... about ENO's 'Carmen'

The opportunity for interactivity pressed upon audiences by the ENO may have shot them in the foot were this year’s Carmen is concerned. The review page of their mini-site is chock full of moaning, bitching and all sorts of criticism. Some is warranted, I think. Some, on the other hand, is what you get when you give the power of the pen to the masses.

If you knew that Carmen was directed by Sally Potts you would have expected some sort of cinematic bent. Likewise if you knew the ENO, you may have anticipated something a little experimental.

People have said that it was a mistake to put a film director at the helm of an opera, especially one as beloved as Bizet’s Carmen. No performance can escape the spectre of past interpretations, decades of lauded versions, reputations of iconic mezzos in the title roll. But view the ENO’s attempt with these skeletons pushed aside, and it’s not all bad.

The obvious cinematographic elements – flickering black and white film featuring shady tango dancers – are an immediate statement of the production’s modernity. This is at once confusing and intriguing. The move away from the traditional stage/audience set-up compromises the necessary chasm between spectator and performer that is the tap-root of successful theatre. The role of Potts’ superimposed screen is questionable.

The adaptation was as innovative as the translation, and equally problematic. While the English libretto mostly worked, there were words and phrases that just didn’t go – prime example being “Maserati”. Jose and his crew were security guards instead of soldiers, and the opening scenes took place behind a shabby prefab. Here came the first “huh?” moment: in a modern setting, why was Carmen tied up with a chain and not handcuffs?

The presence of the dancers was glib despite their talent. Including them seems too easy. For a director so set on evading cliché, the tacky “Latin” choreography sent her back to square one. The cringeworthy break dancing just wasn’t necessary.

The set has been much discussed for its drabness. The opera is set in the blazing heat of Seville, so to move it to dingy back alleys and motorway bridges is a brave decision. The outside of the bull-ring looked like Noah’s ark. Geographically, things aren’t clear either. Which border are they crossing? How do they get to Spain to see the bullfight?

The setting puts a spanner in the works elsewhere. If we are to believe in the modern-day timescale, surely customs officials would not be swayed from their duties by a gang of ropey fishwives with come-hither eyes. Likewise the sheer volume of would-be smugglers making up the chorus sheds further doubt on their success as border-hoppers.

The reaction of the audience at several points was startling, and probably says more about the staging than the audience’s understanding of proceedings. During the death scene (which managed to salvage most of Bizet’s soul-gnawing drama) Jose’s persistence and Carmen’s demurrals were greeted with laughter. Such was the debatable acting talent of Alice Cootes that the scene dipped into farce. Carmen is many things, but it is certainly not a farce.

Strangely, the parts that shouldn’t have worked ended up being successful. The chorus cast as chavvy Brits abroad had the potential to horrify, but it was unexpectedly enjoyable. No doubt it detracted from grandeur of the pre-corrida scene, but the two burly lager-louts cavorting in a drunken embrace, beer cans held aloft, were an authentic addition.

To the amateur reviewers who have posted on this site I would say that if you want a guaranteed slice of enjoyable entertainment, try a West End musical and not an experimental opera. The whinings of disappointed Carmen “fans” are nothing but curmudgeonly. Use the experience to spark debate instead of griping. And if you don’t expect to be challenged, spend your money somewhere else.

... about Free Paris (May 2007)

I know I’m not the only one who is sick of celebrities getting a soft touch from the judicial system. Not a week goes by when grimy-fingered crack-troubadour Pete Doherty isn't arrested, only to be pardoned a few days later.
I was cheered, therefore, when Superior Court Judge Michael T. Sauer sentenced Paris Hilton to 45 days in Los Angeles County jail for breaching a driving ban.
Unsurprisingly, I dislike Paris Hilton. It appalls me that this woman is lauded as an icon by so many people. I can’t see anything remotely praiseworthy about her. She is famous primarily for being an heiress. Her fame was bolstered by the leaking of a sex tape. She has made huge amounts of money for starring in a television programme being (or at least appearing to be) incompetent, useless and dumb. What exactly is there to love? Her gift to the English language is the dazzling epithet “That’s hot.” Compare that to the pithy proclamations of latter-day female powerhouses (Dorothy Parker, Gertrude Stein, Susan Sontag) and you’ll see my point. Some claim that she’s only pretending to be stupid, as if that makes it better. It doesn’t.
And so her legions of fans are bleating at the unfairness, the sheer injustice that’s been poured upon their boss-eyed heroine. Already there's a website dedicated to putting right this heinous wrong. (http://www.freeparis.org/ if you’re interested)
Facebook and MySpace groups have popped up like swathes of acne. A member of one such group writes “Paris Hilton is too hot to go to jail.” This young sage of Generation Y (or, more appropriately, Why?) is not unusual in his thinking. Another admits “I dont know what else to say except.... thats hot?”
These ‘people power’ crusades crop up all over the internet. Feed Nicole, Free Katie Holmes, Feed Mary-Kate. If we gave that much thought to who we elect as our leaders, perhaps the world wouldn’t be on its knees.

.. about manic street preachers (May 2007)

I've recently found myself in two similar situations which elicited wildly different reactions, and made me question my personal brand of religious tolerance.

The first was in Varanasi during the celebrations of the god Shiva's birthday. As I was walking down the street, a parade came past. Children dressed as deities sat on floats, bands played raucous salutes, and monkeys capered with the revellers. It was a colourful scene.

I was in Liverpool a couple of weeks later. Walking from the Philharmonic Hall to the city centre, my father and I fell into step with a troupe of evangelical Christians. They were singing, dancing and handing out information leaflets about their church and mission. This irritated me beyond belief. I moved quickly to distance myself from them and expressed my distaste to my father. He was bemused.

"What happened to 'live and let live'?" he asked.

"Tell that to the evangelists!" I cried. "I don't want Christianity rammed down my throat."

"Then don't listen."

"How can I avoid listening when they're singing at the tops of their voices?"

"Chill."

There's nothing more rankling than being told to 'chill' when on one's soapbox. I hate apathy in all its forms, so resent being told to desist when in full flow.

In this case I distrust the notion of 'live and let live', because I feel like my side of the bargain is being flouted from the offset. I am happy to let Christians go about their business as long as they don't try to involve me in it. Does this make me intolerant? I don't know. Tolerance is a concept that's bandied about far too much these days, and I've never liked it. To tolerate something implies seeing it as inferior but putting up with it for a quiet life. I prefer acceptance. Yet I don't accept evangelism because I feel that evangelists aren't accepting my non-belief. My father would say 'tit for tat is how wars start', and he's right, but if none of us imposed our religious beliefs on others then there wouldn't be a problem. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't know of many wars that have been fought in the name of Ganesh, mainly because Ganesh devotees are happy to worship him without persuading others to follow suit.

My father suggested that I go out preaching my own particular gospel of atheism, but that isn't the point. If I did believe in a god I would satisfy myself with edifying him/her/it within the confines and privacy of my personal life. I wouldn't seek to convert others because it's no business of mine. And I would be certain enough of my chosen god's superiority to trust others to find it themselves without needing me to point them towards it.

Then my father reminded me of the Shiva parade in Varanasi, and asked if I'd got angry about that. I told him absolutely not. Why not? Partly, I explained, because the Shiva parade was novel and exotic to me, unlike Christian evangelism which I've witnessed throughout my life. Also, and more to the point, it didn't annoy me because the Hindu revellers weren't trying to convert me: they were worshipping, having an excellent time doing so, not caring whether I was a Shiva believer or not.

Likewise, at a Sikh temple I visited I was welcomed and shown around, even fed lunch, but not once invited to become a Sikh. I can't imagine stepping into a church and being given food without also being handed a leaflet or encouraged to come back as a member of the congregation.

I've decided that my dislike of evangelism stems from hating being told what to do. Like being accosted by a souvenir tout at Agra, I resent being told to look at or buy something no matter what it is. It could be a beautiful, reasonably-priced marble box that would look great on my bedroom dresser, but I will not humour the seller because I can't stand being ordered around. Given the chance to peruse the item at leisure, I might very well buy it. (Although Agra may not be the best example – my friend was offered a strange cat-o-nine-tails whip outside the Taj Mahal for 500 rupees) This attitude may be preventing me from discovering whole nirvanas of religious gratification, but I'll take the risk.

... about Anya Hindmarch bags (as discussed with Vanessa Feltz on BBC Radio London)

When I saw the Anya Hindmarch £5 charity shopper advertised in a magazine I thought it was a great idea. Donation to charity, a useful and environmentally friendly product, and an Anya Hindmarch label. Although I call myself an iconoclast and publicly berate people who are slaves to labels, I admit I felt a frisson of excitement. Don’t hate me. The media has an influence, and it runs deep.



So I signed up to the website to be alerted when the bags went on sale. The alert came at nine o'clock one morning. I logged onto the website which promptly crashed under the strain of demand. An alarm klaxon started up in my head. I hate to be part of any sort of mass movement, especially one as frivolous as this. But the zeitgeist demands that we sheep gambol after the elusive border collie of unavailability, so I persevered. The website was back up the next day and I made my purchase.



When the parcel arrived I felt none of the blissful wonderment I’d anticipated. I had an Anya Hindmarch bag in my hand - the holy grail of modern female achievement - but I felt nothing except incredibly stupidity that I had subscribed to this furore. The bag was a coarse, flimsy affair made of rough hessian. So what if it had a designer label? So what if Lily Cole and Keira Knightley had been seen with them? If you think about it, none of that really matters.
A couple of mouse clicks later and I found the bags selling for over a hundred pounds on EBay. My plan at first was to sell it, give the money back to the charity and send a sanctimonious article to various fashion magazines. But altruism faded with every bid placed, and a week later I had an extra £50 in my bank account and the bag was off my hands. I justified it by rationalising that I wasn't making a profit at the expense of the charity itself, but the fools who place such an inflated value on a piece of canvas with rope handles.



Another 20,000 of them went on sale last month at select branches of Sainsbury’s. People were queuing from 4 a.m. Double-bagging was advised to avoid mugging. Double-bagging a bag that's supposed to eradicate use of plastic bags. Women called in to local radio stations talking about how 'desperate', 'frantic' and 'agitated' they were to get their hands on the prize. One lady woke her two toddler daughters up in the middle of the night to go and queue.



I find the whole debacle ridiculous. Not just this obsession with designer clothes, status and possessions that is turning us into crazed, self-gratifying automata, but the way this particular situation pushes a new level of stupidity. The buzz with designer clothes is that only a select group of people can afford them. You see someone with an Anya Hindmarch bag and you think "They must have a bob or two. Those bags cost hundreds." But with these charity bags, everyone knows they cost £5. Where's the status in that?



One woman on the radio said her quest for a bag stemmed from the isolation she experienced during her school days. Owning an Anya Hindmarch bag would elevate her to previously unattainable levels of popularity and acceptance among her peers. What? If my peer group is as shallow, vacuous and stupid as this bag issue makes them look, acceptance from them is the last thing I want.



Women, for goodness’ sake – get your heads out of Heat magazine and into the real world. Reality isn’t Jade Goody’s latest boyfriend or Danielle Lloyd’s boob job. Stop filling your heads with this useless, meaningless frippery. You put rubbish in, so you’ll get rubbish out. If you’re going to obsess about shopping and celebrities, at least keep your eye on the ball and use those Jimmy Choos to chip away at that damned glass ceiling.