All entries for December 2006

Porgy and Bess, Savoy Theatre

This show’s got plenty of sumtim’...

What a fabulous job Trevor Nunn has done on his new production of Porgy and Bess. It is one of the most honest and uplifting pieces of theatre I have seen.

Working with Gareth Valentine, Nunn has reshuffled the Gershwins’ original opera, cutting it down to a considerably shorter show. Having directed the opera at Glyndebourne and the Royal Opera House, Nunn has gone about rearranging it, therefore, with the utmost delicacy, respect and good judgement. It now features dialogue, adapted from Heyward’s original novel, Porgy, and the songs have been arranged into more of a music theatre style. Nunn’s justification in doing so is that he aims to pull down the elitist barrier that opera inevitably builds up, attract the wide audience that the Gershwins had so wanted and to transform the music into something generally more “spontaneous, visceral, emotional, expressional” (Trevor Nunn).

Even the sceptics and die-hard loyal supporters of the Gershwins’ original would be hard-pressed to fault the outcome of Nunn’s new project. Valentine’s adaptation has brought out the true soulful nature of the score, especially in the often richly gospel arrangements. Summertime is brought to fruition by Lorraine Velez whose voice has the purity, simplicity and focus of a choir boys. Nicola Hughes makes a wonderful Bess; sensual and raunchy, she convincingly converts to the warm, humbled Bess we see in the second half. Clarke Peters makes the show, playing Porgy with the gentleness and dignity that is so characteristic of Peters as a performer. He possesses a poignantly quiet frustration at his disability, but never threatens to over-sentimentalise the part, even as he dabs his face with a crumpled hanky and joins in the dancing by sitting at the side, banging a tambourine. His limp is daringly debilitating (though not distracting as I’d feared), one leg seeming to dangle from its socket and lugged laboriously behind him. Typical of Nunn, the visuals of the show are not neglected in favour of the stunning singing, and impressive dance sequences are interspersed throughout.

Who could watch the Gershwins’ opera and not feel sorry for Porgy and a bit cross at Bess for leaving? You come out of this production, however, feeling positively torn. Porgy’s ultimate liberation as you watch his silhouetted figure clumsily stagger its way upstage centre, one arm raised in cautious triumph, creates the biggest knots in your throat that you will suffer in the theatre for a while.

This cast is one hundred per cent strong. The voices are admirably versatile, at times singing in a richly operatic style and at others so guttural that it’s as uncomfortable as grinding your teeth. When I went to a master class that Clarke Peters gave a year or so ago, he mentioned that his ambition in his now later years was to play Porgy. Well Clarke, “you is Porgy now” and, my gosh, he, the cast and production team have done it well.

Anna Brewer : 30 Dec 2006 18:21 |  Comments (0) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

Island in the Sun – a trip to Antigua

Thursday, 7/ Friday, 8 December

As torrential rains pound at my bedroom window and North London suffers its first tornado, calypso tunes are reeling out of my stereo at home. It is an effort to convince myself that the next morning I will be in the tropics – something that seems impossible to believe at this moment.

Twelve hours later, we are at Antigua’s chaotic airport, scrambling through a mass pile-up of suitcases that have been chucked at random onto the floor, sweating in the intense humidity and waiting three hours to get through Immigration & Customs with one thousand other once optimistic holiday-makers. Even the Americans are reduced to pessimism.

“This is the first and last time I am coming here”, exclaims one lady.

An American suicidally throws himself in front of a porter with a trolley, who has been paid to queue-jump.

“Do NOT let this guy past, whatever you do. We’ve been waiting!”

This whole experience has been preceded by an equally unpleasant flight. Sitting behind me was a group of lumpy, anti-social ten-year-olds with an equally lumpy, anti-social mother. Their prime source of entertainment for the eight-hour flight was perpetual kicking, jiggling and drumming of my seat so that I felt in a permanent state of turbulence. Getting a cup of tea steadily to my lips was a challenge.

I politely request that they stop their activities to which the mother looks at me blankly and put her headphones back on. Five hours on, as I ask again, the mother, suddenly furious, accuses me of discriminating against her “autistic” children (are all three “autistic”?) who have their “rights” (to sabotage my seat?) and that if I had autistic children (which she hoped that I would) I would understand. I feel assured after this experience I will NOT be having children, so she needn’t worry.

After a day of what would make perfect material for an entire series of Grumpy Holidays, we are met at the airport by a nice taxi driver, allowed to chill in his refrigerator of a vehicle and dropped straight into the lobby of one of the most beautiful hotels I’ve ever seen.

Saturday, 9 December

A total opposite of yesterday. One of those days where the slightest amount of activity attains the highest significance. I could probably tell you the number of birds that crossed my path, every new arrival at the hotel as well as how many sail boats drifted past (four).

I embrace the sunshine rather too enthusiastically at the start of the day and now resemble a candy cane with white and red bikini bands.

I watch a little boy on the beach. He must be around five or six years old. His mother works in a nearby beach shop and so evidently he spends his Saturdays here on the beach. He is there for eight hours, by himself, and I am in awe of his imagination. He thinks up numerous games with the waves and his rubber ring, amusing himself quietly and contentedly. You can see the delight in his face as his imagination runs wild with these inventive games.

What becomes of children’s imaginations? I stare at some of the adult guests, lying there seemingly brain-numb, trapped in the dullness and reality of daily life.

Sunday, 10 December

The highlight of Sundays in Antigua, according to our guide book, is the trip to Shirley Heights to see the sun set over the island’s historic dockyard and enjoy spectacular views whilst drinking rum and listening to a steel band.

At four o’clock, as dozens of rather burnt and sober British tourists sidle in, I find it difficult to believe that this is going to be the upbeat party that has been promised.

Before the sun sets, people mill around, sheepishly sipping their rum punches and endlessly snapping the magnificent views. Others cluster around the steel band, tentatively tapping a toe, but keeping a safe distance from the pounding drums.

In the midst of this safe distance is Ivan – a local – here to loosen the stiff British reserve and try to coax the visitors away from their cameras, handbags and drinks and into the dance area. Standing near the front, I naturally am among his first targets. With steel drums throbbing in our ears and sweet barbecue aromas blowing in sheets over the crowd, I spend the next four hours dancing with this amazing talent that is Ivan.

The experience proves to me just how little human communication and chemistry is built upon language. Speaking in the heaviest Patois and against an orchestra of drums, Ivan can’t understand me and I can’t understand Ivan. Instead, our conversation consists of signals. He hands me a laugh, I hand one back. I ask a question, he answers a totally different one. And in this bizarre way, we pass the evening knowing exactly what the other means.

Over the course of the evening as the steel band hots up, we British tourists are beginning to thaw. The infectious beat of these fifteen-plus drums is inescapable and before too long, there are pensioners, young adults and children partying on Shirley Heights.

At eight o’clock (it feels more like midnight) it is time to get our taxi home. Our driver, Max, crawls at twenty miles per hour down the pot-holed roads, telling us and his other British and American passengers about why he hates Tony Blair and George Bush.

The drive from the north to the south of Antigua is something in itself. We see houses which are ramshackle, but with characterful touches of window-boxes, fairy lights or just brightly painted exteriors. Small, shed-like buildings read “Tony’s Laundry” or “Elvis’s Tyres” and open shacks sell cooked chicken and burgers under signs which simply read, “Cooked Chicken and Burgers”. There are children playing on verandas, Rastafarians sipping beer on porches, people walking along or standing on the roadside, waiting for a bus.

It is a museum-like experience, observing this action from behind panes of glass, and I wish I could stop to really experience this culture properly. We have plenty of days left though.

Monday, 11 December

Every Antiguan will be quick to tell you that they are good friends with Sir Viv Richards. The immediate celebrity status they gain in doing so makes them all the more blasé in their claims.

“Yeah, you know, he’s a nice guy, nothing special. Known him since we were lil’.”

Perhaps everybody does know him; after all, Antigua is a relatively small island. But while Richards is an everyman (his house, as we see, is nothing special, situated in an average residential area), nonetheless he is the national hero, with numerous roads, buildings and stadiums bearing his name.

Which is why when we learn that Viv Richards is playing his last ever cricket match today – a friendly to mark Antigua’s national Heroes’ Day – we head over to St. John’s, the island’s capital, to watch it.

Relatively few locals have turned up for the match (the beach has more appeal on a hot day’s holiday apparently), but we still get an insight into how West Indians play and watch cricket. While, as Brits, we applaud politely, they are more vocal in their responses, the old boy in our stand blowing his trumpet enthusiastically.

He has eyed us curiously prior to the match and walked past us several times. Giving us a bit of time to recognise him, he eventually gives in saying, “Do you know who I am?” A friend of Viv Richards perhaps? He introduces himself as the well-known trumpeter, Papi, who ostensibly appears on televised cricket matches world-wide (and, he is quick to add, is of course a friend of Viv’s).

Tuesday, 12 December

Having only briefly glimpsed Antigua’s capital, St. John’s, we take an early-morning trip into town in order to get a fuller flavour of life there. Even at nine o’clock the place is buzzing – lots of one-man stalls selling local produce, the hot morning sun pelting down on the vendors, many of whom sit behind eerie black umbrellas, bodies totally concealed.

We walk and stumble along the jagged sidewalks where you have to watch for gaping mouths of crumbled concrete and, in order to cross a road, you often have to jump down a foot or so.

Shops, like in Antigua’s villages, tend to have hand-painted, bright and functional signs outside, characterised by some personal touch. They sell a mixture of practicalities for the locals and tat for the tourists.

Up a hill, is the city’s cathedral, a haven of peace in which you can feel a breeze and look down on the city, hot and shiny and dusty. Three old women sit on a bench outside, one peeling potatos, the other two washing something in a bucket.

The art and crafts indoor market is unbearably oppressive as the sellers hassle you to buy.

“Alright, sweetheart? You gonna buy bracelets? Necklace?”

Getting lost in the maze of stalls and unable to see anything past the high draped fabrics and barricades of jewellery, it is a relief to finally return into the blazing heat.

Around the quay, four cruise ships’ loads have been tipped off for the day so these areas are filled with the glamorous elderly, bum-bagged and baseball-hatted, scanning the duty-free shops, unsure of how to crack this dilapidated, atmospheric town in the space of a few hours.

Wednesday, 13 December

There is a wedding on today so our hotel is filled with boisterous people. After days in this haven of peace and tranquillity, anyone with the slightest air of excitability becomes frowned upon with the utmost disdain by the more established guests (like ourselves). We exist, at present, in a vacuum of serenity, like fragile glass which the slightest decibel of sound can shatter.

Some children from a local school come to sing Christmas carols to the guests before dinner around the pool. They are dressed in red cloaks and Santa hats and carry lanterns. I had forgotten it was almost Christmas. It is strange hearing Little Donkey sung with heavy Caribbean inflections.

Thursday, 14 December

After practically grinding to a halt in terms of mobility (the ten metre daily walk to the terrace for afternoon tea has become a mission in itself), we decide today that we really should do some activity before returning home.

First project – a horse-riding trek along a couple of Antigua’s beaches.

It has been advertised by The Reliable Stables as “a fulfilment of a dream”, cantering through crystal waters and on golden sands. (It could only be in the Caribbean that a “reliable” business is something of a novelty and makes it worthy of a mention).

When we arrive at Reliable Stables (although I can’t see the stables), our horses are tethered to a tree. The horses are hot and bony with matted manes and I feel apologetic for making my poor horse carry my weight. Junior, the boy taking us out, looks equally lean, his long, ungainly legs dangling down the horse’s flank.

He rides silently behind, looking at us with suspicious dark eyes and making whistling sounds through his teeth to the horses. When he discovers we are English, however, he suddenly comes alive. Apologising for his lack of communication, he explains he mistook us for Americans, expressing his (unfounded) dislike for the nation and telling us about his life.

We do indeed ride on the beach, but due to government laws about this, the majority of our trek is through marshy scrub land where the horses slip in squelchy, stagnant puddles, and scenery is made up of mangled, rusted car parts, gruesome animal carcasses and clothing discarded in the muddy puddles.

We emerge from the scrub land into a small village where a cluster of bulls in the road warily survey our approach. My heart knots the closer we get to this blockade of stubborn bulls. It is like seeing a gang on the street which you know you must pass through. Luckily, however, the bulls grudgingly part and we carry on our way.

A man ahead of us only has one leg which is squeezed into a black boot and he swings along on wooden crutches. Around his waist he had a lethal-looking silver knife, the blade the length of his one leg. “Don’t mess with me, buddy” are the signals I am picking up and pass him with a wide berth and sycophantic smile.

Nearing our end, the heavens open, the coolness of the rain causing steam to rise from my horse’s flank. We slide off our sodden horses after an hour, relieved to have returned in one piece.

Despite this not being quite what the glossy brochure had advertised, it has actually been a highly enjoyable experience – much more so than if we had just plodded up and down Antigua’s golden sands.

The next activity – snorkelling.

Something I’d ummed and ahhed about for a while, questioning whether I really wanted to see what was swimming around my legs or whether I wanted to remain in blissful ignorance. With my coming of age, however, I decide it’s about time I face facts and so sign up to be taken out.

A small boat pulls up to pick me up on its round-robin of various hotels. The problem is there is no means of getting into the boat at our hotel except by wading waist-deep into the sea and then being hoisted in by some super-strong men. Trying to be as elegant as possible, conscious of the audience already aboard, I accept a leg-up, somehow get stuck at an awkward angle and have to be rolled, horizontal, into the boat.

What a start and it isn’t as if I have any snorkelling skills to rescue me from this humiliation.

On board are three young couples, all clutching their own jazzy snorkel kits and looking calmly (but not unkindly) confident. As the only beginner, I am taken under the wing of Tony, a rotund American with a full-bodied voice, who owns the company and in whom I entrust total faith.

Arriving at the reef, people plop one by one off the side of the boat, leaving me trying to untwist my legs on account of my unfamiliarity with flippers. Once I have managed this and padded my way over to the boat’s edge, I plop into the water – last, but not least.

Contrary to my image of snorkelling conditions, huge waves pelt my mask and I seem to be using my tube as a salt-water straw rather than breathing apparatus. Wincing as I repeatedly kick my own leg with my flipper, I can hear shouted, chopped-up instructions from Tony.

“Ok guys…aren’t…conditions for snor…but it…because it’s rewarding….coral”.

I can’t see him over the waves though and right now, the aesthetics of the coral are my last thought.

The waves throw us snorkellers together and as bodies and flippers collide and entangle, we shout incomprehensible apologies up our tubes.

Tony, unfazed by the shipwreck conditions, points out the various species of coral and occasionally plunges down to the reef’s floor and re-surfaces, proudly holding up a specimen. I find his wobbly-bellied excursions to the bottom as interesting to observe through my snorkel window as any of the sea-life. My observation contributes to his regarding me as a fellow appreciator of sea-life with a highly curious mind.

He points out a rare and beautiful form of coral called fire coral and suggests we all go take a closer look (“but be care…fire coral…burn…touch it”). I swim closer and look and it is beautiful. Amber and graceful in its silent rhythmic palpitations.

After coming up to purge my mask of water, I look again and can’t see it. Suddenly I do – I am right over it and its extended tentacles are practically tickling my underside. Heroic Tony chucks me as far as he can from it, coming courageously close to touching it himself in the process. The other snorkellers in our group, with flailing limbs and muffled tube-shouts, battle against the current and apparent magnetic pull of the fire coral until we are eventually far from it.

With the choppy conditions, these experienced snorkellers are gradually wilting and being plucked, one by one, back into the boat. I am really enjoying this new experience, however, busy looking to see if I can see anything peculiar on the reef floor like discarded human possessions or old plasters. Tony commends my energy and enthusiasm for my new sport but says it is regretfully time to get back into the boat.

With my new levels of confidence, my reappearance into the boat is much smoother thankfully. I am announced to the sea-sick looking boat-load as the star snorkeller and I ride back to the beach sipping a Coke and chuffed at my newly-discovered sporting prowess.

Evening – the night before my 21st birthday

Enjoying our nightly dinner on the terrace, eating fresh Caribbean mahi-mahi fish. After dinner, to my surprise, a big birthday cake with sparklers appears and is presented to me by two waitresses wishing me a happy birthday. The band announces my birthday and leads the restaurant and bar in a rendition of Happy Birthday. In appreciation, I distribute the cake amongst the band, staff and guests and return to my table to devour the rest with my mum. This is great and it’s not even quite yet my birthday.

Friday, 15 December – my 21st birthday

Following my grasp of snorkelling, I now venture alone into the raised shack on the hotel beach that is the Watersports Department. A free induction to sailing is offered to all guests in which an instructor will take you out and, without revealing any of the gold-dust secrets of sailing that you pay good money for, will nevertheless give you a ride. It sounds perfect – a free boat ride with someone else doing the work, no responsibility and nothing to have to absorb.

I have perverted the system slightly in that I am getting all the various instructors to give me inductions. At least three potential boat rides. Slightly awkward when I keep appearing at the shack asking for different men and a life-jacket.

My first induction is with Orlando who is five foot with stumpy toes, massive dreadlocks and a fuzzy beard. He is quiet and thoughtful, but stingy when I try to slip in a sneaky question about how to sail. He enjoys his job and is respectful and professional towards his guests.

Owen, however, who I approach next is much more liberal, asking me about my home life, love life, studies – even requesting a kiss once we have rounded the corner of the hotel beach. He takes me on a slightly improvised route (since it’s my birthday) and is so absorbed in conversation about his homeland Jamaica that we several times get clobbered by the swinging sail and have to scramble quickly, on hands and knees, to the opposite side of the boat.

With all these inductions, I think I may just be able to sail myself on my next trip, without having paid a penny for lessons.

Evening – leaving Antigua feeling a certain sadness, having said goodbye to several friends we have made over the week, both staff and guests.

The taxi takes us to back to the dreaded St. John’s airport and on the journey I realise just what an insight we’ve actually managed to gain into Antiguan culture. What had been simply a scenic drive last week has now been enriched by getting to know some of Antigua’s people and becoming attuned to their way of life.

What has particularly struck me is their life’s arbitrary nature. Clocks are irrelevant over here, appointments rarely kept, with people coming and going when they please. Even the bus service operates to no particular timetable or fixed stops. Driving isn’t governed so much by lanes as by pot-holes, drivers hoot at other drivers for no apparent reason. If torrential rain falls at 11.30, by 11.40 you’re scorching on a deck-chair.

I can safely say it’s a much more wholesome way of life, people having an immense amount of respect for one another. Children are brought up to be polite, considerate and unselfish. Teenagers do not dominate or provoke fear. Old people have a great deal of authority and are generally not ones to mess with.

Poverty is prevalent but it is a resourceful, productive poverty where people build a life from limited means. With all the poverty in Antigua, we didn’t see one beggar and that says a lot. The island’s people have a sharp eye for business, whether that’s whipping up home-made smoothies on a street corner, starting their own laundry service or establishing themselves as one of the island’s many taxi drivers.

On the plane to Gatwick now, eating a Christmas dinner. Very strange to think it’s almost Christmas – hard to believe, despite the hotel’s optimistic musical invitation to “let it snow, let it snow, let it snow”.

Anna Brewer : 21 Dec 2006 09:35 |  Comments (2) |  Close comments |  Report a problem