The Olympics through the lens

London launched a rich variety of Olympic photography exhibitions last week.

You could be forgiven for not knowing where to look first as the capital city launched a myriad Olympic photography exhibitions last week. Whilst Tate Britain opened its nostalgic vintage homage to the metropolis "Another London", The Photographers Gallery by contrast unveiled its ambitious long term project "The World in London". Staged as a large outdoor portrait exhibition that is best encountered via bike (and while wearing imperviously waterproof clothing), it showcases 204 commissioned portraits of Londoners, each originating from one of the Olympic game’s competing nations by 204 acclaimed photographers. The exhibition is repeated across two sites; the BT London Live site in Victoria Park, Hackney and at Park House development in central London’s Oxford Street. Despite the struggles presentating such a project -- the simplistic large scale posters that imbricate slightly with little consideration to pacing -- the depth and breadth of this project is a huge achievement, especially when considering the many pitfalls that a large publically funded project such as this can be faced with. The ensuing exhibition is as much a survey of London’s diverse cultural heritage and identity as it’s a celebration of portraiture itself.

In refreshing contrast and far from the saccharine buzz of the Olympic celebration, "Residual Traces" at Photofusion Gallery, Brixton is a group exhibition of 6 photographic projects concerned with the consequences of the London 2012 Olympic Games and the subsequent marginalisation of a community in one of London’s least known and contentious areas, the Lea Valley. A formerly overlooked and undeveloped enclave of urban neglect - pylons and graffiti, Tower blocks and abandoned sheds, compulsory land purchase orders and hipster regeneration - this polemical exhibition explores the hastily engaged transformation of one of London’s most loved hinterlands. The work included in this exhibition documents aspects of this transformation of Lea Valley and includes work by Sophia Evans, Stephen Gill, Zed Nelson, Jason Orton, Jan Stradtmann and Gesche Weurfel. The exhibition is curated by Bridget Coaker, Director of Troika Editions.

"The World in London" : Victoria Park Dates: 27 July - 12 August 2012, Park House Dates: 27 July - 30 August 2012; Admission: Free Venues: Victoria Park, E3; 453 - 497 Oxford Street, London, W1. 

"Residual Traces": a group exhibition curated by Bridget Coaker: Troika Editions, 27 July – 7 September 2012, Photofusion Gallery, 17A Electric Lane Brixton, London SW9 8LA, 020 7738 5774.

"Another London": 27 July – 16 September 2012, Tate Britain Millbank, London SW1P 4RG.

 

Manor Garden Allotments London, 2007 by Jan Stradtmann on view at Photofusion
Rebecca McClelland is photography editor of the New Statesman
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Netflix's Ozark is overstuffed – not to mention tonally weird

Could the channel use a hit? Every time my subscription leaves my bank account, I think again that it could.

The main reason why Ozark, the new Netflix series, feels so underpowered has to do with its star, Jason Bateman (who also directs): a good actor who badly wants for charisma, he simply can’t carry it alone. Watching the first few episodes, I kept thinking of Jon Hamm in Mad Men and (a better example here) Bryan Cranston in Breaking Bad, both of whom played, as does Bateman, characters around which the plots of their respective series turned. When they were on screen, which was often, it was all but impossible to tear your eyes from them; when they were off it, you felt like you were only biding your time until they returned. But when Bateman disappears from view, you hardly notice. In fact, it feels like a plus: at least now you might get to see a bit more of the deft and adorable Laura Linney.

In Ozark, Bateman is Marty, an outwardly square guy whose big secret is that he is a money launderer for the second biggest drugs cartel in Mexico. When the series opens, he and his wife Wendy (Linney) and their two children are living in Chicago, where he nominally works as a financial advisor.

By the end of the first episode, however, they’re on their way to the Lake of the Ozarks in rural Missouri. Marty’s partner, Bruce, has been on the fiddle, and the cartel, having summarily executed him, now wants Marty both to pay back the cash, and to establish a few new businesses in which future income may be cleaned far from the prying eyes of the law enforcement agencies. If this sounds derivative, it is. We’re in the realm of Breaking Bad, only where that show gave us out-of-control Bunsen burners and flesh-eating chemicals, this one is more preoccupied with percentages and margins.

Where’s the friction? Well, not only is the FBI on Marty’s tail, his wife has been cheating on him, with the result that their marriage is now just another of his business arrangements. The locals (think Trump supporters with beards as big as pine trees) have proved thus far to be on the unfriendly side, and having paid off their debts, the only house Marty can afford has a cliché – sorry, crotchety old guy – living in the basement. On paper, admittedly, this all sounds moderately promising. But hilarity does not ensue. As dull as the Lake of the Ozarks when the tourist season is over, not even Linney can make Bill Dubuque’s dialogue come alive. Her character should be traumatised: before they left Chicago, the cartel, for reasons I do not completely understand, pushed her podgy lover – splat! – off his balcony. Instead, she’s fussing about the crotchety old guy’s sexism.

Ozark is overstuffed and tonally weird, so I won’t be binge-watching this one. This completes rather a bad run for me and Netflix; after the lame new series of House of Cards and the egregious Gypsy, this is the third of its shows on the trot to bore me rigid. Could the channel use a hit? Every time my subscription leaves my bank account, I think again that it could.

And now to The Sweet Makers: A Tudor Treat (19 July, 8pm), in which we hear the sound of the “living history” barrel being scraped so loudly, those attending the meeting at which it was commissioned must surely have worn ear defenders. Basically, this is a series in which four confectioners “go back in time” to discover how their forebears used sugar (first, the Tudors; next week, the Georgians).

What it means in practice is lots of Generation Game-style faffing with candied roses and coriander comfits by people in long skirts and silly hats – a hey-nonny-nonny fiesta of pointlessness that is itself a sugar coating for those nasty things called facts (ie a bit of tokenism about slavery and our ancestors’ trouble with their teeth).

Resident expert, food historian Dr Annie Gray, strained to give the proceedings urgency, sternly reminding the confectioners that the sugar house they’d spent hours building did not yet have a roof. But who cared if it didn’t? Destined to be eaten by fake Tudor guests at a fake Tudor banquet, it wasn’t as if anyone was going to lose their head for it – not even, alas, at Broadcasting House. 

Rachel Cooke trained as a reporter on The Sunday Times. She is now a writer at The Observer. In the 2006 British Press Awards, she was named Interviewer of the Year.

This article first appeared in the 20 July 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The new world disorder

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