The drug of entertainment
Simon Blow samples the pleasures of the Covent Garden Festival
The Convent Garden Festival which ended on Saturday is cause for personal celebration. I live in the heart of Covent Garden and in my frequent trips across the crowded piazza I often stop to watch the large numbers that the street entertainers draw. Every area of the piazza is taken up by theatrical buskers. And the jewel of all positions is before the remarkably beautiful portico of St Paul's church. There are times when the crowds exasperate me, but then I realise that they are after a drug that should always be supplied willingly. Escap- ing from the tedium of offices, banks, fac- tories — or wherever — they are here for the drug of entertainment. It is not at all natural for any of us to be the slaves of dull employment; it is entirely natural, however, to wish to be entertained.
The arts are the great humanisers — the only humanisers. Politics and business are their enemies. Which is why the Covent Garden Festival is sponsored by business- men. They feel guilt, and rightly so. In other respects, they generally make the lives of artists hell. So I took a sampling of the entertainments on offer, which ranged from opera to camp revue. And since camp is so completely 'in', I will start with the revue.
Beach Blanket Babylon — of which I had never heard — is an institution in San Francisco. It has been running to packed houses for 22 years. Set in the tradition of revue, the storyline is Snow White looking for her prince. The humour, inevitably, is West Coast and palled by its lack of irony after a while. Best were the impersonations — Michael Jackson, the Queen and Elvis — and the show's vitality. The camp and outrageous costumes were tremendous. The mixture, of course, appealed to the 90 per cent gay audience. But the dear woman friend I took with me became a little wor- ried. She kept nudging me: 'It really makes me wonder what's the point of being a woman,' she said.
The audience for Handel's Ariodante was more straightforward. It was performed in St Clement Danes Church in the Strand. One of the purposes of the Festival has been to give a platform for new indepen- dent opera companies. The Early Opera Company was launched in 1994 and its repertoire is from Monteverdi to Mozart. Ariodante had its premiere in Covent Gar- den during the 1730s, and this revival was worthy in effort, but the smallness and awkwardness of an altar-stage were proba- bly to blame for a loss of excellence in the acting. However, the playing of the orches- tra on original instruments was clear and impressive.
Then there were Lieder to be heard at lunch-time in the crush bar at the Royal Opera House. I am an addict of Lieder they make me dream — and I sat there in that condition as Wolf, Duparc, Bizet, and Schubert lightened the heavy decor of the bar. The Young Songmakers — as the recitals were headed — performed well against the acoustic disadvantages of the setting. I hope that when the interior designer David Mlinaric waves his decora- tor's wand over the Opera House, he will turn the crush bar into a place more inspired than the cream and gold paint and red velvet combination that we have suf- fered for far too long. As it is, it reminds me of nothing better than the habitat of John Betjeman's gone-to-seed night-club proprietress.
Other settings were more suitable. Noth- ing could improve on choosing Bow Street Magistrates Court for Gilbert & Sullivan's Trial by Jury. The disadvantage is the extremely limited audience seating — and the reason for 30 performances over two weeks. But this 35-minute operetta is immensely in demand and was completely booked within days of the festival events being announced. I suppose Magistrates Courts do something to the public's adrenaline. Perhaps everybody's fantasy is to be on trial and fighting a crime that he or she believes it is quite right to commit. Breach of promise is the issue here, which amazingly remained on the statute books until the 1970s. Angelina's reward is the judge. And a pleasant reminder, too, that beneath their wigs judges are as carnal as the rest of us, and that when they pass sen- tence there is also a flutter going on in the stomach as they notice some pretty boy or girl in the courtroom. In this case, of course, it's a girl.
Do you have any that don't like football?' I skipped the events in the Theatre Muse- um — for fear of festival indigestion — and made a final selection of two concerts in St Paul's Church, finishing up with Gilbert & Sullivan again, this time performed in the Grand Temple of the Freemasons Hall. St Paul's offered American choral singing from a group called Witness and the reli- gious tone in some of the songs cancelled out the boastful decadence of Beach Blan- ket Babylon. No surprise here, since Ameri- ca is a country of extremes. The Puritans are to blame for that. While on my second visit, the New London Orchestra — found- ed in 1988 — played a number of modern compositions, alongside the more estab- lished classics. Extremely good were Keith Burstein's settings to poems by Keats, Hop- kins, Burns, Graves and MacNeice. It made one believe that the late John Smith, MP in whose memory they were written — real- ly was a good man. An instance of the arts being a dab more effective than politicians' propaganda.
W.S. Gilbert trusted only his own humour: politicians, dignitaries, place-seek- ers, snobs and fools are sent up remorse- lessly throughout his operettas. I crossed the road from my home to the Freemasons Hall to see the British Youth Opera's pro- duction of The Gondoliers. In the centre of an impressive room, lavishly decorated with masonic sign-work — and tiers of seats on every side — was the set. The masonic mys- teries gave way to Venice. The enthusiasm and gusto singing of the performers made for a spirited evening. Henry Moss sang particularly well as the gondolier Marco, while Frances McCafferty's robust inter- pretation of the Duchess of Plaza-Toro splendidly highlighted a woman's power to emasculate her man at will. The Gilbert & Sullivan operettas have a unique ability to make quite a few direct hits, which, apart from the sheer jollity of the music, is their strength. I hope that all fashionable ribbing of them is well over. Congratulations, British Young Opera.
These two weeks of the Covent Garden Festival put a little of the old lightness in the air in an area which is — so dangerous- ly — falling prey to property developers. I'm heartened to hear reports that the Fes- tival has had increased attendances on each successive year. With respect to the past, Covent Garden should be zoned for cre- ativity alone.
It was in a coffee-house in neighbouring Drury Lane that Addison did his first piece of spectating. Writers strolled from coffee- house to the theatre and then back to the coffee-house for talk. That is how Covent Garden should remain. The tourists have put an end to the leisurely pace, but the theatres are still here. And the street enter- tainers. There are moments when crossing the deserted piazza in the early hours that I feel the ghosts return. For me, this quartier is elsewhere. And the annual Festival helps Covent Garden keep its other-worldly character.
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