Over the past decade or two (possibly thanks to the titanic success of Wicked) the Tony Awards have returned to the fore as a viable and entertaining contribution to the world creative stage, and about bloody time many of us would agree. As we witness a growing sophistication of creative offerings on every front — except perhaps, cinema, unless the case can be argued for Marvel — it’s heartening to see the return of the stage as a respectable form of popular entertainment.
With the 72nd Tony Awards wrapping up only a few hours ago, it’s time to hit YouTube and binge on a steady diet of technicolour clips, be them live musical excerpts of the winning titles or the repeated coverage of Robert DeNiro’s Trump jibe. Hopefully it’s the former. And while you’re at it, familiarise yourself with the latest and greatest musical offerings from theatre and cinema in recent times.
In celebration the 50th Anniversary of the Man Booker prize some canny administrators decided it would be swell to pit all previous winners against one other for a literary back-pat to stand the test of time.
Derided by some as a publicity stunt, the award will nevertheless carry an enduring gravitas as the Booker of Bookers (thus far, anyway). As the judges announce their controversial shortlist at the Hay Literary Festival this month, it’s prime time to take to social media for a good whinge. The list could be said to reflect a certain contemporary bias as there are several surprise outs and ins. But the good news is the final winner will be decided by the public, who have until early July to submit their vote.
Summer holidays bring on the nostalgia. Endless days of light and warmth, gangs of friends, sunburnt mornings at the beach, afternoon rides through shady streets, nights spent lying in fresh grass, counting the stars. These were the months of freedom and youth and invincibility, long before we understood how precious and rare and fleeting these privileges would be.
Along with the many books I devoured while swinging in hammocks, bookmarked with sand and dripped on by ice cream and mango, movies held a particular magic for me in those days. Narrative was still untainted by the poser’s need to be subversive. Adventures were pure and real and simple. Before the ubiquity of computer animation, never-ending franchises and much-hyped adaptations, movies were singular, fleeting and sublime. These are the stories that shaped my wonder, and still hold magic for me, even now.
At the Byron Writers Festival this weekend a late-afternoon session titled “This Book Changed my Life” incited considerable discussion about the influence of story. Chaired by Adam Suckling with Tracey Spicer, Susan Wyndham and the vivacious Barry Jones, each panelist in turn presented pivotal books from their childhood and adult-hood, followed by a recommendation for the Prime Minister, and then a tome they believe changed the world.
Amongst the socio-political manifestos and megaliths of literature, dystopian novels featured more than any other single genre, both in the panel and in contributions from the audience after. Surprising? Perhaps not. In recent years there’s been a noticeable trend toward dystopian narratives, in fiction, graphic novels, cinema and television. Classic masters such as Phillip K. Dick, Margaret Atwood and George Orwell are returning again and again to centre stage with screen adaptations, political goofs, and a growing suspicion that these fairy tales are not so far removed from reality as we think.
My reading pile is lately skewing toward the violent-moss-growing niche of tv-adptations. This may be cause for alarm but I don’t seem to care.
Here’s the top five I intend to read, or re-read, before watching their small-screen counterparts. This is by no means a comprehensive list and you may notice a certain bias emerging. Lucky for you I have great taste.
“But no man’s a hero to himself.”
Nostalgia has never been rendered with such bittersweet whimsy as in Something Wicked This Way Comes, the only full-length novel written by speculative master, Ray Bradbury. The adjective-laden prose, nuanced with strokes of scent and shade and breeze, is beautiful in a uniquely poetic way. Even Stephen King, with his notorious hatred of adverbs, was an ardent fan of Bradbury’s genius, admiring his stories for their “resonance and strange beauty”.
‘Ben, what is this swill?’
‘Mercutio! Well met, my coz.’
‘I’m not your coz, coz. My mother is no relation of yours, thank the gods.’
‘But could we not be coz’s all the same.’
‘By no gods shall we be coz’s.’
‘Not even by the god of wine.’
‘The god of wine? He has left this place, he is not to be found in these darkened hipster rooms. I wish the same could be said of your beard.’
No enigma…no dignity, nothing classical or poetic…only this.
Lately I’m researching expressionism for my work. The turn of the twentieth century saw some of the most incredible advances in the arts, sciences and technologies. At the peak of the industrial revolution, with the convergence of breakthroughs in communication and social evolution, suddenly the world was not such a big place. Instead of the global stage being dominated by Western progress and exploration, trans-oceanic cross-fertilisation inspired a fusion of worldwide knowledge and appreciation.
Lest you yourself be read.
(Read not, lest you yourself be judged.)
Dear Marjorie Perloff, I am sure
You have long moved on
From May 2012
He holds your hand in both of his, sitting on that cracked top step, his face grim and vulnerable with tender resolution. “It’ll work out. I’ll work it out.”
You stand before him, panic quickening your heart. “What are you saying?”
He meets your eyes, his conviction exposed, and your breath is gone. But surely he knew?
Surely he knew this was the end.