Time’s arrow: an image by Chloe Dewe Mathews
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Turning budget cuts into drama, and photography after the blast

Mark Lawson weighs up the hard choices facing the arts.

One effect of voters’ present suspicion of elected representatives has been to nudge political fiction towards dark comedy, such as The Thick of It, or thrillers with statesmen as villains, such as House of Cards or the movie The Ides of March, with George Clooney as a presidential candidate who is responsible for his young mistress’s death.

Americans at least got The West Wing, a liberal fantasy in which a commander-in-chief with a Nobel Prize in Economic Sciences is surrounded by a staff competing for a Nobel in integrity, but British TV viewers get legislators as baddies – such as David Tennant plotting to stop his wife becoming prime minister in The Politician’s Husband – while, in theatre, MPs have recently been farcical figures in Yes, Prime Minister, The Duck House and Handbagged.

So the dramatist Jack Thorne is bravely opposing cultural orthodoxy by attempting to write a stage play that takes politics and politicians seriously. Hope at the Royal Court Theatre in London (until 10 January) takes place in an unnamed, Luton-like community, where the Labour council has been instructed by the coalition government to cut its budget by £64m over three years.

The leader, Hilary, chooses to make the “hard choices”, drawing up brisk lists of the cases for closing museums and day centres rather than leisure centres and libraries; in rather pointed casting, this savage pragmatist is played by Stella Gonet, who recently portrayed Margaret Thatcher in Handbagged. Her deputy, Mark (Paul Higgins), is less compliant, wondering what would happen if they refused to set a budget.

The consequences of Mark’s attempt offer a lively civics lesson on the way the coalition has rigged the system so local government takes the flak for reductions that are enforced by Westminster. This politically educative element suggests that Thorne has been watching The West Wing, as does his softening of public policy with private dilemmas: Mark is a recovering alcoholic whose ex-wife is a recipient of one of the grants ripe for slicing. But the director John Tiffany departs from this naturalistic model in sequences of song and choreography that, for me, would have been a candidate for cutting.

While Thorne records English speech with digital clarity – catching the gaps and loops of real conversation – he has failed to engage most reviewers in a political dialogue: Hope has faced accusations of naivety in questioning the absolute necessity of deep reductions in public expenditure and of loading his case by including among the characters a woman with Down’s syndrome whose beloved day centre is closing down.

Yet real examples of such wrenching outcomes can be found in the newspaper of any town with a council being urged to “live within its means” and Thorne sharply shows how the budgetary process becomes subject to pressures either illogical (get a social media petition signed by celebrities and you might survive) or unpalatable (the local racists are thrilled by the hitting of provision for immigrants). Most provocatively, he suggests that state contraction is a “class war” in which the Tories have used the recession to slay long-hated social scapegoats.

These conclusions may be arguable but it is a measure of how successful David Cameron and George Osborne have been with their post-Thatcherite “There is no alternative” rhetoric on cuts that even many on the left seem to think that Thorne is being unreasonable.

Time fades away

Exposure time – which determines how much light is let into a camera – is a vital calculation in photography. But an intriguing exhibition at Tate Modern in London explores a different type of timing: the gap between a historical event and its depiction.

“Conflict, Time, Photography” (until 15 March) ranges from images taken within seconds, such as Luc Delahaye’s record of the smoke rising from the bombing of a Taliban position in Afghanistan, to an exposure that has taken almost 100 years: Chloe Dewe Mathews’s pictures of sites where deserters were executed on the Western Front. Because the event and any evidence are long gone, these photos require captions to tell their stories and the most revealing pictures are those taken closest to the triggering incident. The exceptions are locations revisited at intervals, such as the Japanese atomic bomb sites, seen in prints shot 20 minutes and several weeks after the nuclear detonations and then revisited from three to 65 years later.

With that sequence, as with the strands featuring Berlin and Vietnam, it’s easier to make comparisons in the catalogue than the gallery, where the chronological arrangement – in rooms with names such as “Moments Later” and “100 Years Later” – requires a good memory or willing feet to follow a subject through. One of the show’s inspirations was that Kurt Vonnegut, after witnessing the firebombing of Dresden in 1945, was only able to complete his novel on the subject, Slaughterhouse-Five, in 1969. Curiously, another numerically hyphenated American classic, Joseph Heller’s Catch-22, didn’t appear until 16 years after the end of the Second World War it describes.

Mark Lawson is a journalist and broadcaster, best known for presenting Front Row on Radio 4 for 16 years. He writes a weekly column in the critics section of the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 09 December 2014 issue of the New Statesman, How Isis hijacked the revolution

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Only Drake could wow the O2 by pointing out random audience members' clothing

It takes charisma to pull off abandoning hits halfway through.

On the last London night of his Boy Meets World tour (20 March), Drake doesn’t come on stage until 10pm, which is enough to kill off most gigs at the O2 Arena (hello, Bieber), as people are worried about getting the Tube home. The amount of rum and Coke in the room – a steaming, unrecognisable space with a false ceiling of globular lights and a stampeding crowd split in half by a fence – certainly helps keep the buzz. But who’d have thought that a man standing onstage diligently pointing at audience members and saying what they’re wearing (“You in the blue dress shirt with the ­lager!”) would constitute one of the most exciting nights the O2 has seen in a while?

“Tonight is not a show, not a concert, not about me,” says Drake, who runs an annual “Drake Night” in Toronto and once visited Drake University in Iowa.

So far, the world’s favourite rapper – his latest album, More Life, recently got 90 million streams on its first day of release on Apple Music alone – has had a shifting identity. His songs capture a new strain of emotionally literate but solipsistic hip-hop, which can feel intense or whiny depending on how you look at it. His offstage behaviour is Type-A rapper – he has been accused of throwing beer bottles at Chris Brown, he has been punched by Diddy and he has had altercations with Jay Z, Kendrick Lamar, Pusha T and Ludacris.

But Aubrey Drake Graham, the son of a white, Jewish mother and an African-American father who once played drums alongside Jerry Lee Lewis, does skits about his petulance on Saturday Night Live (see “Drake’s Beef”). Emotionally demonstrative, openly dysfunctional, a bit of a bruiser, with an ability to flit between a dozen styles of music while expressing a desire for crowd participation that borders on the needy . . . Could this man be the ­Michael Bublé of hip-hop?

Drake’s sprawling two-hour roadshow is held back from chaos by the force of his physical presence. Blunt-headed with muscular, sloping shoulders and mesmerising, nimble feet, he prowls the edge of the stage. He has had so many hits (and has so many guest stars tonight) that he is not interested in playing them all the way through. Instead, recalling Prince in the same venue ten years ago, the show becomes a series of medleys. With just a drummer and a synth player at the back of the stage, he demonstrates an invisible, physical control over the music, operating it like a string puppet, stopping or starting songs with the drop of a foot or the shrug of a shoulder, so they collapse in the middle and are gone.

It takes charisma to pull off abandoning hits halfway through. Pointing at people in the audience, real or imaginary, is a music hall thing. Bruce Dickinson and Metallica’s James Hetfield do it too. Amid a hokey message to follow your dreams, he recalls his time spent singing for $200 a night as a John Legend tribute act. Cue a perfect demonstration of Legend-style singing – before he suddenly sloughs off “all this bathrobe-and-candle-sexy acoustic Ed Sheeran shit”, while huge columns of flame engulf the stage.

Drake is still at his best with blue, slinky songs of alienation – “9”, “Over”, “Feel No Ways” and “Hotline Bling”, which doubles up as make-out music for the couples in the crowd. One pair of lovers, Drake establishes during one of his crowd surveys, have been together for ten years. “I can’t even make a relationship last ten days,” he laments. In 2012, he told the Guardian, “I’ve had too many girls to ever feel uncomfortable about the man that I am.” An old-school boast from a modern man.

The guest stars serve to highlight Drake’s variety, rather than shine on their own. Their songs, too, are started, suspended, chopped and screwed. Drake is more macho when there’s another guy onstage with him – doing “Successful”, with the literally named Trey Songz, or dueling with thefrenetic Skepta, who sounds so much tougher (maybe because he’s a Londoner). The two whirl around the stage like helicopter seeds.

Nicki Minaj, apparently Drake’s one-time lover, rises fembotishly from a hole in the stage and says in a London accent, “I want some fucking crumpets and tea.”

She adds, of her host, “This nigga single-handedly changed the game.” Minaj sings her song “Moment 4 Life”: “I call the shots, I am the umpire . . .” But she doesn’t really. Even her presence flares up quickly and is gone.

Kate Mossman is the New Statesman's arts editor and pop critic.

This article first appeared in the 23 March 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Trump's permanent revolution