Friday Arts Diary

Our cultural picks for the week ahead.

 

Film

Independent Cinemas - Berberian sound studio, 31 August

Following up his lauded debut, Katalin Varga, Peter Strickland’s Berberian Sound Studio is being called the stand-out film at this year’s Edinburgh Film Festival. Gilderoy (Toby Jones) is a reserved but prominent sound engineer employed by director Santini (Antonio Mancino) to create the soundtrack to his hammy horror film. In the claustrophobic studio, Gilderoy sets to the gruesome work of mutilating vegetables in facsimile of on-screen violence, yet as his psychological strain makes itself known boundaries start to blur.

Art

Southbank Centre – Unlimited, 30 August – 9 September

The Olympics and art have had a close relationship ever since 1912, when art competitions figured as part of the games. Timed to coincide with this year’s Paralympics, Unlimited is a Southbank exhibition that has invited deaf and disabled artists to push themselves to reach previously unattained goals. Consisting of 29 commissions, Unlimited's range includes dance, live arts, visual arts, music and theatre.

Book

Mortality – Christopher Hitchens, 1 September

When author and former New Statesman staffer Christopher Hitchens died last December, a wave of tributes came from public figures as diverse as Tony Blair, Richard Dawkins and Martin Amis. His 13th and final book, Mortality, is published this Saturday. An exploration of how his cancer was "deporting" him “from the country of the well across the stark frontier that marks off the land of malady”, Mortality is a haunting account of one man lucidly examining his on coming death.

TV

BBC1 - Dr who 1 September, 7.20

In this weeks New Statesman, Alwyn W Turner examines the Daleks’ history as SF representations of the Nazi in time for the new Dr Who series, which will land on British TV screens this Saturday. At the ripe old age of 49, the cry of "Exterminate!" is getting a little tired, though we’ve been told that celebrated writer Steven Moffat has found an original angle to teach old Daleks new tricks - for the first time in the show's history they need Dr Who’s help.

Festival

Granary Square - King’s Cross Ice cream Festival, 1-2 September

Did you know that Carlo Gatti, the man who brought who brought ice cream to England, lived in King’s Cross? From his house he sold his famous "penny licks", which will be brought back by the Kings Cross Ice Cream Festival this weekend. As well as celebrating the history of the treat, the free festival will showcase the best of London ice cream and offer visitors the opportunity to be inducted into the craft all the way from milking the cow to the first lick.

Ice cream eating, which there will be plenty of opportunity to do at Kings Cross Ice Cream Festival (Image: Getty)
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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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