arias for mrs. kirkby

Baroque music can be a difficult beast to tame, especially in this day and age: its lengthy, sometimes obtuse melodies contrast sharply with the simple refrains of modern popular music, and too many baroque performances can often feel listless and unengaging. This, however, was a problem conquered by the incomparable soprano Dame Emma Kirkby last Thursday night in a concert dubbed “Arias For Mrs. Arne,” part of the London Handel Festival. Backed by the London Handel Players, Kirkby delivered deeply passionate renditions of arias by Handel, Arne, and Lampe, which revealed why she is held in such high esteem within classical music circles.

The concert was a well-balanced mixture of instrumental chamber music – mostly in the form of trio-sonatas – and vocal showcases. The seven musicians, performing on period instruments, managed to hold their own admirably well – a diffcult task when performing alongside a singer largely credited with reviving the early music movement over the past three decades. Nonetheless, the chamber music revealed the players to be professional and experienced. Their rendering of Handel’s Overture to Athalia and Arne’s Trio in B Minor in particular were highlights; the musicians delved into the music energetically, their instruments blending richly and comfortably.

But this was a concert advertised as a vocal recital for Kirkby, and, predictably enough, the soprano drove the showwith a voice of pure, pristine beauty. Where other singers place over-emphasis on enormous vibrato, Kirkby delivers the notes simply, with minimal warbling; where other singers attempt to show off consistently, Kirkby’s singing is confident but elegant, approaching the music as one does an old friend: with a sense of warmth and gladness. Nothing was over-the-top or excessive: even the fast pace of Handel’s “War, He Sung” felt natural and customary rather than rushed. And rather than attempting to compete with the musicians, Kirkby allowed herself to be fully supported by the accompaniment, her voice swept along atop the instruments the way a tune rides atop a breeze. The finest example was Thomas Arne’s beautiful “The Morning;” its introduction began with a regal, gradually ascending violin line which certainly sounded enough like someone’s idea of a sunrise rising over the eastern horizon. The musicians’ delicate, almost reverent handling of this stretch was matched fully by Kirkby’s restrained, yet expressive voice: the two parts relied on each other and allowed each other to flourish in a relaxed manner.

Best of all was the concert’s universality. Not only was the music expertly performed – it also appealed to the whole audience, with a selection of music which would be pleasing enough to the Handel afficiando, yet accessible enough to catch the ear of a regular FM radio listener. And universal too was the amount of talent on display, providing further proof as to why Kirkby is so beloved and respected as a singer to the fans and the ignorant alike.

theatre review: enron

At first glance, the topic of Enron is hardly ripe for dramatization. Not only does in it deal in the tricky, confusing world of finance, it also concerns one of the largest and most devastating business scandals in history - one that remains a sore subject among a not insubstantial number of people. Yet, "Enron," written by Lucy Prebble avoids either glorifying or condemning the actions of the company, instead presenting Enron's downfall as a hubris-induced tragedy on the level of Shakespeare.

The play begins when Jeffrey Skillet (Samuel West) is appointed president of Enron by its CEO, Ken Lay (Tim Piggot-Smith). Skillet has big ideas: he has recently designed a plan that will allow the company to declare profit before ever receiving a cent. The plan works fine and Enron's stocks soar, but the company is secretly spiraling into debt. Desperate, Skillet turns to his CFO, Andy Fastow (Tom Goodman-Hill), who devises a scheme that allows Enron to create a shadow company to buy up its debt - and the rest, as they say, is history.

What is perhaps most surprising is how well the story is suited for a narrative. Not only does it follow a traditional rise-and-fall structure, but it also contains elements which seem too good to be true - in one instance, Fastow names his debt-eating creations as raptors after watching Jurassic Park. Its characters, too, seem incredibly real: flawed but confident in their own intelligence. Prebble's script is wry and highly intelligent, taking time to break down the higher mathematics and workings of the business world, yet never pandering or breaking pace. But the best thing about the show is undoubtedly its staging, which, though unsubtle, translates the recklessness of the company and its members into a quite literal sense. Actual news clips and commercials flare on a giant screen behind the actors; a woman leaps onto a desk and waves an American flag through the air while "Welcome To The Jungle" blares from the speakers; stock brokers trade, yell, and fight while drenched in a blanket of light from the stock exchange; and, most effectively, a combination of falling paper and the image of an explosion create a highly realistic portrayal of exploding glass. A wholly original and successful vision.

Enron score: 85

trouble comes knocking

THEATRE REVIEW: An Inspector Calls

England, 1912. Life is good for the Birling family, who have just sat down to dinner to celebrate the engagement of their daughter Sheila (Marianne Oldham) to the wealthy and charming Gerald Croft (Timothy Watson). Unexpectedly, however, their evening is interrupted by the introduction of Police Inspector Goole (Nicholas Woodeson), a mysterious figure clad in overcoat and hat. Goole informs the family that he has just arrived from the infirmary, where lies the body of a girl named Eva Smith who committed suicide by drinking disinfectant. The four members of the family and Croft are initially uninterested, until Goole begins, one by one, to reveal them all in some way responsible for the girl's death.

Written by J.B. Priestly in the middle years of World War II, "An Inspector Calls" remains as sharp and vital today as it did nearly seventy years ago. As a scathing critique of the hypocrisy and detachment of the upper class, it succeeds quite powerfully: although the interior of the house and its inhabitants are decorated in the style of the early 1900s, their behavior and dialogue would hardly be out of place in the modern world. But even more potent than the script's social commentary is its effectiveness as a suspenseful, tightly-would mystery, with a narrative that veers off in a completely unpredictable direction the minute we think we have it pigeonholed. We know from the word "go" that the family is going to self-destruct, and watching it unfold it is utterly fascinating. It's what Priestly does next that gives the script its brilliant edge.

The cast are all quite fine: as Goole, Nicholas Woodeson is magnetically fierce, snarling and delivering his pronouncements like an avenging angel - if, admittedly, a little too fast at times; catching his every word could be a challenge. Marianne Oldham is very believable as Sheila, one of the few members of the family horrified by her actions, and serves as the perfect counterpoint to her father (David Roper), a magistrate more concerned for his reputation than for the girl he fired over asking for a raise. The play's greatest moment arrives, however, when Goole faces off with Mrs. Birling (Sandra Duncan), a mammoth of a woman utterly unrepentant for her part in the crime. Goole strips off his jacket and rolls up his sleeves, Mrs. Birling twirls her necklaces and throws out her chest, and the two titans circle each other ferociously, trading barbs and accusations like a verbal boxing match. It's a terrifically tense moment, and the moment that the show truly shifts up into fourth gear.

The production's only faults lie with its stylistic choices. Directed by Stephen Daldry - the Academy Award-nominated director of Billy Elliot, The Hours, and The Reader - the show is home to a number of head-scratching moments that are never truly explained. The story takes place in 1912, yet the show opens with the sound of an air-raid siren, and the front of the stage is demolished, as though hit by a bomb. The Birling house is cartoonishly disproportionate and closed off to the audience for a good portion of the opening scenes; although the reason for this is revealed later on, it's an odd and alienating choice. But most inexplicably is the cast of extras and children only utilized at a few points throughout the story; these characters, too, are never explained, and feel wasted - put on stage, seemingly, to take up space. It's these few frustrating things - the moments of overproduction - which knock down the show from its greatest heights.

But while these are examples of faults, the show on the whole is quite impressive, and quite a worthwhile investment. When the West End is home to tiresome shows inspired by the music of Queen and Michael Jackson, or more interested in special effects than acting, it's a relief to find a show which takes the essential elements of the play seriously. "An Inspector Calls" is a case well worth investigating.

An Inspector Calls score: 79