Friday Arts Diary

Our cultural picks for the week ahead.

Cinema

18th London Turkish Film Festival. 21st February - 3rd March. Odeon West End, ICA, Rio Cinema and Cine Lumiere.

The festival begins with the Open Night Gala, the climax of which is the UK Premiere of Yılmaz Erdoğan’s ‘The Butterfly’s Dream’, starring Kıvanç Tatlıtuğ, Belçim Bilgin and Mert Fırat. Five films are competing for the Golden Wings Digiturk Digital Distribution Award, one of which is the new film from Reha Erdem, ‘Jin’, which screened for the first time just a few days ago at the Berlin Film Festival. Beside a wealth of new and exciting cinema, there will also be events with features, documentary programmes, a selection of outstanding short films, Q&A’s and a Workshop with Reha Erdem.

Art

Becoming Picasso: Paris 1901. 14thFebruary - 26th May. Courtauld Gallery

The Courtauld is presenting the opportunity to re-live the exhibition which launched Picasso as an artist. At only nineteen Picasso collected these rapidly produced, in many ways derivative works in Paris. The works demonstrate Picasso’s emerging aesthetic beneath the influences of Gauguin and Van Gogh. The exhibition includes pieces of remarkable assurance, such as ‘Child With A Dove’, and raw youthfulness, such as ‘Spanish Dancer’. The Courtauld allows us to witness the germination of the twentieth century’s most important artist, which the Telegraph has called ‘a tight, compelling, and beautifully installed exhibition’, and the Independent “a real stunner”.

Ballet

Aeternum. February 22nd – March 14th. Royal Opera House.

Christopher Wheeldon, who at 39 has already made over sixty ballets, is choreographing the world premiere of his Aeternum at the Royal Opera House, in a programme which includes Apollo and 24 Preludes. Wheeldon is using Benjamin Britten’s ‘Sinfonia da Requiem’, and directing Royal Ballet principal Marianela Nunez. He has put this performance together in little over a month, and it promises to be a vibrant treat for fans of his abstract, contemporary classic style.

Opera

Medea. 15th February - 16th March. English National Opera.

David McVicar’s production of Charpentier’s opera of sorcery and vengeance, starring Sarah Connolly, has garnered superb reviews. Baroque and bloodthirsty, it is the tale of the scorned lover of Jason of the Argonauts, who murders their two children when she learns that he will marry another. It is an opera teeming with violence and the supernatural, and Connolly, its mezzo-soprano, gives a highly-praised performance. Medea is conducted by period specialist Christian Curnyn.

If you fear that by the interval you and your company may require a relaxant (a distinct possibility) the ENO offers the opportunity to order champagne along with your tickets.

Comic Books

SuperLab. 20Th and 27th February. Bedroom Bar, 62-68 Rivington Street, Shoreditch.

Now for something different. A group of science Phd students and post-doctoral researchers from UCL and Goldsmiths are hoping to demonstrate to a willing public how comic books can enlighten our real-world experiences. An interactive event called ‘Crime’ on Wednesday 27th will discuss how science can explain artistic ability and whether illegal drugs can bolster creativity. Moreover, stalls will be set up to determine your own superpower (lie-detector cheating and the like). It might also be prudent to note that the event is free, and held in a bar. Golly gee whillikers Batman!

Pablo Picasso (RALPH GATTI/AFP/Getty Images)
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How Donald Trump is slouching towards the Republican nomination

There was supposed to be a ceiling above which Trump’s popular support could not climb.

In America, you can judge a crowd by its merchandise. Outside the Connecticut Convention Centre in Hartford, frail old men and brawny moms are selling “your Trump 45 football jerseys”, “your hats”, “your campaign buttons”. But the hottest item is a T-shirt bearing the slogan “Hillary sucks . . . but not like Monica!” and, on the back: “Trump that bitch!” Inside, beyond the checkpoint manned by the Transportation Security Administration and the secret service (“Good!” the man next to me says, when he sees the agents), is a family whose three kids, two of them girls, are wearing the Monica shirt.

Other people are content with the shirts they arrived in (“Waterboarding – baptising terrorists with freedom” and “If you don’t BLEED red, white and blue, take your bitch ass home!”). There are 80 chairs penned off for the elderly but everyone else is standing: guys in motorcycle and military gear, their arms folded; aspiring deal-makers, suited, on cellphones; giggling high-school fatsos, dressed fresh from the couch, grabbing M&M’s and Doritos from the movie-theatre-style concession stands. So many baseball hats; deep, bellicose chants of “Build the wall!” and “USA!”. (And, to the same rhythm, “Don-ald J!”)

A grizzled man in camouflage pants and combat boots, whose T-shirt – “Connecticut Militia III%” – confirms him as a member of the “patriot” movement, is talking to a zealous young girl in a short skirt, who came in dancing to “Uptown Girl”.

“Yeah, we were there for Operation American Spring,” he says. “Louis Farrakhan’s rally of hate . . .”

“And you’re a veteran?” she asks. “Thank you so much!”

Three hours will pass. A retired US marine will take the rostrum to growl, “God bless America – hoo-rah!”; “Uptown Girl” will play many more times (much like his speeches, Donald J’s playlist consists of a few items, repeated endlessly), before Trump finally looms in and asks the crowd: “Is this the greatest place on Earth?”

There was supposed to be a ceiling above which Trump’s popular support could not climb. Only a minority within a minority of Americans, it was assumed, could possibly be stupid enough to think a Trump presidency was a good idea. He won New Hampshire and South Carolina with over 30 per cent of the Republican vote, then took almost 46 per cent in Nevada. When he cleaned up on Super Tuesday in March, he was just shy of 50 per cent in Massachusetts; a week later, he took 47 per cent of the votes in Mississippi.

His rivals, who are useless individually, were meant to co-operate with each other and the national party to deny him the nomination. But Trump won four out of the five key states being contested on “Super-Duper Tuesday” on 15 March. Then, as talk turned to persuading and co-opting his delegates behind the scenes, Trump won New York with 60 per cent.

Now, the campaign is trying to present Trump as more “presidential”. According to his new manager, Paul Manafort, this requires him to appear in “more formal settings” – without, of course, diluting “the unique magic of Trump”. But whether or not he can resist denouncing the GOP and the “corrupt” primary system, and alluding to violence if he is baulked at at the convention, the new Trump will be much the same as the old.

Back in Hartford: “The Republicans wanna play cute with us, right? If I don’t make it, you’re gonna have millions of people that don’t vote for a Republican. They’re not gonna vote at all,” says Trump. “Hopefully that’s all, OK? Hopefully that’s all, but they’re very, very angry.”

This anger, which can supposedly be turned on anyone who gets in the way, has mainly been vented, so far, on the protesters who disrupt Trump’s rallies. “We’re not gonna be the dummies that lose all of our jobs now. We’re gonna be the smart ones. Oh, do you have one over there? There’s one of the dummies . . .”

There is a frenzied fluttering of Trump placards, off to his right. “Get ’em out! . . . Don’t hurt ’em – see how nice I am? . . . They really impede freedom of speech and it’s a disgrace. But the good news is, folks, it won’t be long. We’re just not taking it and it won’t be long.”

It is their removal by police, at Trump’s ostentatious behest, that causes the disruption, rather than the scarcely audible protesters. He seems to realise this, suddenly: “We should just let ’em . . . I’ll talk right over them, there’s no problem!” But it’s impossible to leave the protesters where they are, because it would not be safe. His crowd is too vicious.

Exit Trump, after exactly half an hour, inclusive of the many interruptions. His people seem uplifted but, out on the street, they are ambushed by a large counter-demonstration, with a booming drum and warlike banners and standards (“Black Lives Matter”; an image of the Virgin of Guadalupe, holding aloft Trump’s severed head). Here is the rest of the world, the real American world: young people, beautiful people, more female than male, every shade of skin colour. “F*** Donald Trump!” they chant.

After a horrified split-second, the Trump crowd, massively more numerous, rallies with “USA!” and – perplexingly, since one of the main themes of the speech it has just heard was the lack of jobs in Connecticut – “Get a job!” The two sides then mingle, unobstructed by police. Slanging matches break out that seem in every instance to humiliate the Trump supporter. “Go to college!” one demands. “Man, I am in college, I’m doin’ lovely!”

There is no violence, only this: some black boys are dancing, with liquid moves, to the sound of the drum. Four young Trump guys counter by stripping to their waists and jouncing around madly, their skin greenish-yellow under the street lights, screaming about the building of the wall. There was no alcohol inside; they’re drunk on whatever it is – the elixir of fascism, the unique magic of Trump. It’s a hyper but not at all happy drunk.

As with every other moment of the Trump campaign so far, it would have been merely some grade of the cringeworthy – the embarrassing, the revolting, the pitiful – were Trump not slouching closer and closer, with each of these moments, to his nomination. 

This article first appeared in the 28 April 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The new fascism