Friday Arts Diary

Our cultural picks for the week ahead.

Opera

Eugene Onegin, The Royal Opera House, Covent Garden, and selected cinemas. 20 February.

Tchaikovsky adapted Pushkin’s great novel in verse into what he described as ‘lyrical scenes’, in which a young girl is rejected by Onegin, and eventually chooses honour over true love. The opera has an intimacy rare in the Russian tradition, and explores themes of maturity and sexual awakening. This production is directed by first-timer Kasper Holten and stars Simon Keenlyside, and is part of The Royal Opera House’s cinema initiative, in which performances are streamed live to a rage of Vue cinemas. Opening is Wednesay 20. The Royal Opera House reminds fans that screenings are updated and added on a daily basis, so they ought to check back regularly to see at which cinema’s this production is showing.

 

Exhibition

Poster Art 150: London Underground's Greatest Designs, London Transport Museums, Covent Garden Piazza. From 15 February 2013 to 1 October 2013

London Underground has developed a reputation, since a graphic poster competition in 1908, for commissioning exciting poster art. This exhibition, in commemoration of the tube’s anniversary, collates 150 of the most remarkable. There are posters by renowned artists and photographer such as Man Ray, alongside work from lesser known artists. This exhibition presents a vibrant pictorial history of the underground and the art works which have animated the world’s oldest subway system.

 

Film

Montgomery Clift Season, BFI Southbank. 19 - 28 February

As Trevor Johnstone of the BFI writes, “when he burst on the scene in the late 1940s, Montgomery Clift brought a new kind of masculinity to the screen. Listening, caring, intelligent, but no wilting flower either – behind everything lay a stony determination”. “Wrongly, he’s often lumped in with those icons of the Method, Brando and Dean, but while their performances were often founded on expressive self-revelation, Monty did his utmost to disappear inside his characters”. This retrospective overviews key films, such as Wild River, directed by Elia Kazan, and The Misfits with Marilyn Monroe.

 

Theatre

Our Country’s Good, St James Theatre, running until 23 March

This acclaimed play is based on the true story of a cast of convicts who put on a play under the enthusiasm of a young marine officer. Both behind the scenes and onstage their positions break down and intermingle, opening up a compendium of self-discovery in Australia. The play achieved many awards in Britain and American during its first run, and this production represents a welcome re-invention of a classic. Max Stafford-Clark, who recently revived Top Girls to 5 star acclaim, returns to Our Country’s Good after directing the play 25 years ago.

 

Comedy

Alan Davies: Life is Pain, Hammersmith Apollo, 18 - 19 February

The star of QI returns to stand-up after a ten year vacation with this jovially cynical set. Davies looks back to the 80s in this at times autobiographical routine, comparing his behavior then with the middle-aged outlook with which he now wrestles. Ripples of seriousness (the death of his motehr whenhe was six) remain ripples, as Davies focuses much more intently on his mild worries about the end of the world.

 

Montgomery Clift in A Place in The Sun (Photo by Keystone-France/Gamma-Keystone via Getty Images)
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As it turns out, the Bake Off and the Labour party have a lot in common

And I'm not just talking about the fact they've both been left with a old, wrinkly narcissist.

I wonder if Tom Watson and Paul Hollywood are the same person? I have never seen them in the same room together – neither in the devil’s kitchen of Westminster, nor in the heavenly Great British Bake Off marquee. Now the Parliamentary Labour Party is being forced to shift to the ­political equivalent of Channel 4, and the Cake Meister is going with. As with the Labour Party under Jeremy Corbyn, so with Bake Off: the former presenters have departed, leaving behind the weird, judgemental, wrinkly old narcissist claiming the high ground of loyalty to the viewers – I mean members.

Is the analogy stretched, or capable of being still more elasticised? Dunno – but what I do know is that Bake Off is some weird-tasting addictive shit! I resisted watching it at all until this season, and my fears were justified. When I took the first yummy-scrummy bite, I was hooked even before the camera had slid across the manicured parkland and into that mad and misty realm where a couple of hours is a long time . . . in baking, as in contemporary British politics. It’s a given, I know, that Bake Off is a truer, deeper expression of contemporary Britain’s animating principle than party, parliament, army or even monarch. It is our inner Albion, reached by crossing the stormy sound of our own duodenums. Bake Off is truer to its idea of itself than any nation state – or mythical realm – could ever be, and so inspires a loyalty more compelling.

I have sensed this development from afar. My not actually watching the programme adds, counterintuitively, to the perspicacity of my analysis: I’m like a brilliant Kremlinologist, confined to the bowels of Bletchley Park, who nonetheless sifts the data so well that he knows when Khrushchev is constipated. Mmm, I love cake! So cried Marjorie Dawes in Little Britain when she was making a mockery of the “Fatfighters” – and it’s this mocking cry that resounds throughout contemporary Britain: mmm! We love cake! We love our televisual cake way more than real social justice, which, any way you slice it, remains a pie in the sky – and we love Bake Off’s mixing bowl of ethnicity far more than we do a melting pot – let alone true social mobility. Yes, Bake Off stands proxy for the Britain we’d like to be, but that we can’t be arsed to get off our arses and build, because we’re too busy watching people bake cakes on television.

It was Rab Butler, Churchill’s surprise choice as chancellor in the 1951 Tory government, who popularised the expression “the national cake” – and our new, immaterial national cake is a strange sort of wafer, allowing all of us who take part in Paul’s-and-Mary’s queered communion to experience this strange transubstantiation: the perfect sponge rising, as coal is once more subsidised and the railways renationalised.

Stupid, blind, improvident Tom Watson, buggering off like that – his battles with the fourth estate won’t avail him when it comes to the obscurity of Channel 4. You’ll find yourself sitting there alone in your trailer, Tom, neatly sculpting your facial hair, touching up your maquillage with food colouring – trying to recapture another era, when goatees and Britannia were cool, and Tony and Gordon divided the nation’s fate along with their polenta. Meanwhile, Mel and Sue – and, of course, Mary – will get on with the serious business of baking a patriotic sponge that can be evenly divided into 70 million pieces.

That Bake Off and the Labour Party should collapse at exactly the same time suggests either that the British oven is too cold or too hot, or that the recipe hasn’t been followed properly. Mary Berry has the charisma that occludes charisma: you look at her and think, “What’s the point of that?” But then, gradually, her quiet conviction in her competence starts to win you over – and her judgements hit home hard. Too dense, she’ll say of the offending comestible, her voice creaking like the pedal of the swing-bin that you’re about to dump your failed cake in.

Mary never needed Paul – hers is no more adversarial a presenting style than that of Mel and Sue. Mary looks towards a future in which there is far more direct and democratic cake-judging, a future in which “television personality” is shown up for the oxymoron it truly is. That she seems to be a furious narcissist (I wouldn’t be surprised if either she’s had a great deal of “work”, or she beds down in a wind tunnel every night, so swept are her features) isn’t quite as contradictory as you might imagine. Out there on the margins of British cookery for decades, baking cakes for the Flour Advisory Board (I kid you not), taking a principled stand on suet, while the entire world is heading in one direction, towards a globalised, neoliberal future of machine-made muffins – she must have had a powerful ­degree of self-belief to keep on believing in filo pastry for everyone.

So now, what will emerge from the oven? Conference has come and gone, and amateur bakers have banged their heads against the wall of the tent: a futile exercise, I’m sure you’ll agree. Will Jeremy – I’m sorry, Mary – still be able to produce a show-stopper? Will Mel and Sue and Angela and Hilary all come sneaking back, not so much shriven as proved, so that they, too, can rise again? And what about poor Tom – will he try to get a Labour Party cookery show of his own going, despite the terrible lack of that most important ingredient: members?

It’s so hard to know. It could be that The Great British Bake Off has simply reached its sell-by date and is no longer fit for consumption. Or it could be that Tom is the possessor of his alter ego’s greatest bête noire, one as fatal in politics as it is in ­bakery, to whit: a soggy bottom. 

Will Self is an author and journalist. His books include Umbrella, Shark, The Book of Dave and The Butt. He writes the Madness of Crowds and Real Meals columns for the New Statesman.