6 ★ FINANCIAL TIMES Tuesday20 August 2019ARTS
Luminous:
Sasha Frost,
left, and Irene
Allan in ‘Red
Dust Road’
Richard Davenport/
The Other RichardMatt TruemanA little curation can carry a lot. Intricate
ideas about identity have rippled
through Edinburgh’s International Festi-
val, setting self-assured individuals —
Tim Crouch’s cult leader,David Hare’s
Peter Gynt — against existential ques-
tions about our need for origins. Oedipus
unravelled as his parentage collapses.
The Secret Riverwent back to source.
Red Dust Roadnestles neatly in that
mix, even if Jackie Kay’s acclaimed
memoir sits awkwardly onstage in Dawn
Walton’s unimaginative production for
National Theatre of Scotland. As a
Scottish-Nigerian adopted by a white
Scottish couple in the 1960s, Kay made it
her life’s quest to track down her biologi-
cal parents and, with them, her roots.
Rather than unfolding chronologically,
Red Dust Roadskips back and forth in
time. Its shape reflects her sense of self: a
puzzle that needs piecing back together.
Tanika Gupta’s adaptation holds true
to that, but it tends to retread ground as
it goes. In conversations with her adop-
tive parents, her Mormon birth motherand her born-again Nigerian dad, Kay
closes in on the circumstances of her
conception — but her story feels incom-
plete without a personal pilgrimage to
their ancestral homes, one in the High-
lands, another on the Nigerian plains.
Kay’s unusual upbringing offers
plenty of insight, pushing past old-
school racial epithets to the dislocation
of having Africa framed from afar, as a
singular, exotic entity. It can, she says,
make you a stranger to yourself.Red
Dust Roadis an attempt at reacquaint-
ance via Burns night ceremonies and
political, racial and sexual awakenings.
Beneath its specifics are universalquestions about the forces that forge us
all: nature or nurture, roots or culture?
But soulful as Kay’s search for under-
standing is, there’s too little at stake to
stand it up as drama. Luminously played
by Sasha Frost, Kay seems so well-
adjusted that her quest resembles a
research trip more than an existential
necessity. Instead of articulate, accurate
reflections, Gupta gives uscondensed
encounters with oversized caricatures.
Walton’s direction never finds timbre or
tone, merely plonking groups of people
on an empty stage.To August 18, eif.comChronicle of dislocation and awakenings
THEATRERed Dust Road
Royal Lyceum Theatre, Edinburgh
aaeeeRichard FairmanIt would not be festival time at Edin-
burgh without the sound of bagpipes on
arrival at Waverley station, a centuries-
old welcome to the Scottish capital. In
recent decades, though, classical music
in the city and beyond has gained its
own significant Scottish voice.
James MacMillan, born in Ayrshire in
1959, came to notice around 1990, and
through a combination of flair and hard
work (Macmillan keeps up a stream of
new pieces) has become one of the lead-
ing composers of his generation. Hehas
been the themed composer at his coun-
try’s foremost arts festival several times,
including in 1996, when his operaInês de
Castrowas given its premiere, and this
year saw a clutch of concerts featuring
his music, headed by the premiere of
his new symphony.MacMillan is a proud Scot, who often
draws on Scottish themes for inspira-
tion (even if the music itself sounds
entirely international). He is immersed
in the Catholic faith and sacred music is
the most characteristic, and often best,
strand of his work. The late afternoon
concert that acted as a prelude to the
new symphony offered a pair of virtuoso
orchestral works, one reflecting each
side of his personality.A Scotch Bestiary
is like a wild version of Saint-Saëns’sCar-
nival des animaux, in which a menagerie
of hyena, monkey, cuckoo and jackass
(not to mention “Scottish patriots”)
howl and screech, aided by a solo role
for organ. ThenWoman of the Apocalypse
was hardly less high-octane, albeit on a
religious theme. Joana Carneiro con-
ducted a colourful BBC Scottish Sym-
phony Orchestra.
It might have seemed a reasonable bet
that the new symphony would follow in
a similar vein, but instead MacMillan’s
new choral Symphony No.5, subtitledLe
grand Inconnu, is an otherworldly con-
templation of the Holy Spirit.
Where the afternoon’s two showpiece
scores punched out one ear-catchingcontrast after another, the symphony
moves patiently, almost imperceptibly.
It opens with the choir breathing softly,
followed tonelessly by the wind instru-
ments, as if the breath of God is emerg-
ing from an eternal silence. At the end of
the second part a memorable passage
has the choir divided into 20 parts,
harking back to the Tudor era (MacMil-
lan had been working on a counterpart
to Tallis’s 40-partSpem in alium).At
times, the music flirts with the timeless
aura of minimalism or the music of
other religions, but always draws back
to regain its own path.
MacMillanseems to be searching his
subconscious in a way he has not before.
Harry Christophers conducted the Scot-
tish Chamber Orchestra and the com-
bined choirs of The Sixteen and Genesis
Sixteen, for whom the work was com-
missioned. It is hard to imagine it with-
out their expertise, but this numinous
symphony will surely reward other
audiences prepared to listen with the
patience and concentration it deserves.eif.co.uk.MacMillan’s Symphony No.5 will
be at the Barbican, London, on October 14CLASSICAL MUSICMacMillan premiere
Usher Hall, Edinburgh
aaaaeEmpathy:
Ariana Grande
at the O2 Arena
Kevin Mazur/Getty Imagesaround: no long interludes of pointless
banter, no extended jams for the back-
ing band, no interminable section of bal-
lads or covers. It was three-minute song
after three-minute song, delivered with
maximum efficiency, and if you didn’t
like one, there would be another along
in a minute.
Quite how that ends up with using
Ruskin to analyse doughnut licking, or
results in her being one of the world’s
most influential people, is destined to
remain a mystery to many. But not to
the thousands of dancing, singing young
women, for whom this was everything
they had dreamt of.arianagrande.comMichael HannAcuriosity of the modern age is that
Ariana Grande has come to occupy a
cultural space so exalted that a glimpse
through her press cuttings might lead
you to believe she is a cross between
Joni Mitchell, Mother Teresa and
Rosalind Franklin. When reviewing her
most recent album,Thank U, Next,
The New Yorker felt compelled to
quote John Ruskin in order to analyse
an incident in which Grande licked
some doughnuts on a bakery counter.
Time magazine has twice named
her among the 100 most influential
people in the world, and when it seemed
as though she might change her hair-
style from a ponytail, CNN saw fit to
report on it (a Google search for “Ariana
Grande iconic ponytail” brings up
7.6m results).
All this is the result of a confluence of
things: the rise of the school of cultural
criticism known as poptimism, which
treasures the brashness and immediacy
of pop above the hoary “authenticity” of
rock; Grande’s own social media per-
sona, which has made her relatable to
scores of young fans; and, of course, the
dignity and empathy she displayed in
the wake of the murder of 22 people by
a suicide bomber after her show in
Manchester in2017. At the O2 Arena,
the first of five London shows, there
was no cause to doubt her connection to
her audience, with screams ringing out
from the overwhelmingly young and
female crowd.
Whether this show was actually good
was another matter. The production
was startlingly underpowered — it was
more like the musical interlude on a
medium-budget variety special than a
top-of-the-range arena show, an
impression hardly helped byit being so
underlit. Grande was neverfollowed by
a spotlight, so from a distance it was
hard to work out who she was amongher dancers. At times it felt like watch-
ing a movie thriller on an airline seat-
back screen: what’s happening? Every-
thing is dark and tiny!
That might not have mattered were
the songs absolutely top-notch. But they
weren’t. For the most part, Grande
offered slightly downbeat, synthetic
pop R&B — it’s no surprise that one of
the songs, “Love Me Harder”, was
recorded with the king of feeling sorry
for himself, The Weeknd. It was only
when she burst away from that, on
“7 Rings”, with its pinching from“My
Favourite Things”, or the soaring “No
Tears Left to Cry”, that the material
matched the reputation.
Still, she didn’t leave things hangingThree-minute scream machine
POPAriana Grande
O2 Arena, London
aaaeeLouise LeveneIt was a crash course in Italian at the
Royal Opera House last weekend as the
Bolshoiwound up its three-week resi-
dency with four performances ofDon
Quixote. On Thursday night it was not
justbravoandbravabutbravi(for the
lusty Spanish crowd scenes) and some
well-deservedbravefrom the advanced
language class for the 32 exquisitely-
matched dryads in the vision scene.
Marius Petipa’s ballet, 150 years old
this year, takes inspiration from an epi-
sode in Cervantes’ novel, where the Don
helps Kitri, the innkeeper’s daughter,
outwit her papa and marry the hand-
some but penniless barber Basilio. The
production is probably most famous for
itsgrand pas de deux— a mainstay of gala
programmes and the competition cir-
cuit — but contains a rich variety of
dancing: a fandango for the aristocrats;
skirt dances for the gypsies; classical
party pieces for the hero and heroine.
Petipa worked as a dancer in Spain
during the 1840s and incorporated
many of the steps he stole into the 1869
Moscow premiere, but little remains of
the original choreography. The current
production by former Bolshoi star,
Alexei Fadeyechev, is based on the 1900
Alexander Gorsky version, but includes
many of the dances added during later
Soviet revivals. Some, like the Act Three
fandango by Anatoly Simachev, more
than earn their keep but the Act Two
gypsy dance can look like a floorshow
without an outsize personality in charge— Yuliana Malkhasyants(in the words
of FT dance critic Clement Crisp, “that
divinity”) storms dementedly to mind.
Thursday’s opening was led by Mar-
garita Shrainer and the darkly dashing
Igor Tsvirko, both still at soloist level.
Shrainer’s bright manner and nifty
pointework are ideal Kitri material and
her big, dark Betty Boop eyes register
every change of mood. Tsvirko, a pupil
of Alexander Vetrov and Petukhov, was
dream casting for Basilio. He made easy
work of the partnering, his hands at
least a foot away from Shrainer’s waist
at the apex of each lift and his solo varia-
tions combined all the virtuoso tricks
with an elegant finish.
Smaller parts were all cast to the max.
Ruslan Skvortsov, a principal dancer,
turned cape-twirling into an Olympic
event as the preening toreador Espada
and Anna Tikhomirova provided a
scene-stealing turnas the street dancer
with a knockout series of “flick”jetés
and a fine display of precision pointe-
work as she tiptoed through a tiny glade
of daggers. Conductor Pavel Sorokin
took Minkus’s peppery tunes at a fero-
cious lick, as if someone had leaned on
the remote and hit the X2 button.
A hard ballet to hate? Possibly, but in
her new,impressive biography of Mar-
ius Petipa, Nadine Meisner reminds us
that not everyone was in favour. August
Bournonville, who deplored any “excess
of gymnastics”, made a trip from Copen-
hagen to St Petersburg in 1874: “I sought
in vain to discover plot, dramatic inter-
est, logical consistency, or anything
which might remotely resemble sanity
... an unending and monotonous host
of feats of bravura, all of which were
rewarded with salvos of applause.”
What’s the Danish for “boo”?roh.org.ukDANCEDon Quixote
Royal Opera House, London
aaaaaMargarita
Shrainer as Kitri
and Igor Tsvirko
as Basilio in the
Bolshoi’s ‘Don
Quixote’
Natalia Voronova
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