Blogcritics Author: Nigel Simons

Theatre Review (Stratford-on-Avon): Hamlet at the Royal Shakespeare Company

Nigel Simons — Sat, 20 Sep 2008 20:55:29 EDT

Can you believe the hype? Is the hottest Shakespearean ticket in years worth selling a kidney for? Find out now!
Perhaps the initial joke in this much-hyped R.S.C. production of Hamlet is that the first thing you see on stage is yourself. There you are, reflected - along with the rest of the audience - in huge, 20-foot mirror-surfaced doors that form the backdrop to the entire production. This impressionistic image has more in common with the...

Music Review: Jim Moray - Low Culture

Nigel Simons — Fri, 1 Aug 2008 08:10:37 EDT

It's folk music, Jim, but not as we know it: Jim Moray delivers his finest album yet with Low Culture.
It’s folk music Jim, but not as we know it… When the weight of the world presses down with its suffocating pressure, it is most likely to produce endlessly mundane seams of coal, more so than give forth the creation of the odd defiant diamond. An examination of Jim Moray’s career would reveal a similar correlation between the...

Theatre Review (Stratford-upon-Avon, UK): The Merchant of Venice

Nigel Simons — Mon, 21 Jul 2008 12:44:12 EDT

How do you solve a problem like Shylock? Has Tim Carroll's production ripped the heart from Shakespeare's problem play?
How do you solve a problem like Shylock? The process of aging has had differing effects on Shakespeare’s plays in modern performance. In the case of The Merchant of Venice, age has added much body, and history a deep maturity, leaving a work of immense potency, a rich complex drama that asks as much of the audience as it does of the...

Music Review: James McMurtry - Just Us Kids

Nigel Simons — Thu, 17 Apr 2008 06:36:59 EDT

McMurtry's searing portrait of contemporary America mixes political polemic with poignant lyrical narratives in a musical tour de force, essential listening!
With Steve Earle holed up in New York, decking about in the cultural melting pot, mixing country, folk, and not so hip, hop; John Fogerty wallowing in 'his legacy' with the self reverential (the last refuge of a scoundrel) Revival, a reactionary disappointment that was worthy of a name change to John 'old Fogy' ty. Bruce Springsteen...

Movie Review: No Country For Old Men

Nigel Simons — Sun, 20 Jan 2008 14:51:21 EST

The Coen brothers return with a brutal but thought provoking adaptation of McCarthy's novel that ranks with their finest work.
After a succession of poorly received cinematic pastiches, the Coen brothers are back from the wasteland of critical scorn, with a compelling new film that has been well received in U.K. and the U.S., where Rolling Stone magazine made it their film of the year. No Country For Old Men is a faithful recreation of Pulitzer Prize winner Cormac...

Theatre Review (Stratford On Avon, UK): Henry V

Nigel Simons — Mon, 7 Jan 2008 11:52:24 EST

After 409 years, Henry V retains the power to expose all aspects of war, and the motives of its brokers.
Smashed brickwork, jutting black beams pointing skywards like rigor-stricken fingers... the cold naked skeleton of the old Royal Shakespeare Theatre, barely visible in the darkness, lies skulking by the river. Though its light is extinguished for the moment, it provides a fitting scenic backdrop to the dimly lit street that leads to The Courtyard,...

Theatre Review (Birmingham, UK): Othello

Nigel Simons — Sun, 6 Jan 2008 10:58:54 EST

Shakespeare's expose on how jealousy can break the strongest of men is brilliantly brought to the stage in Birmingham.
One could argue there is no greater compliment to be paid to the production of a play than for it to revise your view of the work for the better; for it to both reinvent the play and deliver an epiphany of understanding is both rare and precious. Othello, Shakespeare's tragic tale of deception and jealousy, had for me (up to this performance) been...

Concert Review: Amy Winehouse, Birmingham National Indoor Arena - 11/14/07

Nigel Simons — Sun, 6 Jan 2008 09:50:15 EST

The tragic decline and descent of Britain's most talented R&B singer of the last two decades says much about the music biz.
It was the worst of gigs, just the worst of gigs. The level of expectation produced by having a ticket for the first gig in a nationwide tour of all the significant temples of entertainment that populate the land by the most talented female singer this country has produced in two decades would normally build into high excitement as the date...

Announcement: Short-content feeds

Phillip Winn — Sun, 26 Aug 2007 12:00:00 EDT

Sunday, August 26, 2007, marks the switch of all Blogcritics.org article feeds from full-content to short-content. This is the result of several converging factors, and is unfortunately a permanent decision (as permanent as any decision can be on the web, that is). We are aware of all of the reasons that this is a Bad Idea, and we are aware that some of you will be quite upset about having to click on something to read the free content, and we're sorry. Unfortunately, despite great effort, full-content feeds are not currently economically viable. Two other factors are involved: full-content feeds have resulted in an unprecedented level of content theft, with BC content appearing on many websites, usually spam sites, without attribution or permission. This duplicate content causes a cascading set of problems, not the least of which is that search engines generally aren't favorable to duplicate content, and don't always guess correctly. Finally, our RSS advertising partner is strongly in favor of short-content feeds. We hope that you'll continue to subscribe to BC via RSS, and when an article grabs your eye, it's only a click away, still free on the BC website. Thank you for your understanding.

Movie Review: This Is England

Nigel Simons — Mon, 28 May 2007 18:06:16 EDT

If This Is England does nothing else, it will guarantee writer/director Shane Meadows a place at the high table of the British auteur, easily equaling the best work of Mike Leigh and Ken Loach. Meadow’s previous work has much to recommend it, Room For Romeo Brass and Dead Man’s Shoes both showing that Meadows was capable of pithy realism, with a dark undertow of fractured morality that made for compelling if slightly flawed cinema. No flaws this time around, for this is a masterful film, unafraid to ask difficult questions, or indeed answer them. In an impressive debut, Tomas Turgoose plays Shaun, a 12-year-old who, deprived of his father by the Falklands War, gets adopted by the local skinhead gang, and finds a sense of identity and belonging to fill up his hollow existence. The gang, which includes Milky, the pork pie-hatted second generation Jamaican, are skilfully shown building up their camaraderie with their love of reggae (the use of music, as in all Meadows' films, is exceptional), youthful vandalism, and cramped council house partying. Meadows then tosses into this bonhomie a human hand grenade with the pin irreplaceably removed, as Steven Graham’s Combo explodes into their lives as a malevolent malicious right wing racist, a stepping razor who polarises the group and uses empty nationalistic rhetoric to cleave the group in two, though the deluded damaged soul that lurks underneath the swaggering brute is finally exposed as yet another victim of the scourge of bullying and the racism it fosters. As the opening credits roll, Meadows juxtaposes images of what made Britain so desperate a place to live in the early eighties (the action takes place in 1983): we see a collage of contemporary newsreel showing the urban deprivation, the protests and riots that were commonplace, Greenham Common, the miners strike, the embassy siege, the National Front marches. The flag waving and public joy at the Royal Wedding swiftly cuts to the similar scenes of the victorious soldiers returning from the Falklands to a hero’s welcome, till the final cut settles on a black body bag on the front of a tank, which melts into a photo of Shaun’s dead father in uniform, his life and that of many others the true price of triumph. This forceful opening underlines that it is blind nationalism, the pride derived from victory in the name of a country, regardless of the humanitarian cost or justification, that manufactures communities with an underlying hatred and fear of those who differ, and a misplaced supremacy that provides a breeding ground for the right wing fervour that gives Combo a focus and outlet for his innate hatred.Judging from the war footage that brackets the film, Meadows is of the opinion that the Falklands war was an example of international bullying, the Argentinean opposition mainly comprised of conscripts who were ultimately no match for British Marines, the Thatcher government benefiting in a massive rise in popularity as the Union Jacks were hung from the lamp posts, keeping public opinion from focusing on the deprivation that was rife in the urban England of the day. The cinematography captures the gulag grey pallor of '80s council housing perfectly, the careful composition of the exterior shots with their emphasis on repetition and anonymous similarity reinforcing the concrete concentration camp confinement that embodied the council estate environment so despised by its inhabitants. Whilst the spectre of racism is writ large across the film, it is the overarching theme of bullying that is at the center of this film, every turn of the narrative a product of bullying in some shape or form.Shaun, on his last day of term is mercilessly bullied because of his dead father; the perpetrator of that bullying is in turn bullied by his teacher. When buying a new pair of boots to fit in with his new family (there is an almost ceremonial scene when his hapless mother hands him to the gang in the local café, because they help alleviate his bullying problem at school) Shaun is bullied into his choice. Combo bullies the gang into following him, jealous of Woody’s relationship with Lol who it turns out, he bullied into having sex when she was drunk prior to his imprisonment, and without giving too much away, it seems that paternal bullying is the underlying reason for Combo’s boiling anger, so squaring the eternal circle of bullying.All of this is handled with lashings of irony, the battered Japanese car they go to the National Front meeting in, the rundown pub in the middle of nowhere that is the scene of the meeting, hardly the imposing castle the English heroes they worship started their campaigns from, the pot-bellied balding potential Ubermench looking more like the local angling club than potential members of the master race. There is no happy ending, the visceral final scene lightened by a touching coda, the fragile fractured beauty of Gavin Clarke’s voice the perfect accompaniment to this poignant scene. There are no weak performances in the entire film, though the performances of Turgoose and Graham must be singled out. Graham is surely due some recognition when the plethora of award ceremonies roll around for his powerhouse portrayal of Combo, and Meadows must be due some writing or directing award. I’ve seen no finer British movie in the last twelve months. A must-see for those who wonder what inspires so much anger at the mention of the name Thatcher in the UK, and all who like their cinema well acted, well written, well filmed and like to have some uneasy conclusions to ponder long after the credits have rolled.

Nigel Simons has just finished a life sentence in music retail, (Mr Smallstuff) and is now dealing with a late flowering midlife crisis by going to University to do an English Degree. He is the personification of the great Ken Tynan's quote "A critic is a man who knows the way but can't drive the car"

Concert Review: Bob Dylan Live in Birmingham, April 17, 2007

Nigel Simons — Fri, 25 May 2007 07:03:47 EDT

Bob Dylan. The very name can make full grown men weak at the synapses, all negative criticism is banished from the kingdom of the "Bobcat", naysayers dismissed as deluded heretics. On the mighty Internet, websites abound where virtual genuflection is a prerequisite, every gig is reviewed with a Pavlovian slavering, garlanded with superlative overload, each performance ennobled by claims that this is the best ever, every set list analysed like the Dead Sea Scrolls by those looking for the secret sign. In Birmingham’s NIA -- a man-made recreation of Wookey Hole Cavern -- the ceremony is about to begin. The pre-concert atmosphere is thick with incense, an intense fevered anticipation that might precede a resurrection or an eclipse is more than tangible. As the intro-tape fades the band burst into "Cats in the Well", the four guitars chew over the riff from Little Richard’s "The Girl Can’t Help It", with little regard for each other, sounding no more impressive than a Lynyrd Skynyrd tribute band, the acoustics making the archly appropriate lyrics, "The world's being slaughtered and it's such a bloody disgrace" discernable only to the most adroit lip reader. By the third song, the mix has brought the arid husk of Dylan’s voice into focus, and the band kicks off the 12-bar intro to "Watching the River Flow"; however Dylan starts singing the swirling skipping reels of rhyme that is "Just Like Tom Thumbs Blues". Neither band nor singer seem to acknowledge this disparity, both continuing on their path, seemingly oblivious of each other. And the grim realization sets in that the band are not even capable of maintaining the status quo, only of imitating them. Guitarists Freeman and Kimball toss out every wizened rock cliché there is, and every one of Dylan’s sublime songs that bestrides the great "American Song Book" like the Pillars of Hercules, is leveled like a landfill, the Sistine Chapel of popular culture is bulldozed into a bingo hall by the newest members of the superhuman crew. Dylan’s singing, which in the past has forensically examined every melodic crevice of his creations, with phrasing and invention that equalled Sinatra or Coltrane, is tonight just a series of staccato statements, for as the band ignores the arrangements, so Dylan all but ignores the melodies. This adds to the evidence that Dylan needs a great lead guitarist as a catalyst to his musical explorations, no Robbie Robertson, Mick Ronson, Fred Tackett, G.E. Smith or Charlie Sexton tonight, only these inept guitar hacks looking and sounding like washed up back room bagmen from the Bada Bing. If there’s an original idea out there, they sure could use it now. Only when the electric guitars are wrestled from their grasp on the "Ballad of Hollis Brown", a tale of domestic slaughter with a chilling contemporary resonance, "There's seven people dead on a South Dakota farm" does Dylan have a chance to focus, the banjo-led arrangement giving his voice space to breathe. "Ain’t Talking" is the only other highlight, though the line "Ain't no altars on this long and lonesome road" has a particular irony tonight as the rabid congregation roar and cheer every performance regardless of competence. "It’s Alright Ma’s" most famous line, "But even the president of the United States sometimes must have to stand naked" is barely noticed tonight, yet "Spirit on the Water’s", "You think I'm over the hill / You think I'm past my prime" brings the house down, perhaps as indicative of the audience’s preoccupations as Bob Dylan’s. Finally the obligatory "All Along the Watchtower" closes the show, its exquisite twelve lines of poetry inflated and mangled like a bloated corpse as the faithful receive the rapture, bringing the house down as the lights go up. "I know there’s something going on but I don’t know what it is."