascades from trumpet to clarinet to flute, to oboe… finally to the strings, who ponder it, quietly, before taking us, even more gently, heavenwards.

¶

The Postlude is an extended miracle of unaccompanied choral writing – a “chorale” – with just gentle support from the organ. In a way, it brings everything back to reality – “a poignant ending that I hope everyone in the church will experience and feel”, says Tabakova. And I believe we did.

The music, in these dying moments – a full-orchestral ppppp – is even more astonishing than that which precedes it. It truly is rivetingly beautiful. It gives Shakespeare’s memorial the life, the humanity, it describes. And we are left with the chorus hanging in space and time….

It therefore took me several extended, sobbing, moments to remember how to applaud. Let’s just say that Holy Trinity’s roof also hovered, raised by joy and amazement, for many, many minutes. We knew that we had witnessed, well…

Spirits to enforce, art to enchant…

Which pierces so that it assaults

Mercy itself and frees all faults.

This is a work that will have a long, long life – far surpassing ours. The rest is silence.

Except, of course, it wasn’t.

Vaughan Williams’ Fantasia on a Theme by Thomas Tallis demonstrates both his unquenchable ability to write string music of magical qualities; and the Orchestra of the Swan’s ability to render them fresh, involving, edifying, even. Curtis explored the depths and the heights; the silences and the waves of sound. Simply put: yet more perfection. (He tells me that I am “generous” in my reviews. However, others tell me that I am simply stating it as it is. And I am.)

We ended the evening with the emotional pounding that is the same composer’s Toward the Unknown Region. And I simply cannot understand why this is not more frequently performed. Its setting of the splendiferous Walt Whitman’s Darest Thou Now, O Soul is appositely glorious and meaningful.

Here, Curtis’ mastery was in full flow. It would be easy to go full-out, hard-hitting the earlier summits of emotion; but the choir and orchestra held just enough back so that the final climax walloped you full-on with all its manifest glory.

Then we burst forth – we float,

In Time and Space, O Soul – prepared for them;

Equal, equips at last – (O joy! O fruit of all!) them to fulfil, O Soul.

I am still floating. And will be for several days. (I also still have tears streaming down my sodden face. But I am happy. This was a remarkable evening. And I would not, could not have missed it for the world.)

¶

Yet again, the full moon guided me home. I am so glad it knew the way. I felt lost, tiny in a gigantic world of beautiful sound. It cradled me. It cradles me still. (Thank you, Dobrinka. Thank you, David. Good night, all.)

Against strife and contention…

At a loss for something local to do, and with a small wodge of time to while away, I wandered lazily into Tredington: lured by “the tallest spire in Warwickshire” (reminding me of my beloved Salisbury) and too-frequent unacted-upon glimpses from the road of a uniquely seductive clump of surrounding houses and grassy plots. (Next time, I must remember to take my DSLR.)

From the comments in the recently-published Parish Plan – including “Rural quality with interesting architectural historic mix…” and “Its beauty and history”, in response to the question “What do you like most about living round here?” – this would appear to be a thriving, involved community. In fact, as I meandered through the village, it felt like a place that was truly at ease with itself – with its mixture of building styles and periods; stone, brick, slate and thatch. Such a lack of uniformity is, I think – especially huddled together in such a small area – at the heart of its attractiveness.

In such an obviously rural – and therefore quite isolated – location, it’s strange to learn that I could once have caught a tram from here to Stratford-upon-Avon! Although a large part of me – especially whilst struggling to limp across the Shipston Road: as an extended cavalcade of tailgating cars, blatantly exceeding the speed limit, thoughtlessly ran through, slicing the village cruelly in half – then thought that such once-again-fashionable transport provision (as demonstrated by its recent adoption in Birmingham) would probably render the place both safer and a lot greener.

It was mizzling as I entered the churchyard; but, as I meandered around inside, transfixed by a centuries-old and ‑deep beauty, hesitant, developing patches of pale blue appeared through the many ancient, clear-paned leadlights. And yet I couldn’t be enticed back outside!

If you have a moment, walk to the top of the road (where the thatched cottage is visible) and look back towards the church. On a sunny day, with the thatched building to your left, an Elizabethan house on the right, and the spire of St Gregory’s rising high above the surrounding cottages, it’s as pretty a village sight as you will see anywhere in England.

This excerpt comes from a wonderful, insightful review of St Gregory’s by David Ross – and from the way it is written, I think it is easy to conclude that this sacred space affects many as it did me. (For those who want more – and immediate – information, there is also an immensely detailed and scholarly description of its architectural history on British History Online; plus, of course, guidebooks available to purchase in the church itself – including the history quoted below.) And so I lingered – luckily having the building to myself – for almost an hour: intrigued by its complex layers of development; its manifold – and yet ultimately harmonious – architectural palimpsests (with “deeply splayed” Saxon windows still evident high in the nave); its immersive beauty and immense humanity.

If one stands at the font and looks east, a whole history book is open before one – the Saxons and the Danes – the Normans – the fine English Gothic of the chancel – the screen a relic of Roman Catholic days and the pulpit of the time when England was in the midst of a bloody civil war. Also one sees, high above the nave, a well preserved coat of arms. At first sight this appears to be that of Queen Victoria, but on closer inspection it is found that the V.R. is super-imposed on G.R. This suggests that the coat of arms therefore dates back to some considerable time before Victoria’s reign.

– DML Davis: The Parish Church of St. Gregory

I have to say that my favourite object was the font (above) – “It is a magnificent relic” – in the west end: if only for the “Old staples, on [its] steps, said to be a guard against witches!” But that tower – “210 ft high” – and the “60 ft long” nave and “forty-five feet long” chancel, are certainly both worthy of admiration (if not amazement – just for their sheer scale); as are the remains of fifteenth-century woodwork (in the rood screen, reconstructed “bench ends and pew fronts”, and “probably” also the lectern). The fourteenth-century north door – which may originally have been hung in the “reset… limestone and grey lias” Norman south entryway; and with its “lead bullets… dating to the Civil War” – also forms a weighty welcome and farewell. This is a substantial edifice: with authority over all who bestride its threshold.

This then is the church of St. Gregory at Tredington. You have read how history has passed through it. It was built during the Danish invasion, it was enlarged and beautified in the medieval period and simultaneously was involved in the estrangement of the English monarch from the papacy; it was concerned with the Reformation under Henry VIII and was held in plurality by his Latin Secretary Petrus Vannes; it escaped during the Marian reaction but still carries a book of Elizabethan religious compromise; it saw and took part in the civil war and thence it has settled and become a less interested party. No longer is its advowson a source of conflict. No longer are its walls needed as protection. But it is by no means dead. It remains a memorial to men’s labour and generosity, and a witness to living faith.

– DML Davis: The Parish Church of St. Gregory

A canal (or two) runs through it…

The construction of the Abbeys is a marvel to behold, for in a day when fresh water was a concern, the Cistercians had plenty. They always sought out locations that were secluded and on a running river or stream. The monks would dam sections to create enough flow to carry water to every portion of the Abbey. Water would flow through kitchens, to basins for washing and they even had indoor plumbing where waste would drop into the river and be carried away from the Abbey.

– TemplarHistory.com: The Cistercians

I remember the venerable (and much-missed) Mick Aston once, during an episode of Time Team, describing the Cistercians as “God’s plumbers”: due to the way they so perfectly tamed their surroundings…

…clearing woodland and scrub, draining marshes and building canals, mills and fishponds. Even though such activities by Cistercians may have been over-emphasized by researchers in the past, and such landscape changes were in any case widespread by the twelfth century, [knowledge of engineering skills in building and water control, together with the means to use it] was nevertheless a major aspect of early Cistercian monasteries to modify dramatically the landscape in which they were built.

– Michael Aston: Monasteries (Know the Landscape)

His soubriquet came to mind whilst pootling along the short section of the Heart of England Way between Baddesley Clinton and the junction, at Kingswood, of the Stratford-upon-Avon Canal with the Grand Union Canal (the latter, one of the pinnacles of mankind’s “hydrological innovation”; and – one could say, with ironic tongue in sardonic cheek – the HS2 of its day… – although I will always prefer the Leeds and Liverpool for its infinite variety, and the cherished memories formed walking along many, many miles of its towpaths during my youth).

There may be no obvious Cistercian-required “running river or stream” in this Warwickshire locale – but I believe that the monks would be impressed, looking down from their quiet version of heaven upon these now-generally-peaceful “motorways of the 1700s”, to see their “knowledge of engineering skills” (evolved from those of the Romans, of course) put to such elegant use (and so very well‑maintained).

Back at Baddesley, survey work carried out for the National Trust in late 1994 confirms just how much “water control” has been instituted during its long and engrossing existence:

A wooden sluice was exposed near the south-east corner of the moat. This is probably the finest example of its kind recorded systematically in the United Kingdom. Survival of such features in wood is extremely rare, and the author knows of no other intact example archaeologically recorded….

     The sluice structure appears to be a very well-preserved example of a sluice type commonly in use today, and known as a ‘monk’. The name implies monastic invention, but the association between monasteries and hydrological innovation is not now so readily supported by more recent research than was once considered. The slotted area in front of the back wall was probably intended to take removable wooden boards, which were inserted to hold the water in the moat, and removed when the moat needed draining. These wooden boards would be fitted loosely initially, but on swelling from contact with water would have made a waterproof fit. The ‘monk’ sluice is extremely efficient when used on water features that require regular draining and maintenance. They are the most popular sluice type in use today amongst fish-farmers, and are of an ancient design that probably dates back, in its simplistic form, to at least Roman times…. It is not possible to give a date on present evidence, but there is no reason why such structures should not be medieval in origin. The present example, however, has probably been replaced on a number of occasions, and is probably the latest example of a long succession of similarly designed sluices used to control water in this particular moat.

– Christopher K Currie: A watching brief on service trenches at Baddesley Clinton, Warwickshire

Poring over the Ordnance Survey map for the area, as is my wont, it is readily apparent that the Baddesley Clinton estate is as much defined by the amount of light-blue ink – despite that lack of a major indigenous waterway (although the water table appears to be quite close to the surface, in places…) – on the page, as by its remarkable, beautiful, historical and welcoming architecture. In fact, a comparison with neighbouring Wroxall Abbey – “In medieval times… a small Benedictine Convent” – although this is probably due to the manor-house’s more recent and continual habitation – demonstrates just how “dramatically” the local landscape has been sculpted. (The Poor Clare Community – their convent still visible on the road to Baddesley – was a much more modern establishment.)

For instance, there is an apparent leat – or, at least, a diverted and enlarged brook – heading down a hollow towards the manor from the direction of Hay Wood; and a well, not far off, in Church Field – although this may have been part of “a small village, possibly never very large”: as there are evident remains of ridge-and-furrow, despite several centuries of grazing and hoof-trampling. And then there is, of course, the famous “Moate” (originally one of a pair): connected to the Great Pool (with its twin islands), Long Ditch, and brace of “stew ponds”.

There are also other notable (but relatively diminutive) bodies of water between the aptly-named Mill Meadow and New Wood; as well as a more obvious pair (probably also fishponds) feeding towards this, at the junction of Lime, Barn and Little Church Fields. As Aston writes: “often fishponds were linked to systems of water supply, drainage and mill complexes in elaborate water control and management operations”; and it is nigh impossible, therefore, to believe that the coincidence of the supplying streams and ditches with the unbending field boundaries that join these bodies of water together is natural – a suspicion confirmed by the National Trust’s earlier appraisal (also quoted above):

One of the most interesting items in the medieval deeds, relate[s] to the recording of a mill associated with a fishery in the 1440s. Roberts records three demesne ponds in Baddesley Clinton between 1443 and 1448. These are called Lydgate Pool, Black Pool, and Milne Pool. It is probable that the Milne Pool is the fishpond recorded associated with a mill. The 1699 map records two fields adjacent to the Great Pond west of the moated site, as Mill Meadow and Mill Field, thus seeming to establish this pond as the site of the medieval mill. The mill is recorded in a number of later documents extending from 1531 through to 1668, after which date it is not recorded again….

     There are at least a dozen ponds of reasonable size shown on the 1699 map. Any one of these could have existed in the medieval period, either as a purpose built pond similar to the Mill Pond, or as quarries that later filled with water, and were subsequently used as fishponds.

– Christopher K Currie

There are many fascinating and picturesque (as well as beautiful and sublime) walks in the area around Baddesley Clinton, Hay Wood and Rowington Green – as well as nearby Packwood House. But simply ambling around the grounds can be its own reward – especially as the sun can be observed, through the day, streaming around the three extant wings of the manor, glinting in the moat and pools, during the generous opening hours – time easily occupied in admiring the wonderful gardens (the Walled Garden’s dahlia border – despite my dislike of the individual blooms – is stunning at this time of year; and it was sad to see some of their ‘dead heads’ discarded on the array of Vegetable Garden compost heaps); resting on the many surprisingly secluded seats (where the lesser-spotted Bard may be found: gazing at some drama’s text; or into the distance, chortling quietly at the squabbling ducks); meandering along the winding, easily-traversed, paths – and, of course, savouring the superb, freshly-cooked food and -brewed coffee (Bard-fuel) in the airy Barn Restaurant.

You could even – should the fancy take you – wander across some of Warwickshire’s most pleasant green fields and byways (including alongside both canals) to Packwood itself; and there are many local hostelries in the area at which to quench any resultant thirst (including the wonderfully-named, slightly quaint, The Case is Altered – also, coincidentally the title of a play (partly?) by Ben Jonson…).

You don’t even need to take the car: as Lapworth Station is a mere thirty-minute walk away (from both National Trust properties); and only nineteen minutes travel from Stratford-upon-Avon on the rare-as-hen’s-teeth direct London Midland service (although the more frequent London Midland/Chiltern Railways journey is around fifty minutes – with around half of that time spent sitting on the platform at Dorridge Station, waiting for the all-of-three-minutes second leg…). And even the railway line is as scenic as one could ever hope for….

By now the sun of afternoon

Showed ridge and furrow shadows

And shallow unfamiliar lakes

Stood shivering in the meadows.

Is Woodford church or Hinton church

The one I ought to see?

Or were they both too much restored

In 1883?

I do not know. Towards the west

A trail of glory runs

And we leave the old Great Central line

For Banbury and buns.

– John Betjeman: Great Central Railway, Sheffield Victoria to Banbury

No human heart could be so hardened…

The past was now a space where it was possible to seek out clues about where we had come from. And the truth? Well, the truth was now far more hazy; far less certain; and much more difficult to get a grip on. And this brought up a fundamental question: Was the past something that was just out there, waiting to be discovered; or was it a faint canvas on which we wrote down our own versions of history? In other words: Was the past something that controlled us – or did we control the past?

– Dr Richard Miles: Archaeology: A Secret History – In the Beginning

Derbhle Crotty (Hecuba) – photo by Paul Stuart/Design by RSC Visual Communications

Why do Thracians wear yellow pyjamas…?

Saturday, 19 September 2015

Sitting down to voice my immediately reactive thoughts, following my first viewing (of three) of Hecuba, it suddenly seemed unfair (even though/especially as my relationship with the RSC’s press office is only currently at the wooing stage) to publish an appraisal of a play still, then, in preview – however utterly wonderful it may be; and however fully-rehearsed the RSC’s companies always appear to be – particularly given the furore over what I have come to think of as Cucumberpatchdollgate. So, by the time you read this review, I will have been to see this gripping new drama twice.

And, because the ‘purpose’ of this blog is more to do with me musing aloud to myself, whilst a few discerning folk (“the two or three unfortunate wretches who may eventually read me”) accidentally eavesdrop; rather than promoting the sales of theatre tickets (a useful side-effect, perchance) – hopefully, analysing and portraying performances for posterity; rather than producing apt, pithy, poster-appropriate soundbites – I see no harm in delaying such gratification: even when a production only runs – as does this one, regrettably… – for one teensy-weensy, miniature month.

Derbhle Crotty (Hecuba) – photo by Topher McGrillis/RSC

For a change, I shall begin with the tightly-knit and outstanding cast. Derbhle Crotty is immensely powerful in the title rôle – the snout cocked, the straight back, three thousand years of breeding in that pose – welcoming us inside her head and heart with conspiratorial ease; and presenting both her power and its loss (and the resulting perceived frailty) in a performance that is both enthralling and perturbing. Sometimes, though – and a second reading may confirm whether this is, as I suspect, a deliberate trait: forming the cement that binds her whole; immersed, as she is, deep in a traumatic mass of familial loss – Eighteen children I’m told – you sense, as a character, that she is holding back some of the emotions that are churning deep within her: despite her apparent forthrightness. The same, I feel, is true of cursed Cassandra – the mad daughter, the oracle – played by Nadia Albina: who, during the summer season, repeatedly proved how strong and forthright she could be (in Othello and The Merchant of Venice). As Hecuba’s disowned daughter, and, eventually, only surviving child – I am no one’s mother. No one’s – she seems somehow repressed, withheld… – although her line, They will lie about what happened this day is the pivot on which the play both hangs and revolves.

Amy McAllister looks – and perfectly acts – half her age as courageous Polyxena (sister to Cassandra; but both physically and emotionally closer to her mother): demonstrating a youthful self-possession and sad stoicism in the face of impending (and agonizing) sacrifice – we’re butchering her, she won’t die, a bad omen. Sadly, David Ajao – as Achilles’ son, Nepetolemus – is somewhat underused in helping evidence her coming of age; and feels a little emblematic. Chu Omambala, though, constantly brings to the stage a charismatic chill – as the egocentric Odysseus only really, I think, hinted at by Euripides, in his Hecabe – and is the manipulative manifestation of evil; a persuasive devil personified – he slinks off, sly islander that he is, bandy-legged mountain man, invisible, indispensable, the men love him – his every action dismaying; his every word damnatory. (Did Homer know?) It is he who is truly responsible for Polyxena’s death. It is he who truly wields the knife he symbolically holds aloft so steadily.

In contrast, Lara Stubbs – both as ‘Hecuba’s woman’ and ‘singer’ (forcefully marking each episodic change with brilliant and thrilling music – by Isobel Waller-Bridge – earthly, appositely, almost-wordlessly redolent of the Mediterranean and Middle East) – brings a powerful, serene presence to the proceedings: the calm eye at the centre of a whirlwind of despair and insinuated brutality. “Insinuated”, because, truly, all of the bloodshed is implied. The warning on the tickets that this is a spectacle suitable only for those “aged 12+ as contains some violence and distressing scenes” applies more, I feel, to Carr’s intense use of graphic representations than the majority of the action: verbalizing that makes you experience the destruction of Troy and the individual Trojans with visceral intensity – My grandson, intact except for his head, smashed off a wall, like an eggshell. This is not a play that will have you leaving the Swan with a smile on your face – may the gods be near you when you look on this sight – but it will make a mark, long to fade, on your soul – such as only the best theatre can.

Amy McAllister (Polyxena) and David Ajao (Nepotolemus) – photo by Topher McGrillis/RSC

In an interview (separate to the one quoted below – this one features in the programme notes), Marina Carr, the play’s writer (or ‘wright’), states that she wants the audience “to be heartbroken” when they leave the auditorium: and I would think, given the reception I witnessed tonight (apart from the two pestiferous sweet-bag-botherers directly in front of me), she would be mighty pleased. This spectator, indeed, had his “hardest-working muscle” stretched to breaking point several times: suffering soaring sorrow upon serial sadness. (It still aches, several days later….)

This is not to say that any vein of humour is completely absent – but what runs through it all is perhaps more of the dark kind (and therefore harder to find): tinged with occasional moments of irony, whimsy, recognition… and relief. This is tragedy topped with a capital ‘T’ – rather than a Corinthian, Doric, or Ionic one: the stage design (by Soutra Gilmour) being appositely, mesmerisingly, bare and reflective… – and with capital performances, to boot. And it is such glorious moments of adversity that reinforce each representation’s remembrance: particularly the startlingly calm, but forceful, Luca Saraceni-Gunner as young Polydorus. (I too – like Ray Fearon’s potent, pensive, persuasive – a mountain of a man – Agamemnon – wouldn’t care to meet him on the battlefield, head of his army, sixteen – such is this small boy’s innate maturity and undoubted mettle.)

Ray Fearon (Agamemnon) – photo by Topher McGrillis/RSC

Hecuba brings to life private thoughts, making the play resonate for a modern audience. Above that, the story also helps us understand what it means to live within a society, in much the same way the Greek playwrights themselves were trying to invent an idea of the world.

     “In a way we’ve come full circle as we’re also trying to define a series of narratives and powerful codes by which we live.”

     These huge plays, Marina believes, are about “powerful emotion that we all carry around, even though we try to sift through it because our passions are so huge. But I think they were onto something trying to define and contain the immensity of what it is to be alive.”

– Dan Hutton: Interview with Marina Carr

If I have one small criticism, it is of (equally small) portions of the play’s language. Firstly, much of the early dialogue – and the device returns later (or seems to), albeit less noticeably, less intensely – consists of characters fluidly describing what they believe the others to have said (and done) – overlapping; cross-delivering; ventriloquizing each other’s speech, in effect – alongside their subjective interpretation of motive and message; whilst reciting the minutiae of the monumental, monstrous carnage – perhaps each also characterizing, in turn, therefore, the rôle of the traditional ‘chorus’ (as featured in Henry V, currently playing next door, in the Jam Factory – and with which there are other pertinent parallels).

Although intensely enlightening – and one of the wonderful ways Carr demonstrates both the fragility of meaning and the shifting, coloured readings we all constantly employ – the rapid repetition of “he says” and “she says” quickly grates. It is a tic which, as the play gathers pace, and its richness of vocabulary expands and deepens – although then gradually, apparently, decreasing both in frequency and impact – is, to my mind, over-employed: never quite attaining the necessary unobtrusiveness that would render it more musical motif than contrived punctuation. My belief is that the number of incidences and reiterations – especially of “I say” – could be rigorously pruned; the frequency of such grammatical, prosaic thorns amongst the blossoming discourse decreased – and so much sooner. Their interpolation becomes a barrier to instant, initial immersion: as if you can hear the musical box still being wound whilst the melody begins to sing, struggling for the fluency and volume with which to drown out the rude mechanism below….

Secondly, the infrequent expletives seem superficial, and out of style – “time out of joint” – modern, shocking superimpositions on a developed, formalistic (and singing) tenor that Carr herself states is “maybe best described as Trojan English”. It is not that I am in any way perturbed by bad language (I use it myself all-too frequently – especially for the momentary relief of pain…) – just that, again, such words felt, to me, unnecessary interruptions in, and obstacles to, the flow of poetry; and I am not sure, put simply, such temporary stoppages achieve anything effective or meaningful. (Strangely enough, these profanities read well in the script; and are so much less noticeable….)

Finally, there are dull – albeit brief, transitory – episodes of mundanity (such as the discussion of systems of law): which, similarly, temporarily slow the momentum, as well as risk losing, interrupting, impeding our interest. Perhaps these hiatuses are to give us chance to regain our collective breath; wipe our cumulative tears…? But such breaks in intensity, I am sure, are not really required; they could easily be excised – the effortless effusion of emotion is what pulls us on eagerly to the end (although please, please do not applaud until several extended moments of ruminative silence have passed – and slowly… – there are no awards for thinking (foolishly) that you are the first to realize the play has finished…); and there are already more ‘natural’ ebbs amongst the torrents of passion and pain that achieve these aims more readily.

Ray Fearon (Agamemnon) – photo by Topher McGrillis/RSC

In conclusion, this is great drama – a great drama – though, certainly, whatever my writerly quibbles; and it is directed with great aplomb by RSC Deputy Artistic Director Erica Whyman. I would even go so far as to say that Hecuba has the overt potential to be as perfect as such contrivances ever can be. This is a thing of great, profound, knowing, harrowing humanity, and accompanying bleak beauty; mixed with many subtle, but relevant, contemporary resonances – There are laws around the conduct of war. And, as much as it is tempting (almost) to say it is something of a ‘feminist’ play (no bad thing, from my perspective) – Society can’t run if the women are unhappy – such an utterance may far too artlessly disentangle its complexities.

However, there are positive clues, pointers, elements, leading directly to such a conclusion: including the text’s balancing of the past masculine mastery of myth with its fresh womanly, motherly, female perspective. Even the butch warriors, previously renowned mainly for their feats (and fates) in battle, now have hearts (and minds): they love, as well as lust; cry tears, as well as havoc. The heroines are no longer sketchily, sweepingly “mad, bad and dangerous to know” – which, usually, of course, in classical Greece, means dangerous for men to know – but are fully-painted, fully-sculpted, fully-animated beings: at least equal to those who would use and usurp them. They know – and comprehend it keenly – the pain of both blood-line and blood-letting.

As a result, the almost-two hours (no interval: as is the “classical” Greek way) runs quickly: gripping you by the throat; squeezing your chest hard; pushing you back into your seat…. Which is, of course, why I will return for more pummelling in a week’s time (and then yet again, just before it closes: once more, with captions…).

Derbhle Crotty (Hecuba) – photo by Topher McGrillis/RSC

Why you should see some productions more than once…

Saturday, 26 September 2015

I realized, after my initial (re)viewing, that this was the first play I had seen in a very long time where I had not read – or been able to read – the text in advance. I had perused Philip Vellacott’s beautiful, moving, intelligent 1963 translation of Euripides’ original Hecabe (see above) – from where this post’s main title originates… – but that was really all I knew. With no surtitles to guide me, I was therefore reliant on my rebuilt hearing aids and prolonged, surprisingly simply-achieved, concentration….

Re-reading what I now know was one of Carr’s sources (for inspiration) persuaded me, though, that my initial interpretation, nay, accusation, of ancient misogyny could not apply to Euripides himself (“the most intensely tragic of all the poets”). As one reviewer of Vellacott’s book writes:

What makes Euripides so brilliant is his very human portrayal of the characters. You feel for them, you empathize with them, and you can anticipate their every emotional decision and thoughts of self-reflection. Hecabe… deals with the immediate aftermath of the Trojan War and the death of the Trojans… and her agony at the merciless hands of the Greeks (including Odysseus, whom we see here as very severe and inhumane, in contrast to his central heroic role in The Odyssey) make her suffering tragic beyond words….

     I would suggest this book simply for the mastery of Euripides and his psychological dimension in human tragedy. Just because it is ‘ancient’ literature and a translation of the old Greek, does not in any way detract it from being so relevant and significant to the modern world. Raw human emotions….

– Farz_B: Amazon.co.uk

I then moved on to the script itself (also available from the RSC shop, as part of Marina Carr: Plays Three) – hence all the inserted quotations.

In her introduction, Carr writes:

I always thought Hecuba got an extremely bad press. Rightly or wrongly I never agreed with the verdict on her. This play is an attempt to reexamine and, in part, redeem a great and tragic queen. History, as they say, is written by the winners. Sometimes I think myths are too…. This is my attempt to show her in another light, how she suffered, what she might have felt and how she may have reacted.

And I’m sure she’s succeeded. However, my earlier reservations about the famed Queen of Troy – from a second viewing – “that she is holding back some of the emotions that are churning deep within her” – were confirmed. This, I am also sure, though – this is deliberate. She is accused of arrogance many times – the haughty sheen – but such a mien, I believe, is the portrayed consequence of royalty; and all that such a word means for those who bear it. There are expectations to be fulfilled; as well as expectations to hold – Did no one think to bring provisions? Must I think of everything? And, even after finally discovering that her son, Polydorus, is dead – as Agamemnon says – She’s nerve and bone but still carries about her a kind of horrific grace. There’s still that sense of entitlement. You thought Troy was untouchable. You thought your gilded life would go on for ever – says Cassandra: Nadia Albina now unleashed; at full tilt – and all the better for it.

Nadia Albina (Cassandra) – photo by Topher McGrillis/RSC

Agamemnon – this terror of the Aegean, this monster from Mycenae – is also trapped by the greatness thrust upon him. He was not born to this – to rule – but to fight. He is a warrior; and he is trapped by this ‘new’ greatness and its accompanying expectations – I’m… don’t know what I am. He is the one, therefore, who bares his heart completely – Ray Fearon also stronger, even more intense, more fluent. There is no shield, no mask, can stifle that great roar – Only three things matter, Odysseus. Food. Sex. Winning Wars.

Chu Omambala (Odysseus) – photo by Topher McGrillis/RSC

And perhaps I was too cruel about that man, Odysseus. Less “devil”, perhaps; more Machevill. Even he has a heart in there: under that grey tunic. Somewhere. This is hard. I’m not made of stone. I want to go home, never to have set eyes on Troy.

And I didn’t mention Edmund Kingsley’s tragic, subtle, soul-rending, pleading Polymestor at all. He is simply another pawn on a predestined board of chess – You played the double game, Polymestor, and your sons paid the price. And he knows it. He knows that whatever he does will come back to hurt him – but this is war.

Ray Fearon (Agamemnon) – photo by Topher McGrillis/RSC

I can take any empty space and call it a bare stage. A man walks across this empty space, whilst someone else is watching him, and this is all that is needed for an act of theatre to be engaged.

– Peter Brook

In my initial review, I stated that “the stage design [is] appositely, mesmerisingly, bare and reflective” – but didn’t expand on this. (To be honest, I think you need to experience it ‘in the flesh’ to appreciate the cohesive and sculptural qualities of Soutra Gilmour’s design; its dynamic hints of landscape and fortification; what lies beyond and beneath….) What did occur to me, though – during this “pummelling”, this immersion – was that this reflectiveness can be seen in the tensions, the divisions that so quietly delineate the play: whether it is the deceptively-simple mirrored set itself, with its evidently-plain, scene-stealing, crucial, matt cathedra – The great sea god himself made this throne… dragged it up from the sea floor on his shoulders. Placed it on the founding stone and Troy began – and the partitions, the ruptures which emerge in the rear, evocative, mountain-like ‘wall’ – the colour-conscious casting; the rich dark-sea to pale-sky turquoise dress of the (Turkish) royal Trojan women, versus the monochrome, utilitarian, battle-ready outfits of the Grecian warriors; the intrigue of the almost whispered sentiment, followed by the sonorous declamatory anger – or even the Caravaggio-like use of highlight and negative space (“putting the oscuro into chiaroscuro” – the lighting – designed by Charles Balfour – and choreography – movement by Ayse Tashkiran – come together as something balletic, and yet sculptural). Ancient plays against modern; the tribes of as-yet-unformed Greece squabble amongst themselves; and the complex, descriptive, speech and machinations contrast forcefully with the dearth of props, costume and scenic changes. The words and actions are simply enough… – “this is all that is needed”.

Derbhle Crotty (Hecuba) and Ray Fearon (Agamemnon) – photo by Topher McGrillis/RSC

So, to finish: whether you get more from “an act of theatre”, the second time, depends, I suppose, on what it means to you – entertainment; a simple way to pass the time; or as a work of art. To me, drama is the latter. The longer I stand in front of a Rembrandt: the more I see; the more it speaks to me. Repeated hearings of Elgar’s Violin Concerto have the same effect – it drills even further into my soul. I can read the score and cry a small tear or two. To hear it, though, will make me sob with my entire being. I will be heartbroken….