The Spectator - October 29, 2016

BOOKS & ARTS

Television

The lying game

James Delingpole

‘Adam Curtis believed that 200,000 Guardi-

an readers watching BBC2 could change the

world. But this was a fantasy. In fact, he had

created the televisual equivalent of a drunk-

en late-night Wikipedia binge with preten-

tions to narrative coherence... ’

You really must watch Ben Woodhams’s

brilliant 2011 Adam Curtis-pastiche mini-

documentary The Loving Trap, which you’ll

find on YouTube. It’s so devastatingly cruel,

funny and accurate that when I first saw it I

speculated that Curtis would never be able

to work again.

But this was fantasy. Of course, I knew

that Curtis would be back, not least because

to be parodied in this way is not an insult

but a sure sign that you’ve seriously made it.

‘Combining archive documentary mate-

rial with interviews, Curtis filled in the gaps

by vomiting grainy library footage onto

the screen to a soundtrack of Brian Eno

and Nine Inch Nails.’ Yes, I’m sure Curtis

— who, I suspect, takes himself quite seri-

ously — must have winced at this dissection

of his technique. But how many other doc-

umentary-makers get indulged by the BBC

these days with 166 minutes of airtime to say

whatever the hell they like?

His latest meisterwerk, HyperNormali-

sation (BBC iPlayer), begins in split screen

in 1975 in two cities, New York and Damas-

cus, with two events that supposedly explain

the otherwise incomprehensible world we

live in today. One was the city of New York

effectively going bankrupt, causing bankers

to supplant politicians as controllers of the

world and ordinary people to jettison poli-

tics for Jane Fonda fitness videos; the other

was Syrian President Hafez al-Assad nur-

turing a bold plan to unite the Arab world,

only to be thwarted by the Machiavellian,

divisive scheming of Henry Kissinger, lead-

ing inexorably to the invention of suicide

bombing, Isis, the chaos in modern Syria

and, somehow, Brexit.

Your instinct at this point might be to

go, ‘That’s a bit of a stretch, isn’t it?’ — and

you’re probably right. What Curtis likes to

do is construct a grand, overarching the-

ory of everything whose inconsistencies,

flaws and gaping holes he seduces you into

ignoring with the confidence of his gently

insistent voiceover, his fantastically well-

sourced and pleasingly edited found film

footage, and his ace ambient and dubstep

soundtracks.

Whether you love it or you hate it — I do

is a rugged presence as Kovalov’s hygieni-

cally challenged barber and tenor Wolf-

gang Ablinger-Sperrhacke as the servant

Ivan belts out his big entrances (literally a

one-note joke) with glee. A huge cast that

includes Ailish Tynan and Susan Bickley, no

less, all engage spiritedly with characters

who, to be honest, are barely there.

So what, ultimately, is actually there?

Kosky weaves in a fairly open-ended sexual

subtext, and Ingo Metzmacher, conducting,

finds unsuspected reserves of lyricism in

Shostakovich’s hyperactive score: hats off

to the ROH Chorus, who’ve surely never

exuded a more authentically rough-cut,

vodka-and-oniony Russian intensity. But

at around 130 minutes with no interval,

absurdity alone can’t make the thing fly.

Shostakovich’s comic effects — flatulent

trombones and a loopy Rentaghost war-

bling flexatone — lose their shock value

on second and third appearance. Much of

the show drew chuckles rather than belly

laughs: funny peculiar, not funny ha-ha.

Kosky and his team have done a terrifical-

ly realised, brilliantly inventive and highly

entertaining make-up job on a piece that’s

just too long, by a nose.

Shostakovich’s picaresque sprawl cer-

tainly points up the sheer professionalism

of Britten’s Billy Budd. That’s intended as

a compliment, both to Britten’s score and

E.M. Forster and Eric Crozier’s masterly

libretto. The carefully plotted schematics

of the drama — the set pieces, the symme-

tries, the opposition between dark-voiced

Claggart and bright, beautiful sailor Billy

— evoke Verdi’s Otello. But as with Otello,

the contrivance quickly ceases to register.

In a production as strong as Orpha Phelan’s

new staging for Opera North, the formal

structure amplifies the emotion, archetypes

become living humans, and the emotional

effect is overwhelming.

The sets, by Leslie Travers, sketch in the

outlines of a half-remembered Nelson-era

man-o’-war. A faded front wall separates

Captain Vere’s present from his past, before

swinging up to represent a sail, something

it does singularly badly. That’s the only real

miscalculation in a thoughtful, atmospheric

and grippingly tense production that focus-

es principally on the loneliness of Vere’s

command: Alan Oke’s detailed perfor-

mance suggests a man excruciatingly aware

of the invisible barrier that separates him

from his crew. Roderick Williams’s Billy

is no sacrificial lamb. Sunny, cocksure and

ready with his fists, his singing in his final,

pre-hanging monologue has a Schubert-

like concentration and beauty. As Claggart,

Alastair Miles makes his noble baritone

turn black and oily as he slithers down his

range. These three central performances

are surrounded by a sharply character-

ised cast (Stephen Richardson’s Dansker

every inch the heart of oak), and conducted

with symphonic tautness and truly ocean-

ic sweep by the underrated Garry Walker.

The chorus, in particular, is spine-tingling.

This is seriously good; please, just go and

see it.

Whether you love Curtis or hate him,

he makes for gloriously compulsive,

maddening, fascinating viewing

Noses kneel in prayer and noses stroll

casually past in the background

BILL COOPER

Nose job: Shostakovich’s ‘The Nose’ at the Royal Opera House