Art Nouveau Ho

I realise a lot of my recent posts have been along the lines of went to see something arty and responded to it on a deep and personal level, look how cultured I am, wooooo so if I'm going to do yet more artblogging today, I should start with a confession: I struggle with classical music that doesn't involve voices.

In particular, I struggle with the symphony. I know they're a benchmark for true greatness in a composer, that they're the major landmarks of Western classical music, etc etc-- but all the same, symphonies often leave me cold. Especially Mahler, who must have been on symphonic Viagra or something: his symphonies are HUGE and last for HOURS. I made a last-minute decision to go hear Mahler 3 at the Proms last night with some friends: you know it's a Mahler symphony when there's so much percussion onstage there's no room for the choir. Seriously: two sets of kettledrums, three sets of cymbals, tubular bells, a gong... I've been doing so much Classical lately I'd forgotten about the late-nineteenth-century tendency to stuff the orchestra with all the weird-ass instruments in the universe. Two harps! A genetically-modified supertuba! Piccolos, for God's sake!

As the lights went down our hurried conversation went like this:

"I've forgotten which one Mahler 3 is!"

"It's the one about death and resurrection!"

"They're ALL about death and resurrection!

"Is it the one with the offstage trumpet?"

"No, it's a posthorn..."

"They've ALL got offstage brass!"

"I think it's got a posthorn... and a mezzo singing extracts from Thus Spake Zarathustra and a boys' choir going 'bing bong'!"

(Lights go on in my brain) "Oh! I think I've sung this..."

(As it turns out, I should just have checked Wikipedia. All kinds of useful information there: orchestral forces, silly movement titles, sung text and the fact that the offstage posthorn solo is usually played on a flugelhorn. A B flat flugelhorn, in case you were wondering.)
( So how was it? )

The Divine Suetekh, AKA pvcdiva, was in town this weekend: astoundingly, London is still standing (just barely.)

On Saturday, we got up horribly early to get to the ENO costume sale out at their warehouse in Limehouse. The estimable fracture242 joined us in the queue, which seemed to be composed entirely of Goths who hadn't been to bed after the previous night's opening of new club Tarantula. It was fun (if a shade frantic), and we all came away with some lovely pieces: Suetekh with a blue-and-white Victorian dress, some sparkly beads, several pairs of spats and some frilly bloomers; Fracture with a gorgeous Edwardian red satin ensemble; and I with an ivory-and-gold vaguely Klimtian-looking overdress. I also came out with a simple black dress (£5), a drapey black skirt with gold embellishment (£5), and the hugest hoop crinoline known to science (£20).

After trying to carry the crinoline over one shoulder while schlepping the Diva's bags and my own, it became obvious that the easiest way to transport the damn thing was to wear it. Cue me swearing my way down the King's Road clutching several bin bags full of costumes with my lower half in full sail. I trust I was able to make everyone's day that little bit more surreal.

After depositing our various purchases at our various homes, the three of us reconvened that evening for Love's Labours Lost at the Globe. ( Come with us, won't you? )

My local cinema is showing Bergman's The Seventh Seal, and last night I went to see it with the ever lovely fracture242.

Bergman's own recent checkmate by Death saddened me. I loved so many of his films: in addition to Seventh Seal, I adore Smiles of a Summer Night (which Stephen Sondheim adapted for his musical A Little Night Music) and of course The Magic Flute, which to this day is one of the best examples of opera on film.

Seeing The Seventh Seal in all its monochrome glory on the big screen, the overall effect is one of terrifying clarity. On the one hand, the gaps in the production values are more obvious-- yes, they're wearing faked-up knitwear chainmail-- but on the other, moments like Death's appearance in the blinding light on the stony beach have about ten times the impact.

What filmmaker today would dare portray Death without using CGI? Or the dream-visions of the actor Jof? Bergman does it all with acting: the story is told on the faces, in merciless close-ups which are all the more revealing on the big screen.

In the opening scene, Death asks the Knight why he wants more time. The Knight replies "To accomplish one meaningful thing." In the Knight's case, he means seeing his wife again after ten years on crusade-- but in Bergman's, I think, that thing was this film. It's amazing in so many ways.