The Mortals in the House

This month, I'm working for Tea Break Theatre on their exciting new production The Mortals in the House, an adaptation of Elizabeth Gaskell's ghost stories which will be performed within Mrs Gaskell's former House here in Manchester. It's very thrilling indeed!

Check out themortalsinthehouse.wordpress.com for more information...

Neil Gaiman on storytelling

From his short story anthology, Fragile Things:

As I write this now, it occurs to me that the peculiarity of most things we think of as fragile is how tough they truly are. There were tricks we did with eggs, as children, to show how very strong they really were, tiny load-bearing marble halls; while the beat of the wings of a butterfly in the right place, we are told, can create a hurricane across an ocean. Hearts may break, but hearts are the toughest of muscles able to pump for a lifetime, seventy times a minute, and scarcely falter along the way. Even dreams, the most delicate and intangible of things, can prove remarkably difficult to kill.


Stories, like people and butterflies and songbirds' eggs and human hearts and dreams, are also fragile things, made up of nothing stronger or more lasting than twenty-six letters and a handful of punctuation marks. Or they are words on the air, composed of sounds and ideas - abstract, invisible, gone once they've been spoken and what could be more frail than that? But some stories, small, simple ones about setting out on adventures or people doing wonders, tales of miracles and monsters, have outlasted all the people who told them, and some of them have outlasted the lands in which they were created.


And also:

I believe we owe it to each other to tell stories. It's as close to a credo as I have or will, I suspect, ever get.

The Silken Tent

A bizarre idea for a poem, in some ways - comparing your beloved to a tent hardly seems the most romantic simile ever! - but the result is magical:

She is as in a field a silken tent
At midday when the sunny summer breeze
Has dried the dew and all its ropes relent,
So that in guys it gently sways at ease,
And its supporting central cedar pole,
That is its pinnacle to heavenward
And signifies the sureness of the soul,
Seems to owe naught to any single cord,
But strictly held by none, is loosely bound
By countless silken ties of love and thought
To every thing on earth the compass round,
And only by one's going slightly taut
In the capriciousness of summer air
Is of the slightlest bondage made aware.

- Robert Frost

In Memoriam; or, standing on Bangor Pier after a friend's funeral

Break, break, break,

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!

And I would that my tongue could utter

The thoughts that arise in me.

O, well for the fisherman's boy,

That he shouts with his sister at play!

O, well for the sailor lad,

That he sings in his boat on the bay!

And the stately ships go on

To their haven under the hill;

But O for the touch of a vanished hand,

And the sound of a voice that is still!

Break, break, break,

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!

But the tender grace of a day that is dead

Will never come back to me.

- Tennyson

Mark Zuckerberg part 2

Further to that blogpost a few weeks ago, I've just noticed that both Jesse Eisenberg and Andrew Garfield have received Golden Globe nominations for The Social Network, hurrah!

More musings in a similar vein...

In my last post, I was thinking about how people perceive their own futures, and how current society seems defined by a confusion over whether following one's dream is possible, or even sensible. I've just started reading One Day by Dave Nicholls, and it's kept me thinking on that theme. The concept of the book is that we encounter two characters, Dexter and Emma, on one day each year, starting from their first proper meeting the night of their graduation from university. As they get older, we see how their lives pan out, and it's fascinating to compare their actual futures to the ones they hoped for initially.

Here's how Dexter starts out: At twenty-three, Dexter Mayhew's vision of his future was no clearer than Emma Morley's. He hoped to be successful, to make his parents proud and to sleep with more than one woman...but how to make these all compatible? He wanted to feature in magazine articles, and hoped one day for a retrospective of his work, without having any clear notion of what that work might be. He wanted to live life to the extreme, but without any mess or complications. He wanted to live life in such a way that if a photograph were taken at random, it would be a cool photograph. Things should look right. Fun; there should be a lot of fun and no more sadness than absolutely necessary.

And Emma: The trick of it, she told herself, is to be courageous and bold and make a difference. Not change the world exactly, just the bit around you. Go out there with your double-first, your passion and your new Smith Corona electric typewriter and work hard at...something. Change lives through art maybe. Write beautifully. Cherish your friends, stay true to your principles, live passionately and fully and well. Experience new things. Love and be loved if at all possible. Eat sensibly. Stuff like that.

"Mark Zuckerberg is the youngest billionaire in the world", and other stories

Today, I had a few free hours between an Opera North workshop and some college commitments so, as I am very occasionally wont to do, I made an impromptu solo visit to the cinema. The film I saw was the social network, a reasonably accurate portrayal of the origins of the website we all love to hate, Facebook. It's really very very good indeed, and I'd strongly recommend a viewing; firstly, because it's fascinating to get a hint of what went into the creation of such an internet phenomenon, but also, and more significantly, because the writing is extremely intelligent, the film-making is beautiful and the young acting talent on display is absolutely first-rate: Jesse Eisenberg should unquestionably receive some award nods for his pitiably defiant portrayal of the main character, but mention must also be made of an astonishingly (in my mind, at any rate!) accomplished performance from Justin Timberlake and (the best of all, I reckon) an unforgettably moving turn from Andrew Garfield, last seen on the British theatre stage as Romeo at the Royal Exchange.

What surprised me most, however, was how deeply thought-provoking the experience turned out to be; it was one of those serendipitous things where a piece of Art unexpectedly resonates with stuff going on real life.

Last night, I was having a long chat with one of my housemates, and one of things we talked about was an odd feeling of restlessness in our hearts. We both have so much to be thankful for in our lives and, to a massive extent, are really really happy with our jobs, and our personal situations etc etc...but it never quite takes away this niggling feeling that we're missing something, that there's something more exciting, more fulfilling, more significant that we could be doing. And that made me think of another conversation I'd had at the weekend. Some of the other younger men at church have made, or are considering making, quite dramatic changes in their career paths, and it got a few of us chatting. I made the point that the age in which we live can be very puzzling indeed: young people are now constantly given the message that anything is possible; that, with the right balance of ability and hard work, absolutely anything can achieved. So it's now perfectly acceptable, and often even laudable, for someone who's spent a huge amount of money and time following a particular life-path - like law, or medicine, or teaching, or whatever - to give it all up to pursue their lifelong dream of being, say, a poet, or an entrepreneur, or a textile artist.

And I think that that affects an awful lot of people - they start to wonder whether the life they're living is really "the one", whether they have more to give than their current career or situation exploits, whether it's time that they, too, followed their dreams. But I suppose that it's one of those self-perpetuating myths... In a rather boring, unremarkable way, I guess I am actually living my dreams a bit; a large part of my income comes just from singing and acting, and virtually all my work is Arts-centred, which is one of my biggest passions. But I still spend a lot of time soul-searching and wondering whether it's really the right thing to be doing... At the moment, I'm thinking a lot about whether I would rather focus on performing or education/outreach, and also whether classical singing is really what I want to do, as opposed to some musical theatre, or even straight acting. The restlessness never ends.

Watching the film today brought these thoughts to the forefront of my mind again. The story is populated by immensely gifted young men who, despite their talents, are deeply discontented, and longing to do something of real significance. For the main guy, Mark, the whole Facebook saga stems from his desire to get into the highest rank of Harvard clubs - when asked why, he says "Because they're exclusive and fun, and they lead to a better life." There it is, you see - that underlying suspicion that there are other people around him who are having more fun, achieving more of their potential, heading towards a better future.

So yeah...lots of thinking today! And I haven't really arrived at any conclusions yet. As a Christian, I believe that a lot of the restlessness in the human soul is down to the fact that, in our natural state, we're extremely messed up - our sins have destroyed our relationship with our creator God, and it can only be repaired through faith in Jesus Christ - but even when, by God's mind-blowing mercy, our sins have been forgiven, life seems to still, often, be characterised by restlessness and a fear that we're not fulfilling our own potential. Despite knowing that a truly worthwhile life is one that is spent serving God and telling others about Him, the decisions over what career to pursue, what dreams to follow and what life-path to take are still pretty befuddling, often unbearably so.

But this blogpost is already far too long! So I won't continue. Perhaps there'll be some more thoughts along soon. First, I must update my Facebook status...

I am a camera

Earlier this afternoon, sitting on a sun-warmed bench in leafy Manchester, I finished a rather wonderful book called Goodbye to Berlin by Christopher Isherwood.

No. Even now I can't altogether believe that any of this has really happened...

Isherwood lived in Berlin in the early 1930s, and watched first-hand as Hitler rose to power. He taught English, and did some writing, and changed accommodation a lot, depending on his variable income; but what he did most of all was just observe - watch as an extraordinary city went through some extraordinary circumstances.

I am a camera with its shutter open, quite passive, recording, not thinking. Recording the man shaving at the window opposite and the woman in the kimono washing her hair. Some day, all this will have to be developed, carefully printed, fixed.

The writing is absolutely beautiful, but it's almost secondary to the incredible sense of ever-weakening defiance against inevitable darkness with which Isherwood manages to permeate the book. His friends and acquaintances include cabaret singers, businessmen, beggars, prostitutes, Nazis, landladies, homosexuals, Communists, barmen, con-artists, Jews, barons and many, many more - each lives in a very different situation to the others but all of them are fighting, desperately struggling to preserve an illusion that their lives will get better... They are all absolutely terrified and deeply unhappy, but rarely allow it to show. It has echoes of both Mrs Dalloway and The Great Gatsby, in different ways, which is probably why I loved it so much!

When I have been listening for some time, I find myself relapsing into a curious trance-like state of depression. I begin to feel profoundly unhappy. Where are all those lodgers now? Where, in another ten years, shall I be, myself? Certainly not here. How many seas and frontiers shall I have to cross to reach that distant day; how far shall I have to travel, on foot, on horseback, by car, push-bike, aeroplane, steamer, train, lift, moving-staircase and tram? How much money shall I need for that enormous journey? How much food must I gradually, wearily consume on my way? How many pairs of shoes shall I wear out? How many thousands of cigarettes shall I smoke? How many cups of tea shall I drink and how many glasses of beer? What an awful tasteless prospect! And yet - to have to die... A sudden vague pang of apprehension grips my bowels and I have to excuse myself to go to the lavatory.

Our natural inarticulateness, and Shakespeare: some thoughts!

I saw a life-affirmingly wonderful production of As you like it earlier this week (hopefully I'll blog about it soon) and it put me in mind of a poem I wrote about a year ago. It sprang from a desire to convey an idea in my head - that, for a lot of us, we love Shakespeare because he never shies away from attempting to convey the giddiness and terror and ecstasy of all aspects of life. We are all very inarticulate, I think (that's true isn't it? We can never quite express exactly what's in our heads or hearts?), and I love Shakespeare because he gets closer than I ever could to properly putting into words things that I feel. Stuff like Lear, on Cordelia's death: No, no, no life! Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life, And thou no breath at all? Thou'lt come no more, Never, never, never, never, never! Which of us hasn't wanted to scream that after a loved one's death?

Anyway, I wanted to write a poem that starts out like a Shakespearean sonnet, but whose structure gradually disintegrates as the writer loses faith in the form, feeling that it's too emotionally honest for modern sensibilities - and then, at the very end, there would be a glimpse of true feeling again. It may be rubbish (and please don't feel obliged to read it if the very idea makes you cringe - I would usually be appalled at the idea of someone displaying their poetry in public! A bit like holiday photos, I guess) but it conveys a thought in my head better than prose can, I think:

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

Or number all thine attributes and charms,

Until thy soul seem'd all but writ away

And I should run to clasp you in my arms?

I laugh: already, how my pen recoils

From these old forms - he knows his master, so

He corrects "thee" and, here, the metre spoils

A little. Still, I'll struggle on, I -

No. It does feel a bit OTT, tbh.

We're kinda past that, aren't we? Society. Us.

You'd cringe, probably - a sonnet?! - I'd blush. Stammer.

Not worth the effort, mate.

And yet... Inside, I long to flee this curse.

My lips may lie; my heart must speak in verse.

Breakfast

I'm not a big of fan of breakfast, generally, but I read an article on it recently that may alter my perceptions. Here's a quote:

It's at the right end of the day: the morning, a time of beginnings and possibilities, a time when problems have been slept on, when solutions haven't yet proven unworkable, when nothing specific has gone wrong. And if you've made it to breakfast, even if it's just toast at the kitchen table, then you've already achieved something. You're alive. You're feeding yourself. You're viable. Breakfast may be a small thing, but greatness starts with small things. Greatness starts with breakfast.

Something to think about!

"Thou wilt turn again to me...for of all fowles that may fly, thou art most meeke and hende."

I'm currently in rehearsals to play Mr Noah for an RNCM Outreach production of Benjamin Britten's wonderful opera Noye's Fludde, based on Genesis 6-9. It's brilliant music, and we're planning quite a fun staging, with lots of umbrellas (hurrah!), but my favourite thing about it is the very first scene, which has Noah hearing God's voice ordering him to build the ark. In this production, the stage is covered in cardboard boxes laid out in the shape of a huge cross; that shape is then taken apart, and the boxes in it are used to build the Ark. I love this, because it's become, in my mind, a unintentional visual metaphor. How brilliant that the Cross becomes the Ark, as both were used in the Bible as a means of salvation: Noah's Ark kept a family and all the world's animals safe from the Flood; the Cross, on which Jesus died, provided a way for each one of us to be saved from the punishment we deserve for the sinful way in which we live.

The other wonderful thing is that it's written in old English, so you get amazing lines like

And heare are beares, woulfes, sette,

Apes and monkeys, marmosette,

Weyscelles, squirelles, and ferrette...

Such fun!

...and a night that drags interminably!

Oh dear. It's suddenly Christmas Eve, the one night of the year that last about 1,000,000 hours....

Merry Christmas everyone! And, very possibly, a New Year that may even contain a few blogposts.

Joy to the World!

Two men a-questing!

I really do think Ben Fogle and James Cracknell are two of the most brilliant guys on the planet. I'm currently watching the documentary following their attempt to race to the South Pole last year, and it's absolutely fantastic; they truly are living the dream for those of us who long for traditional, Boy's-Own-type adventures in farflung places!

Three Magi a-journeying!

One of the pieces of music I'm practising furiously at the moment is Benjamin Britten's Journey of the Magi, a weird and wonderful setting of the famous poem by T S Eliot. It's a mesmerising piece of work, imagining what might have gone through the minds of the wise men as they journeyed to Bethlehem. A hard time we had of it is the verdict, as they describe the obstacles they faced, and the doubt in their minds: the voices singing in our ears, saying that this was all folly.

The final stanza intrigues me the most, in which the Magi look back at the end of their quest; Eliot, himself undergoing something of a religious awakening at this point in his life, has the men commenting on the strange shadows of Death that seemed to linger around the Christ-child's birth, and their realisation that their world would forever be different.

All this was a long time ago, I remember,
And I would do it again, but set down
This set down
This: were we led all that way for
Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly,
We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and death,
But had thought they were different; this Birth was
Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death.
We returned to our places, these Kingdoms,
But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,
With an alien people clutching their gods.
I should be glad of another death.

Four TV shows a-watching!

Christmas is the only time of the year during which I vaguely schedule my life around television. Here are my four festive highlights this year:

Cranford The marvellous 2007 drama, based on novels by Elizabeth Gaskell, has returned to our screens with an even more astonishing cast of British talent, including rising stars Jodie Whittaker (Izzy in Tess of the D'Urbervilles) and Matthew McNulty (Fisher Bloom in Lark Rise)
Outnumbered The funniest thing on television? A close contender.
Turn of the Screw Henry James's terrifying ghost story, made into an amazing opera by Benjamin Britten, and now adapted for televsion by the BBC. The preview clips alone chill the blood, so goodness knows whether I'll survive the full drama!
Doctor Who Enough said.

Five gooooooooooold riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiings!

Everyone loves that bit!

Six plays a-coming!

One of the most exciting things about a new year is the promise of new theatre. Here, in no particular order, are the plays to which I'm most looking forward in 2010:

Women beware Women by Thomas Middleton (National Theatre) I love the dark grotesquerie of Restoration drama (anyone remember The Revenger's Tragedy from 2008?!) and this play is a brilliant example of the genre. It's directed by Marianne Elliott, whose All's well that ends well was a massive highlight of 2009, so will undoubtedly be startling and original.
Henry IV part 1 by William Shakespeare (Globe) It's a play that everyone raves about, and which is most famous for being the first appearance of the fat knight Sir John Falstaff, but I have never seen it and, indeed, know very little about it. The Globe's Artistic Director, Dominic Dromgoole, is helming this production, and he is known for his insightful, honest interpretations of Shakespeare, so this promises to be very excellent indeed.
La morte d'Arthur by Thomas Mallory (Royal Shakespeare Company) Wonderful! A brand-new adaptation of the King Arthur legends, directed by the fantastic Greg Doran, and performed by the RSC's resident ensemble. Can't wait!
1984 by George Orwell (Royal Exchange Theatre) Matthew Dunster, responsible for the astonishing production of Macbeth from earlier this year, has adapted this wonderful novel, and will direct the first production. I imagine it will be terrifying and brutal, and excellently theatrical.
Pygmalion by George Bernard Shaw (Royal Exchange Theatre) A classic play that I've never seen before. The REX is so good at plays from this period (think of An Ideal Husband, Hay Fever etc) that is guaranteed to be an absolute treat.
The Woman in Black by Susan Hill (Lowry) The West End's most terrifying play finally tours to Manchester! Hurrah! Eeek!

Seven carols a-singing!

Top 7 carols today, in reverse order:

7. Angels from the realms of glory This appeals to the singer in me, as the chorus is a genuine challenge to sing in one breath...
6. The First Nowell Ever since hearing Olly Hamilton's incredible arrangement at the Platt Carol Service two years ago, this has been a firm favourite; it seems to have a fantastic joy and spirit that, to my ear, is quintessentially festive.
5. O come, all ye faithful A classic. Beautiful harmonies, a sensible key signature that allows everyone to sing the high notes in the right octave and, of course, one of the best descants ever!
4. In the bleak midwinter It's all about the cheesey last verse "What can I give him?... Give him my heart" Lovely!
3. O little town of Bethlehem I'm not totally sure what my favourite thing about this one is - it's a close tie between the hushed awe of the third verse, and the gloriously soaring descant in the final verse.
2. God rest ye, merry gentleman Carols in a minor key make me feel more Christmassy than ones in a major key. A strange fact, but a true one. The best thing about this carol is the final verse of the David Willcocks arrangement, where the sopranos and altos sing wordless, spinetingling chords above the men belting out the tune.
1. O come, O come Emmanuel Again, it's in a minor key, so it's an immediate winner - but this one has an elusively haunting, poignant quality that gives it the top spot in my shortlist; and, of course, the top Ds on "Rejoice!" in the chorus are a bass-baritone's delight!

So, there we go. Any controversial choices? You decide.

Eight decades a-passing!

The BBC recently adapted Andrea Levy's bestselling novel Small Island, and it is currently available to watch on iPlayer. It's a fantastic drama, taking place over the 1930s and 40s and telling the story of a Jamaican couple, Gilbert and Hortense Joseph, who move to London in search of a new life. Here they become involved with Queenie Bligh, a young landlady awaiting her husband's return from the War.

It will come as no surprise to learn that a big theme of the film is racism. It's a subject that is hardly new fodder for TV drama, but I really was sobered by the outrageous way in which the Josephs are treated by so many of the British public in this story. When you reflect on the fact that we are only a mere eight decades away from the era in which Small Island is set - less than a lifetime, really - it is an unsettling experience.

For the most part, the Josephs maintain an impressive dignity in the face of their struggles and, in many cases, seem much more civilised than their mockers. There is a lovely moment when Gilbert introduces Hortense to the wonders of fish and chips; he explains that the English eat the meal straight from newspaper, without cutlery, and Hortense's response is an utterly bewildered "Like monkeys?"

Oh, and the ending had me shedding a small tear! Cracking stuff.

Nine books a-reading!

I have been uncharacteristically extravagant in recent days; normally I only buy books second-hand, to save money, but there have been a few good offers in Waterstones et al, and I have taken these opportunities to restock my bookshelves. Consequently, I am in the joyous position of having NINE shiny new novels waiting to be read:

The Pillars of the Earth by Ken Follett
A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini
The Astonishing Life of Octavian Nothing, Traitor to the Nation by M T Anderson
The Suspicions of Mr Whicher by Kate Summerscale
Nation by Terry Pratchett
Crocodile Tears by Anthony Horowitz
The Gift by Cecilia Ahern
The Lost Art of Gratitude by Alexander McCall Smith
Past Imperfect by Julian Fellowes

The Anthony Horowitz is particularly exciting as it is the latest in my beloved series of Alex Rider novels - a brilliant collection of books about a teenager in the employ of MI5.

Exciting! If there is anything particularly notable in any of them, perhaps it will even find its way onto this blog...