1984 – Northern Ballet, 25 May 2016, Sadler's Wells

Northern Ballet brings Jonathan Watkins’ ambitious take on Orwell’s famous novel to London this week. A brave move perhaps to take on the challenge of conveying a story that is so embedded in the written word through a non-verbal art form. Big Brother’s eyes are fixed not only on the dancers but often also on the audience, Simon Drew’s designs creating a circular experience. The look of the piece, for me, is one of the strengths of the production – minimal sets with sharp lines transform easily into various locations, screens ever present, watching. The dancers for the most part in blue uniforms, dancing as one under the control of Big Brother transform from obedient workers to angry crowds.

The subtlety of the movement separates the brainwashed from the rebels, the occasional view of a free, loose dancer in deep red/brown costumes contrast beautifully to those trapped within the system. Winston and Julia are conspicuous by their fluidity of movement, a thin strip of red around her waist marking her out as a rebel. The corps de ballet moments are aesthetically pleasing, their virtuosity clear amongst the uniformity. It is, however, Winston and Julia’s passionate pas de deux that captivates. Seemingly free from the constant surveillance their movement becomes lucid, they embrace with the ferocity that the breaking of restrictive chains brings.

Their fantasy cannot last long however, and act two brings a darker tone to the evening. The climactic scene in Room 101 is perhaps not as intense as one might hope but it is not without its merit. Tobias Batley makes Winston’s terror palpable and the vision of Julia’s form tantalizingly close in his moments of despair is moving. The dancers as ever give a sterling performance and the cold set and music help to build atmosphere. Perhaps it would have been a more powerful scene had the other characters been more developed earlier in the evening.

As a relatively short piece it could benefit from slight additions to bring extra depth and detail. Although familiar with the story I felt it would have been confusing for those who weren’t. A greater sense of intimidation and claustrophobia would enhance this telling. The play of the same novel performed at the Playhouse Theatre last summer left me feeling somewhat traumatised, this ballet allowed me space to enjoy some lovely choreography but did not have such a lasting impact. As commented earlier, dance is a difficult medium to translate 1984 into and although not perfect this is certainly a quality work.

Nothing, ed. Jeremy Webb

Nothing is a compilation of works by New Scientist writers on far reaching topics, with the one thing in common being that they all relate to nothing in some way. Whether this be the placebo effect, the number zero itself, black holes, or boredom. The articles are not arranged by topic so if you read from cover to cover you jump around a lot, which I enjoyed, but for the more conventional thinkers among us they have handy pointers as to where to turn to in order to continue a thought.

The writing is accessible even for those sadly ignorant of scientific theories such as myself. I’d say, however, that even if your knowledge is sharper you’d still find something here to fascinate as the topics are so broad. This book had me thinking in new ways, and considering ideas it had never occurred to me to think about. The presence of the number zero now seems obvious, necessary, permanent, but in fact it has only existed for around half the time we have evidence of counting. The mental struggle for our ancestors to come round to such an idea was surprising, and yet once thought about more deeply, entirely understandable. The strength of the placebo effect, although not a new idea to me, never ceases to amaze. Not, however, as much as the power of the belief in being on death’s door. It is quite terrifying to think how susceptible our minds are to suggestion, how our lives can be extinguished by the mere belief that the end is nigh.

Nothing makes for an excellent read that will make you question the way doctors talk to you about medicine, fear lack of exercise, and ponder the lives of sloths. Rarely do you find a book that covers so much in such little space. They are but mere tasters of much broader topics but if you want a book to guide you toward your next topic of investigation or are merely after a few scientific factoids to impress your friends, this book could well be what you’re looking for. Who knew nothing could in fact encompass so much!

A Heart So White, Javier Marías

Javier Marías’ A Heart So White is an exploration of relationships, growing up, and the power of secrets. It starts dramatically, a newlywed committing suicide in the middle of a lunch with her family and husband. Although we don’t yet know the characters it is an emotional scene – the detail of the description, the assertion that she’d left the door unlocked, perhaps in the hope that someone would come in and stop her. It is heartbreaking.  The narrative quickly jumps forward to shortly after our narrator’s (Juan’s) wedding. This creates a neat symmetry, the difference between the two events. He talks of a sense of a loss of future, of the change in feelings toward Luisa, his new wife. This is not to say he does not love her, it becomes clear throughout that he feels strongly for her, but he worries about their new life and how it will change their relationship. Marriage is not portrayed as simple, there is no sense of happy ever after in this novel, but the reality of married life, the growth and work that is necessary.

If you expect the focus of this book to be the suicide, you will be surprised. After the initial scene it is barely alluded to throughout. Instead, Marías delves into the lives and relationships of Juan, questioning familial relationships and the way we think about our parents and the transformation it goes through as the child grows to adulthood. This is certainly a book that will make you think. He makes the events not merely about the lives of the characters but broadens them out as opportunity for musing on ideas in general. Even as the cause of the suicide is finally revealed there are comments on the nature of love, and the desire to share everything. Marías also proves something of a tease, beginning the revelation and then delaying the final moment, discussing details of daily routine and the speakers’ voices.

Marías does not opt for a straight narrative but it is easy to follow, even if he is somewhat coy about saying exactly when something happened – telling the reader in a roundabout way through the age of different characters, the length of time since something else happened. He uses long sentences and repetition of phrases is common, indeed there are large sections of the end passages which are direct repeats from various points in the novel. This helps to focus the reader’s attention on the ideas that are prevalent and to understand how all the seemingly unconnected events do indeed relate. The technique also gives a sense of reality, people do no think in entirely original thoughts all of the time, ideas will be pondered many times, and the repeated mantras throughout become familiar, and yet different as the characters develop and a deeper understanding is possible.

This was my first experience of Marías’ work and it’s safe to assume I’ll be coming back for more. He creates a world where you can be both entirely involved in the characters while also being encouraged to think about the issues in terms of real life. It is rare to find a book so engaging and thought provoking, to start so dramatically and yet explore the everyday. A Heart So White is definitely worth a read.

Frankenstein – The Royal Ballet, 4 May 2016

Copyright ROH

Liam Scarlett’s much-anticipated Frankenstein got off to a slow start with a lengthy first Act giving the audience Victor Frankenstein’s family story. The death of his mother, his growing affection for Elizabeth, and his departure for University are portrayed in a fairly conventional way, the choreography having no particular defining identity. The dancing is pretty enough but lacks the individuality I have come to expect from Scarlett. A change in aesthetic arrives with the anatomy theatre and dissection creating a darker, more dramatic tone. A fairly unnecessary tavern scene follows before the Creation gets under way. Crackles of electricity and a few pyrotechnics add some theatricality to proceedings before the more subtle gradual awakening of the Creature. A twitch of a hand, a movement in the arm and Steven McRae’s Creature is ready to dash off stage amid the smashing of glass.

Narrative ballets often take a while to establish the story, and so I held out hope that Act two would prove more intensely gripping. Alas, McRae spent most of his time lurking upstage while Frederico Bonelli’s Victor Frankenstein grew ever closer to Elizabeth with only slight hints at the damaging effect of his dark secret. The emphasis throughout felt more firmly focused on their relationship than that of Victor and his creation. This led to an under-developed psychology for the Creature and a slight shallowness to Victor’s character, a surprise considering the psychological complexity and deeply disturbing characterisations Scarlett has given us in Sweet Violets and Hansel and Gretel. The deaths at the end of the Act offered the first thrills of emotion, Guillem Cabrera Espinach playing the innocence of William superbly. His limp figure in the arms of Justine a striking image.

Act three’s design was opulent, the lighting kept low, costumes glittering and Victor and Elizabeth in their bright white wedding clothes, it could easily be mistaken for a scene from Cinderella. A visually pleasing corps de ballet dance ensued and the mood was darkened with McRae’s brooding presence amongst the guests, camouflaged and yet prominent.  Victor’s distraction at his appearance displayed his obsession with his past transgressions and highlights his secrecy with Elizabeth. The placing of the dancers is expertly thought through, maximising the intimidating figure of the Creature. The subsequent struggle and deaths make the internal conflict physical and highlight the isolation of the Creature. However, I feel this would have been enhanced by more character development throughout. I felt a lot of the emotion of this scene arose from a direct experience of the power of Shelley’s novel rather than from the performance. Reading the programme note it is clear that Scarlett engaged deeply with the story yet didn’t quite succeed in transmitting this to the audience.

The music is pleasant, the sets impressive, the dancers skilled, and yet something was missing. McRae oozes stage presence which is always a joy to watch but the Creature goes from Creation to fluid, articulate movement somewhat too rapidly. McRae’s confidence is perhaps too apparent for the confused, rejected Creature that we see too little of. This is not a bad ballet, Scarlett is a solidly talented choreographer, but with such high expectation it falls somewhat short, something that could be remedied with slight alteration.

Charlotte Brontë: A Life, Claire Harman

The story of the Brontë siblings is well known and has been portrayed in many forms since Elizabeth Gaskell’s biography of Charlotte in 1857. They have been variously cast off as unstable, overly emotional recluses, and praised as some of the greatest female novelists the country has produced. Harman’s level, well-researched biography released late last year ready for this year’s bicentenary is a welcome addition to the plethora of writings that have been produced on this most intriguing family.

Charlotte naturally takes centre stage but her story is inextricably linked with those of her siblings and so we gain an insight into their behaviours along the way. The devastating loss of their mother and two older sisters naturally had a huge impact on the young family and led to an ingrained distrust of the outside world, evidenced through their seeming inability to thrive outside of Haworth. Charlotte’s time in Brussels caused an enduring heartache over the unrequited love of her teacher and then employer, Monsier Heger, which pushed her toward possible depressive spells. Harman’s use of Charlotte’s letters as source material allow the reader to experience some of the tormenting longing that was inflicted on her. One can’t help but feel she would have been mortified to know these letters are now available for public consumption yet Harman deals with the content sensitively and her rendering of the episode is one of the most emotive I’ve come across.

Charlotte’s use of characters and scenarios from her life in her novels has been widely written on and it seems clear to many that she often played out her fantasies through her fiction. Her work, as well as that of her sisters, was often considered scandalous and immoral by contemporary readers. There is a sense that all three used their writing as an opportunity to express themselves in ways made otherwise impossible by the restrictive age they lived in.

Their habit of writing together and discussing their work is naturally discussed and Charlotte emerges as a determined, enterprising young woman. Her focus in the face of rejection when both her sisters’ novels were accepted for publication is testament to her strong will and belief in her talent. There is something of a paradox evident in her character however in her desire to be known and wish to return to obscurity following the wide spread of Jane Eyre. Again Harman delicately unweaves her complex personality and leaves the reader feeling for her as she struggles with the challenges of following such a well-known novel.

A story that seems to hold endless fascination is masterfully woven together by Harman, avoiding the sensationalism that has come into play in previous renditions. Charlotte’s troubled, all too short life is brought alive once more in the pages of this beautiful book. Whether you feel you know all there is to know about the Brontës or are coming to it with fresh eyes this biography is bound to hold you enthralled by the tragic story of Charlotte Brontë whose passion and brilliance lives on through her novels.

Animal Farm, George Orwell

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Orwell’s 1945 novella Animal Farm is a dystopian response to Soviet Russia in the mid-twentieth century, but with applications far beyond its time. The animals of Manor Farm overthrow their human owner, Mr. Jones, and take over the running of the farm with the intention of equality and harmony. Prominent among their Seven Commandments of Animalism is that ‘all animals are equal'. It does not take long, however, before some wish to fill the power vacuum that remains. A power struggle ensues between two pigs, Napoleon and Snowball, often thought to represent Stalin and Trotsky respectively. Napoleon is quick to establish his position and it becomes apparent that any semblance of equality will not last long. Soon the animals are working long hours with less food than previously. The pigs separate themselves with far more provision and comfort until finally they move into the farmhouse, signifying the replacement of one dictator with another.

Napoleon’s aptly named PR pig, Squealer, constantly reassures the other animals that they are better off under the new regime. Mysterious amendments to the Commandments appear but the animals are led to believe they are merely mis-remembering the originals. Boxer’s repeated mantra of ‘Napoleon is always right’ clearly shows the blind obedience that will keep them down. Of course, the propaganda machine carefully controlled by the pigs goes a long way to aid this subservience through a regime of manipulation. Snowball’s reputation is destroyed with a series of incriminating ‘discoveries’, further reinforcing Napoleon’s position of power.

When the animals do begin to doubt that Snowball would have betrayed them to such an extent, violence is used in order to maintain the subservience. Despite the harsh conditions, they are comforted by the thought that at least they are free in a way they were not under the command of Jones. This naïve belief strikes a chord of sympathy in the reader and anger at the injustice. The final vision of the pigs enjoying the company of men, and the reverting back to the name of Manor Farm explicitly shows the circle complete. The animals were tricked into believing the coup would lead to a better quality of life and it is all too apparent that the reverse is true.

The length of this tale does not in any way diminish its power. It is clear to the reader what is happening long before the animals being to question the behaviour of the pigs. Their innocence makes their impending subjection all the more painful to witness. A perfectly crafted little book that succinctly demonstrates the power of fiction tackling politics.

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The Playdate, Louise Millar

Using a split narrative The Playdate tells the story of three neighbours – Callie, Suzy, and Debs. Callie is a single mum, desperate to get back to work and rediscover herself, Suzy is a stay-at-home mum with a distant, secretive husband. Debs is new to their North London street and is wracked with anxiety and seeming distaste for others. Knowing that the premise of the book is trusting people to look after your child and that trust being abused makes the reader second guess Callie's relationship with Suzy from the off. Debs is built up in such a way as to seem she shouldn’t be left with children but there’s always a nagging doubt that this could be too obvious. When it becomes clear that Suzy is desperate for a girl of her own and that her husband Jez is unlikely to provide her with one, suspicion grows.

From the start Callie gives the impression of guilt, of needing to tell Suzy something. This is a common occurrence throughout as all three make it clear they have a secret. To me this felt a little over-done and by the time all was revealed I did not find myself to be particularly interested. There are attempts to give the protagonists complex characters, but they seem a little flat. Debs probably has the most engaging story and the most convincingly constructed psychology. I found the revelation of her backstory the most affecting.

Callie does not make for a likeable centre for the story. Her desire to separate herself from Suzy, but only at her own convenience, is selfish, as is her short-sightedness when it comes to awareness of her friend’s needs. Her character is most interesting when raising issues of guilt in relation to obligations to her daughter Rae. She struggles with conflicted feelings about going back to work. Working increases her sense of self-worth but trying to juggle motherhood and a working life raises a number of practical and emotional issues – this I’m sure is a dilemma many could relate to.

Suzy’s story allows the reader to feel for her most in Jez’s rejection of her and her loneliness. Her longing for her home country is also sensitively portrayed and adds depth to her character. Generally however her characterization feels a little exaggerated and although she does elicit some sympathy she does not prove to be a particularly memorable character.

The Playdate is an easy read and touches on some interesting topics. There is a certain sense of the naivety of a first novel and somewhat too obvious attempts to build suspense which fall somewhat flat. The novel would benefit from more trust in the reader to pick up on subtleties. However, the sense of place is well conceived and there are some nicely written passages. Overall a decent debut for an author with obvious potential.