Engleby
Sebastian Faulks, 2007

I've read Birdsong when it was the rage and was underwhelmed.  I've not been moved by wartime stories and still find it hard to relate to their characters.  It would be uncharacteristic of me to pick a Faulks book if not for the recommendation that came highly from Patrick.  It was given to him by his brother for Christmas in 2007 and was left at Ewens Farm until his mother found it and returned to us last Christmas.  Imagine my surprise when I started to relish every page as soon as I embark on it a few nights ago with much reluctance.  At the UEA literary festival last month, I learnt that this book is nothing like Faulks has ever done before.  He woke up one morning and the first phrase of a book came to him. He turned and picked up his note book by his bedside table and jotted it down.  That was the germination of Engleby.  He couldn't stop writing it and finished it very quickly.

There is much to commend in his writing.  The success of the book came at the last section.  The research into human psychology and the study of personality disorder shone.  His writing resounds to the misfiring of an aberrant mind.  There was much to be learned.  In explaining his protagonist state of mind, Faulks throws out profound thoughts almost randomly but in a cogent and coherent way.  From a conversation about the existence (or absence) of God, Faulks successfully segues into love as an emotion.  Engleby argues with his psychiatrist that love, like jealousy or anger, is just another emotion.  It passes with time.  Its presence is only marked by its absence (like God).  Yet, this is a love storey...with a creepy side.  I did not know that the first human attribute was shame - when Adam and Eve discovered shame.  If one does not know shame, one is pre human.  More than 98% of our DNA is the same as the chimpanzee and that one 2% that distinguishes us from other species is consciousness.  It is this consciousness that helps us remember who we are because as old cells die and are replaced, we are not the same person as who we were in a biochemical way.  "...when passion and circumstance have died or altered beyond recall, our past selves are no more than characters in a fictional tale...."  Mike Engleby committed a murder because he has a faulty 2%.

Like books written in first person, it reads like a journal and then the reader is pleasantly surprised that it is indeed a journal written by a patient in a mental hospital.Faulks painted a figure in a strong distinctive narrative voice that we could empathise with, which slightly shocked me.  It gives us a perspective of a criminal (albeit a mentally unstable one) not normally available to us.  Am I embarrass that I rooted for Engleby?  No, because his trouble stemmed from his unhappiness since childhood.  Physical abuse by his father and classmates scarred him for life.  Operating from that realm, he was not able to know what happiness or normality is because he had nothing to compare with.  He argued that it wasn't repression that caused him to lash out and kill.  It was simply unhappiness.   His splenetic wittisms draws us to him but at the same time, could draw amused/appalled response from his readers.  Take, for example, this bit of aesthetic theory, disgorged by Engleby after listening to Beethoven's late quartets:  “ ‘Late work.’ It’s just another way of saying feeble work. I hate it. Monet’s messy last waterlilies, for instance — though I suppose his eyesight was shot. ‘The Tempest’ only has about 12 good lines in it. Think about it.".

L'Elisir d'Amore
Met Opera, New York

At the end of Matthew Polenzani's aria Una furtiva lagrima, you could almost hear the pin drop before the audience erupted into rapturous applause.  The prolonged applause put a pause to the show.  Polenzani could not but came out of character and beamed with pleasure and gratitude.  You know you have witnessed a truly magnificent production.  This new production at the Met has a traditional setting in 19th century Italy.  Visually less interesting that the ENO production I saw 5 years ago but otherwise it is superior, in the main due to a stellar cast, notably the amazing Anna Netrobko.  This is the first time I've seen her perform (no less due to no shows by our notorious diva) and I've fallen in love with the power and dark colourings in her voice.  Her Adina was impetuous and flirtatious and her singing full of body.  Polenzani's Nemorino was likeable and adorable although at times a little stiff.  There was a strong chemistry between the leads.

The tempo was erratic in the first few scenes but the orchestra warmed up under Benini's rousing and spirited conducting.  Director Bartlett Sher has a flair for comedies.  His La Comte Ory last year was hilarious and in the same vein he made this romantic comedy a truly enjoyable evening.  The stage bustles with energy and it all comes to a halt for the aria made famous by Pavarotti.  Sher could have juiced up the simple storyline with a bit of inventiveness such as ENO's 50s American diner setting.  It being a Met production, one cannot help but be disappointed by the simple painterly set.  The only creativity appears to the riding hat that Adina wears to complement her independence and gutsy confidence.  With such superb singing, all is forgiven.

Last of the Haussmans
Lyttleton, London

This is an impressive debut from actor turned writer Stephen Beresford.  Beresford has created believable characters that one could relate to and empathise with.  He makes some convincing nuanced arguments about 60s dream, albeit through reliance on hackneyed revelations.  Delivered by a superb cast of Julie Walters (Judy), Rory Kinnear (Nick) and Helen McCrory (Libby), his lines were witty and at times hard hitting.  "While you were wanking into chrysanthemums, Margaret Thatcher was making her entrance!" Nicky's vivid phrase sent audience howling.  Rory played the gay kohl-eyed son with much sensitivity but with stereotypical campness.  Helen McCrory really carries the evening as the daughter who views her mother with a mix of vulnerability, vituperative anger and exasperated affection.   Theatre would not be complete without hysterics accompanied by decibels of shouting and buckets of tears, amply provided by Libby's angsty daughter.  Her overacting contrasted sharply by the rather wooden acting from a good looking swimmer who fancies Libby.  Walters plays a hippie mum who still lives in her fantasy world of 60s 'me' generation whose self fettered interest wreaked emotional havoc on her children.  Walters seizes the role with much relish, thumping her breasts and flashing at her high-rised neighbours,.  We hope we won't have to wait another 12 years to see Walters back on stage again.