London: the Sequel

As I sat down to write, three words came to mind. They were: “vision”, “mouse” and “gay”. And as I write, I have just thought of another, “unveiled”.

Salome had seven of them, and as a young man I used to imagine that it must have been pretty exciting watching her taking them off - one after the other. But today, when I hear the word unveiled, I don’t know what to do, laugh, or cry, because seduction is not what it used to be. Imagine it - Michael Owen, or Sven-Goran Eriksson being “unveiled”.

But I am pleased for the humble “mouse”, who, having so little to offer, (and notwithstanding the threat from his electronic cousin), has managed to hold on to his identity. In childhood, and especially at night with his manic scraping, the mouse was awe inspiring, and assumed a stature out of all proportion to his size. But in the minds of adults, the mouse was a “hoodie”, so they did a terrible thing; they left him a morsel of spring-loaded cheese. Well, as natural justice has prevailed, I am pleased. And I am grateful to Robert Burns, who, though him worth a conversation – and a poem.

As for, “gay” and “vision”, these are altogether more problematic. Gay, because the word leaves me in limbo, for I am not yet persuaded, that in terms of popular use, its divorce from the concept of happiness is final. Instead, I cling to the hope, that somehow, its fortunes will be revived. In the meantime it has been sullied by sex. Not because sex is dirty or shameful, but because it has come to be linked with the vexed, (and for many), painful subject of homosexuality. As for “vision”, this word more than any other, sets alarm bells ringing.

When I was a boy it was saints and mystics who had visions, and even then, they were a rare occurrence, a phenomenon that took them intellectually and spiritually, (and sometimes physically), well beyond the norm. But in today’s world, where visions are “two a penny”, politicians no longer have, “a plan for the future”, but a “vision”. In fact, anyone that you might care to name in public life, (except the clergy), have them regularly. But the problem with “vision” is, that it lacks structure. “A plan for the future”, on the other hand, implies thought, a process of reasoning and thinking through. So when I hear the word “vision”, used today, I cringe at the banal in language; and I fear for the death thought.

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Now this preamble was to lead you gently to the news, that deep down, our visit to London was disappointing. Yes, we did some good things. We visited all the West End shows as planned, travelled on the London Eye, saw A Midsummer Night’s Dream at Shakespeare’s Globe, and for the first time, ate in a Lebanese restaurant. But much of the spontaneity of the occasion was lost, by the fact that Jenny was severely troubled by sciatica.

Before we set out, and with physiotherapy, she was well on the way to a full recovery. But taking an awkward step out of a taxi in Drury Lane, (on our first evening there), she greatly aggravated the condition. At times the pain was so severe, that she was unable to walk. While at others, she needed the support of my arm as well as a stick. It was hard to see her in so much pain; and there were moments when it seemed almost inevitable, that we would have to return home early. But in the end, we managed the essentials, by taxi. And to her credit, and because she was determined, we made it to the National Archive at Kew in the outer suburbs. But even in this quiet sunlit and leafy suburb, the short walk from the station to the Archive, was slow and painful. Which brings me to something else.

Above ground it was striking to see the extent to which people, either didn’t notice, or didn’t care, that Jenny was having difficulty walking. And nowhere was this indifference more pronounced than on Westminster Bridge, where a young couple, arm-in-arm stopped right in front of her, waiting to see which way she would go, before deciding themselves, still arm-in-arm, to squeeze between her and the wall. On the underground it was different. Without hesitation, passengers willingly gave up their seats.

So there were moments in London that were good, besides those that were bad. But the spontaneity that otherwise would have been there, was missing.

But the good news is, that since returning home the sciatic pain has eased, so much so, that together, we have been able to finish planting up the pots in the garden. And as an antidote to the disappointment of London, I have completed, “The Blackbird”. A poem that I began working on before we left home:

My little friend he sits and sings,
   cocooned within his shapely wings.
As black as night, as brash as day,
   he lifts his head and sings away,
and looks askance when I appear
   and with my camera interfere.
He looks so puny here below,
   from where I watch the fishes go,
but sings the harder round about,
   as patient by the water spout,
I watch the silver liquid flow,
   then awkward round the garden go.
A little here, a little there,
   while he calls out his evening prayer;
and warns the fellows round about,
   that he’ll defend this garden stout.
The snails, the worms, oh so slow,
   are for his wife he’ll have them know.
Then from the ridge he takes to flight
   and on a wired pole alights;
and sings awhile before he goes
   to where the twisted willow grows.
The boundaries he is making clear.
   There is no Bed & Breakfast here!
Then back upon the rooftop he,
   looks yet again! askance at me.
For I am feeling humble now,
   and watching as he takes a bow.
And waiting for the sunset low,
   on his expanded chest to show.

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Now I have never been a “purist” in anything, let alone interested in “The Lord of the Rings”. But this was the first of the musicals that we went to see. In part because Pradeep, (our friend of a lifetime), had expressly asked to see it; and Jenny, who had read and enjoyed the book, was happy to see it also. From her perspective, she could understand why the show had had poor reviews, why the “purist” would have been disappointed, since adapting the book to the stage, successfully, from their perspective, would have been impossible. But Pradeep got it right when he said, that the production, “had everything that you could possibly want from the theatre”. And though I disliked the story intensely, I came away glad that I had seen it, and believing that it was a show that every theatregoer should see. Because in terms of settings and visual effects, it was outstanding, and on a par with another great, (and unexpected experience), that we had when living in London.

It was at a BBC Promenade Concert at the Albert Hall, where, for the first time, we heard Christus, by Franz Liszt. A monumental work of religious music, it is rarely ever performed in full. But as we listened to two orchestras, and the singing of combined choruses, we were deeply moved, and knew, that what we were hearing was music that was well beyond the norm; and we had stumbled upon it.

Now my view on Shakespeare’s Globe would certainly be heretical to the “purist”. Had I Roman Abramovich’s money, and owned it, the first thing that I would do, is put a beautiful dome of self-cleaning glass on the top. Because any sense that I might have had, that I was experiencing theatre as it was in Shakespeare’s day, went, as they say, “out the window” in the first fifteen minutes. In that time three aircraft passed overhead. Then, and after a prolonged period of quiet in the skies, the actors voice was completely drowned out by a low flying helicopter. And were it necessary, I would continue to argue my case, on the grounds that Shakespeare’s Globe, impressive though it is, only approximates to what it was in Shakespeare’s day.

And here’s an interesting detail about the musical Marguerite, that we saw at the Theatre Royal in Haymarket. But before I tell you what it is, a little about the story.

Set in occupied France, in Paris, during the Second World War, the story opens with Marguerite, (Ruthie Henshall), celebrating her birthday. And for a time, the opulent lifestyle of her birthday guests, conceals the fact that they are collaborators. As does the late arrival of her lover, Otto. Otto, (Alexander Hanson), is the German Commandant of Paris. But her life as a collaborator starts to unravel when, a member of the band, Armand, (Julian Ovenden), invited to play at her party, recognises her. Giving in to his earnest pleadings, she aggress to meet him in secret, and in so doing, unwittingly places herself on the fringe of the resistance movement. Finding out, and jealous of her love for Armand, Otto exacts his price. He agrees to spare Armand’s sister, (a member of the resistance), from torture, when Marguerite agrees to write, (as dictated), telling Armand that her love for him was a mistake and refusing to see him again. With Paris liberated and Otto assassinated, Marguerite, publicly humiliated as a collaborator, dies. But not before Armand, finding her, and holding her in his arms, tells her that he knows that she was forced to write the letter.

Now what was interesting, (for me at least), was a conversation that a woman in the stalls behind me was having with her daughter, during the interval. Talking on her mobile phone, I heard her say that “the jury was still out”, because there was no specific number, or song, that she could latch on to, to identify the show as a musical. And that for me, was interesting, because during the first act, I was struck by the integrity of the music, and in particular the fact that the composer or composers had avoided the populist approach. Something that was maintained throughout the show.

Now having been to Cuba, we knew what to expect when, at the Peacock Theatre we saw Havana Rakatan. (A word that I suggested to my younger brother Kieran, sounds suspiciously like racket). In the show there is no dialogue, but instead, a study of the history of Cuban music, through music and dance, and with appropriate programme notes. Here, besides a brief historical introduction, we are given an insight into what is happening in the Askian Bata dance:

“500 years ago the Yoruba gods crossed the seas from Africa, carried in the sad souls of millions of West African Slaves. Fortunately this religion found a second home in Cuba. With the blessing of the supreme god Olordumare, and Eleggua’s permission, the exuberant Yoruba gods and goddesses are ready to start the celebrations to the steady beat of the Bata. Oshosi and Ghango, gods of hunting and sexuality initiate the dance. Then Oshun arrives dressed in yellow, all are hypnotized by her beauty and her smile, followed by Yemaya, goddess of the sea (blue), and lastly Oya (rainbow colours), goddess of the natural elements. All the deities combine together and dance, almost in trance, until a climax of possession and ecstasy to the rhythms of the assorted drums.”

And so it went, until the final number, Salsa Rakatan, a composite, in the evolutionary process of Cuban music making:

“The salsa, supremely contagious, unites the dance and rhythmic styles of son, mambo, cha-cha-cha, Latin jazz and even traditional folk dances. However, this style of dance just keeps evolving. Today the salsa mixes with reggeaton, timba, and hip hop, making it one of the most popular dances of Cuban youth culture whilst keeping its links with traditional and modern folkloric dance.”

And appropriately, the audience for this show, was the most obviously cosmopolitan of all the theatres we visited.

Our final theatre visit, was to see, God of Carnage; a comedy by the French author and playwright Yasmina Reza. And I think what I appreciated most about it, was the subtle truth implicit in the play, that despite our cultural differences, as human beings we are all very much the same.

With a cast of four, the curtain rises on two couples, Alan and Anette Reille, (Ralph Fiennes and Tamsin Greig), and Véronique and Michael Vallon, (Janet McTeer and Ken Stott), who have come together to resolve, (in a civilized manner), a dispute involving their respective sons. As the couples somewhat hesitatingly attempt to get to know one another, they are thwarted at regular intervals by Alan’s incoming calls. He is a company lawyer, and advising the press office of a drugs company on what to say, or not say, in respect of allegations made against a particular drug. Michael, on the other hand, sells pots and pans. In truth, both men are fairly sanguine about the incident involving their sons, after all, they were boys once, and (much to the disgust of their wives), admit to having been in gangs. But as Véronique is keen to ensure, that in dealing with their sons, they are all working from first principles, it is not long before a word here, and a clarification there, (and Alan’s phone), lead to trouble, to the mutual exchange of insults, and the raw exposure of their respective marital difficulties. Amid such chaos, nothing gets resolved, instead, what we are left with, is the memory of a very funny portrayal of human nature. Or, if you prefer, adults behaving like children.

Now as London is a city that seems to go on and on, it must be hard for visitors not to be in awe of the sheer scale of things. But for us, having lived and worked there, this was something that we were able to take in our stride, focusing instead on the vitality of everyday life. And nowhere was this vitality more evident than in East Ham. As we walked along the narrow crowded High St, with its myriad of small shops and eating places, we might have been in India. And it was especially pleasing to see the carefree natures of the young. Boys and girls who, in their Friday tunics, and having been to the Mosque, were running in high spirits, in and out among the rest of us. Had Jenny been feeling better, I would, without question, have stopped to capture something of this vitality in pictures. But that too would have been disappointing, because the camera lens is tarnished, and those pictures that I did take, were spoiled by shadow.

And lastly, the London Eye.

Growing up in Portrush, a seaside town in Ireland, we were blessed, not just with an abundance of natural beauty, but also with Barry’s Amusements. Owned and run by an Italian family, the Trufelli’s, it had state of the art technology: “bumpers” (dodgems), racers, ghost trains, and more besides. And standing to the front of the building, were a helter-skelter and a ferris wheel. Unlike the London Eye, on which the capsules stay on the outer rim of the wheel at all times, the chairs at Barry’s were slung in such a way that at the highest point, they were hanging inside the rim. Slowly we went up, and up, and up above the town, as the chairs were filled with new passengers, until the inevitable happened, and we were stopped, stranded at the highest point. There with our feet dangling, the chair swaying, and no harness, nothing but the thin metal rod that the attendant had locked into place, it seemed that we were dicing with death, and asking, what sort of madness it was, that had persuaded us to take the risk in the first place.

Now this is the context in which, the Eye, with is closed capsules, was for me, a far too sanitized mode of transport. And even allowing for the fact that the principal objective of the Eye is the view, here too, I was spoiled by experience. At 32,000 feet and flying home from Morocco, some years ago, I recall seeing the coasts of North Africa and southern Spain spread out below and with the Mediterranean in between. At the time it reminded me of those maps of Europe that we had at school, on which the respective countries were coloured in pastel shade of pink, green and yellow. But this, as we flew overhead, was a geography lesson par exuelance.

And, a piece of general knowledge that I acquired in London, something that I hadn’t thought to wonder about when we were living there. There are 24,000 black taxis in London. – Go on, impress your friends!

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© Cormac McCloskey

The Blackbird:
   Revised 5th September 2008
 
Note: This blog, "London: The Sequel", was first published on Windows Live Spaces, by me, on 15th June 2008