BIF, the remainder

 I didn't actually take advantage of much else that was on offer at the Buxton Festival, choosing instead to take a trip to Hardwick Hall. I'd never been before, although I was vaguely aware of the story of Bess of Hardwick, who seems to have been a most formidable woman, marrying a series of rich men, who all died leaving her their money and property, fighting a series of lawsuits to maintain her rights in said money and property and outliving pretty much everyone who'd tried to get one over on her. It's an interesting house and an interesting story. What I hadn't realised previously was that her second husband was the Cavendish from whom the Dukes of Devonshire descend or that she had built the original Chatsworth House, now replaced by the current one. The 12th duke owns much of the land a bit further up the Wharfe Valley from where I live, as he does most of the land around Buxton. Both places are replete with pubs called the Devonshire Arms and buildings called the Cavendish Pavilion and the like. I would post some photos of Hardwick Hall, but it was raining heavily during my visit, as it continued to do throughout my few days in Derbyshire.

Now, far too little time has passed since I last featured Morris dancers and I apologise for mentioning them again. The worst of the rain was on Saturday morning and with thunder, hailstones etc all going on around me I dived into the small shopping centre in the centre of Buxton to be confronted by the surreal sight of dozens of Morris men and women standing there jingling to themselves. OK, not just to themselves, but also to the rest of us who were seeking shelter from the storm. It seems that someone thought it would be a good idea to have a constant stream of Morris sides dancing throughout the town during the festival. It wasn't. The vaguely steampunk bunch shown above were perhaps the least offensive.

A Morris dancer goes into a pub and says to the barman "I bet you don't remember me".

The barman studies him for a bit and says "Well, I don't recognise the face, but the legs ring a bell".

How rude so'er the hand

 I like getting questions about blog postings, despite them usually being along the lines of "Why do you bother?" or "I suppose you think you're funny?". I am glad to say that I have received one which is marginally more constructive, an observant reader asking why I spelled 'gaily' as 'gayly' in the title of the previous post. Don't blame me, blame Sir Walter Scott. The quote comes from his narrative poem 'The Lady of the Lake'. I haven't read it - Scott is one of those authors who I firmly intend to read when the time is right, but as to when that time might be I can't say - but I have just been to a performance of Rossini's 'La donna del lago'.

The lady and, believe it or not, the lake

I'd never seen it before, and have read various theories as to why it isn't put on more often: either the staging and set requirements are too demanding or it's difficult to assemble the combination of voices needed seem to be the favourites. This production was a bit odd, but the music and singing was excellent and I enjoyed it thoroughly. 

The oddities included archaeologists and museums, neither of which appear to feature in Scott's original and no kilts or tartan, both of which certainly (*) did. The driver of the plot is the apparent real-life tendency of James V to wander around in disguise. He was, of course, the father of Mary Queen of Scots, but if you can guess 16th century from the pictures then you're doing better than me. The chap on the chair is the baddie, who bears the fine Scottish name of Rodrigo, and as whom John Irvin stole the show, brilliantly portraying the character's MacHeath-like psychopathic tendencies. The eponymous lady was wonderfully sung by Máire Flavin, whose Violetta for Opera North this autumn I am very much looking forward to.

* For 'certainly' read 'probably'; hard to know for sure without putting in the effort of actually reading it.

The Alteration

 I find that I didn't say everything I wanted to yesterday. I think I was distracted by listening to Test Match Special and wondering if there was an alternative timeline in which England were any good. Jonathan Agnew reported that after the first day's play he had been asked by the ICC's anti-corruption team whether he thought there was anything suspicious about the loss of so many England wickets in such a short time. He had given the only possible answer: "Haven't you been watching for the last two years?".

Anyway, what I wanted to mention was that I don't mind alternative history fiction, because it's, you know, fiction. I'm not talking about about time-travelling fantasy where someone goes back to the middle ages with a machine gun, but simply a novel set somewhere sometime where things have turned out differently. Robert Harris's 'Fatherland' would an example probably known to many readers (*), and a Nazi victory in the Second World War has spawned many others. The only one of these currently on my to-read list is Philip K. Dick's 'The Man In The High Castle'. However, this blog's recommendation in the genre is 'The Alteration' by Kingsley Amis.

The two main alternative path taken in the book is no Protestant Reformation, and therefore no Enlightenment and so scientific progress has been slowed and restricted. The Roman Catholic church now dominates a totalitarian Europe through what is a cross between the Inquisition and the Gestapo. The novel is set in the 1970s and a number of people prominent in that decade pop up in different guises, as do many historical figures. There are many allusions to familiar cultural artefacts in this different context, but perhaps the one to highlight is an alternative history book within a book: 'The Man In The High Castle' by Philip K. Dick in which Henry VIII has had a son by Catherine of Aragon.

* If, of course, the blog had many readers in the first place.

A Little Afternoon Music

 Not only have postings been sparse recently, but they have all been about wargaming; and how dull is that? Cultural opportunities at this time of year are always a bit thin on the ground, and this is not, needless to say, the best of times. I have however been to a couple of pieces of musical theatre. 

Or have I? Not long ago I saw a conversation with Stephen Sondheim's biographer in which he said that the composer's view was that if productions were put on by an opera company then his output were operas, but if they were done on Broadway or the West End then they were musical theatre. 'A Little Night Music' was put on by Opera North so, ergo, it's an opera. Either way both I and my companion for the the afternoon thoroughly enjoyed it. I wouldn't be the first reviewer to point out the irony of songs - 'Send in the Clowns' being probably the best known example - which had been specifically written for actors who couldn't sing a note, being sung beautifully by opera singers who could probably have done them without drawing breathe if they had felt like it. The one in the photo above is the illustrious Dame Josephine Barstow.

Equally tuneful were the cast of 'Piaf', an excellent play with songs about the Little Sparrow from Belleville, and that's despite the fact that one of the actors has represented the UK twice in the Eurovision Song Contest. Rather effectively Edith (*) and her associate Toin were portrayed as Cockneys rather than having cod French accents of the 'Allo 'Allo variety. The rest of the actors spoke in what I assume were their natural accents (apart from briefly when the Bosche occupied Paris) and that also mostly worked. The exception was when Charles Aznavour was revealed as being Welsh. Even worse he was facially the spitting image of the chap who used to advertise Curly Wurly.

'Sheeeee may be the beauty, or the beeeeeast'

For the record, Aznavour in real life actually looked a bit like Roberto Mancini. And as even more of a digression, Terry Scott of course played Cardinal Wolsey in the previously-covered-in-this-blog 'Carry on Henry'. Back to la Piaf: she lived a life, as they say, but she regretted nothing. Rien de rien.

* Named after Edith Cavell - today's pub quiz fact.

Carry on Henry

King Henry VIII:        Her figure's all right. What about her face?
Thomas Cromwell:     I am assured, sire, it is the fairest in all Normandy.
King Henry VIII:        What about her... [indicates hourglass figure]
Thomas Cromwell:     The fullest in all Normandy.
King Henry VIII:        Has she been chaste?
Thomas Cromwell:     All over Normandy.

However good Damien Lewis and Mark Rylance were in the BBC's adaptation of Wolf Hall, I think we can all agree that Sid James and Kenneth Williams gave us the definitive versions of Henry VIII and Thomas Cromwell. I have been to see Dr David Starkey lecture on Henry VIII., where disappointingly, and despite his being a distinguished historian, he made no mention at all of either Marie of Normandy or Bettina, buxom daughter of the Earl of Bristol. I intended to challenge this omission in the Q&A afterwards, but unfortunately the great man's gaze never fell on my raised hand; instead we had to put up with eager sixth formers asking about the dissolution of the monasteries.

Other than that small oversight he was an informative and entertaining speaker, and notably one who didn't seem to alter his approach despite speaking to a largely non-academic audience. He was also rather charming and happy to sign books and chat in a way that put a lot of musicians I could name to shame. Perhaps as a nod to his reputation for being the rudest man in Britain he did have digs at several people including Prince Charles (easy target), Gordon Brown (not exactly au courant), feminists (yawn), people who study their family history (it is apparently the second step on one's way to one's dotage)  and Bartok's opera "Duke Bluebeard's Castle" (I disagree and have very fond memories of Sir John Tomlinson in Opera North's semi staged version in 2005).

I won't attempt to summarise what he said - read his books. He subscribes to the theory of French pikemen at Bosworth, but offered no evidence to support it. He touched on the subject during a very amusing and thought provoking diversion onto the parallels between the Reformation and Britain's exit from the EU on the one hand and radical Islam on the other. The previous lecture that I attended was marred by members of the audience taking the opportunity to disagree politically with the speaker and this was a refreshing change; at least it was until the first question, which was whether Dr Starkey thought he would be able improve his historical analysis by adopting a Marxist perspective. Spoiler alert: he didn't, and also took the opportunity to be gratuitously rude about Max Weber as well.

Glienicke

And so to the cinema. In an attempt to provide some competition in the eagerly awaited Epictetus film of the year award - watch this space - I have been to see 'Bridge of Spies'. It is, as one would expect, a well crafted piece of work without ever really reaching any great heights. Mark Rylance is as excellent as Rudolf Abel (not his real name of course - he was a spy) as he was as Thomas Cromwell. In one sense it's hard to see what he is doing differently from before, but he is as convincing a Soviet spy as he was a Tudor statesman. Tom Hanks is also predictably reliable, albeit perhaps too old for the role.

I've no idea how historically accurate it all is, although perhaps one could guess from the fact that the end credits claim that the Soviets never publicly acknowledged Abel as being a spy while the stamp above is one of a series commemorating intelligence agents issued by the, er, Soviet Union. It's at least debatable whether he was any good as a spy or ever uncovered any secrets. As for the message that Spielberg is trying to get across, that's pure Hollywood. He seems to have very little time for the intelligence or moral compass of ordinary Americans - Hank's character aside - but magically when aggregated together the whole country they suddenly become the good guys. Indeed they are so good that they are entitled to behave badly whereas the bad behaviour of the Soviets simply proves that they are the bad guys to start with. I think that it's fair to say that other, possibly more nuanced, interpretations of the Cold War are available. Hanks channels James Stewart throughout and, interestingly, Spielberg chooses to stick to the moral from one of Stewart's best films: "When the legend becomes fact, print the legend". His protagonist's previous connections with the CIA are downplayed so that everything can be portrayed as the ordinary guy running rings round the intelligence services of two superpowers.

It all passes a couple of hours very pleasantly, but the film that they should really make about Abel's life is of his part in Operation Berezino.

Catherine Howard - an apology

I was hanging with my homies the other day and the subject turned inevitably to the subject of why Kathryn Parr was executed. So that's the first apology: me and my crew can't tell the difference between Henry VIII's fifth and sixth wives. Anyway, confusing the Kates aside, there was a debate

Catherine someone or other

as to the exact nature of the crime of which she was convicted. Some said treason, others said something else, don't know what, but not treason. The debate raged to no conclusion in particular. However it transpires that she wasn't actually convicted of anything as she wasn't afforded the courtesy of a trial; instead simply being condemned via an Act of Attainder. They did things differently in those days. Or perhaps not.

Another world problem that we solved was to conclude that no-one be worried by the threat of North Korea. The reason? It's the shoes that their soldiers wear.

Sophocles' Antigone

I have been to a talk on twentieth and twenty-first century attitudes to Antigone; as one does. In the questions afterwards I asked if I was the only one to see a parallel between the characters of Antigone and Thomas More with Henry VIII cast in the role of Creon. Judging from the derisive looks I received, I am indeed the only one. If you ever see a version of the play set in Tudor England then the kudos is mine.

The wise words of a chap with a beard

No beard soon equals no head

I've never had much time for Thomas Moore. Despite being one the cleverest men in Europe he wrote rubbish about Richard III and got himself executed. Way to go, Tom.

King Creon and his Coconuts