Anna Karenina, a mixed reception

We discussed Anna Karenina last evening. Tolstoy apparently described his book as sentimental, ‘serving no purpose’ and ‘bad’. Writerly modesty? Nerves? Depressive reaction?

At a simple level I would agree that there is sentimentality in Anna Karenina, but I can see no reason why a book should have to ‘serve a purpose’ and something that has stood the test of time and criticism so well is surely not ‘bad’.

That said, several of our group were not impressed, at least two had given up at an early stage, some were barely half way. Others felt (as I did) that Anna was not the main character, though the consequences of her actions created fallout for most of the other characters. The characters, as depicted by Tolstoy, would have survived and behaved as they did if Anna had not even existed. This, for me, was the most potent effect of the book. Each of the main characters whirled on his or her own axis, internally consistent, baffled, enraged, delighted by the other characters, but not changed. This does not mean that they did not develop, only that their development was internally driven.

All the major characters went in for thought, and boy did they think a lot. Large tracts of the book are taken up with internal monologues. But this is how we are – at least this is how I am. Life is an endless guessing game, through which we each have to navigate solo, but some of us are luckier in our companions than others. Anna is unlucky; Kitty and Levin lucky. Others, such as Vronsky, Alexei, Sergei, Stiva, and Dolly have mixed luck in their companions, but vary a great deal in the uses they make of it. There is some inconsistency in the characters and their behaviour, but I buy that too. I think that is real, though a modern writer would struggle to get away with this.

We were an elderly bunch discussing the book and there was short shrift given to ‘the passions of youth’ and little sympathy for Anna, who was seen as choosing sex (though no one spelled it out) over her love for her son. For me there was something timeless and classical, about Anna’s situation. In a marriage in which passion played no part, she was as much a victim of passion when is hit her as Phèdre (c’est Venus as sa proie toute entiere attaché), consumed by Venus before she had understood the danger. From then on, there were no right choices for her and tragedy was inevitable.

Levin, like Anna, came in for some stick. His prickly behaviour, mood changes and endless existential angst made some want to strangle him, for others he was a loveable innocent – and the main character. On reflection, I can’t think of many characters I felt fond of (Agafya springs to mind), though I had no trouble feeling sympathetic.

As we were an all-female discussion group, it’s no surprise that Vronsky was dismissed as, not so much the villain more, the standard badly-behaved man. Stepan – Stiva, in the same grouping, was barely mentioned. Personally, I thought Stiva’s mixture of self-absorption and charm was interesting, and the dinner party where he mixed tricky personalities and managed to smooth social discomfort, was one of (or the?) book’s highlights. But would such a selfish man have had the empathy to behave like this? If he had empathy, would he really have treated Dolly as he did? I guess empathy and selfishness are not mutually exclusive, a successful con-man would possess both. Alexei, got less attention than expected. An essentially unlovable character, Tolstoy works hard to give him his due without, at any stage hiding his cruel and vulnerable self-justifying behaviour.

On the whole Tolstoy avoided authorial generalisations – but sometimes as here… ‘This playing with words, this concealment of the secret, held great charm for Anna, as for all women.'[my italics] he succumbs to a personal belief. Tolstoy also tackled such a vast number of existential worries, that you could take home any number of ‘messages’ from the book and adapt them your own belief system, perhaps that is one reason for it’s enduring popularity. Towards the end, talking of Levin, he says. ‘He lived (without being aware of it) by those spiritual truths that he had drunk in with his mother’s milk…’ (culture). Yet Levin goes on to worry that if he did not know that he should live for God, not for his needs: ‘I would rob, lie, kill.’ Yet again he also recognises the essential fallacy of this statement as he realises that other religions, other outlooks don’t make people more or less likely to rob, lie or kill.

This has now become a ramble on the experience of reading Anna Karenina, so I shall stop. I am glad to have read something that both daughters have so consistently praised. I may post again after discussing the book with them.

Opera zeitgeist – industrial market garden, gas station or the kitchen?

Not sure what the zeitgeist is here.

Last week we saw L’Elisir d’Amore set in the distribution area of a market garden (Holland Park Opera). This looked good and was a very jolly production, but musically a little pedestrian? less elastic than it should be?

In Bayreuth they have set Das Rheingold in a gas station. This, plus other violations of the audiences expectations, seems to have lit the blue touch-paper and caused fury. I am not a Wagner enthusiast, so not sure what the big beef is here as musically it was apparently great.

Last night we saw Glyndebourne’s Baroque opera, Hippolyte and Aricie (Rameau) set, at least for some of the time, inside a commercial fridge. As the director Jonathan Kent said in an interview: ‘Just think of the Opening Ceremony of the 2012 Olympics – that was a Baroque event.’ I just wish I had read this interview before watching the opera.

For me, new to the Baroque genre, this was a baffling mixture – every part of which gave me something – from the exquisite sounds of the ancient instruments, to a farcical sailor dance routine from the vaudeville stage. At the heart of it was a moving, classical forbidden-love story.

I admired the way the stage designer had observed The Fridge and put all the details of it on stage. Cupid breaking cockerel-like out of an egg, on the upper shelves, in orange-yolk colours against the crystalline white of the ice-flakes (hand-maids of Diana) in fur coats, was a delight. Hell was depicted in amongst the working entrails at the back of a (gigantic) fridge – great detail.

I could just about follow the main story as the characters were dressed in modernish clothes. There was a really moving scene in which both upstairs and downstairs rooms of a 1950-60s house were seen. Each room had a singer stuck in their own dilemma within.  BUT, the mayhem of styles among the gods and chorus that surrounded them, the killing of stags and distributing of blood onstage and the costumes of the denizens of the underworld distracted me from the singing and the story.

Dancing – and there was masses of it (essential in French Baroque opera) – was beautifully executed but randomly choreographed. I don’t mean it was unskilful, it wasn’t, but the sense of going in whatever direction the whim took you was extreme.

Having, too late, read the interview between the director Jonathan Kent and Cori Ellison, I think they achieved exactly what they intended and that this was a clever modern update of the composers wish ‘to astonish and delight’ and to appeal to all the senses. I also think that a trad opera goer probably needs to read this elucidation in order to sit back and enjoy.

Highlight for me the long and sweet aria (from the upper chamber of a giant morgue fridge) by, I think, a shepherdess. This must be the Nightingale aria, but I don’t know the opera well enough to be sure.

Sorry, long post, but a weird and wonderful experience for me, though of limited interest to non-opera goer.

Below is an intro video from Glyndebourne, including part of the opera and below that a couple of good reviews.

http://glyndebourne.com/production/hippolyte-et-aricie

http://www.seenandheard-international.com/2013/07/01/glyndebourne-captures-spirit-of-the-baroque-in-rameaus-first-opera/

http://www.operatoday.com/content/2013/07/glyndebourne_ra.php

Remembering Far East POWs

The Researching FEPOW History website have published my article on the discovery of documents about the Far Eastern POW experience for both the prisoners and those left in their latest Newsletter. It contains several articles of interest to Relatives and Researchers in the field.

Click to access RFHG_newsletter_10.pdf

I still hope to make contact with some of the relatives of the men in the story.

Wang Po (Wampo), a handmade viaduct – POWs 11

Barry and the men of 27 Line Section, much reduced in numbers but still a coherent body, continued to work their way up the Kwai Noi building the Thailand-Burma Railway. In April 1943 they reached Wang Po (Wampo) Camp.  Barry remembers:

This was to be quite a different “one off” job, unlike the usual jungle clearance and embankment. Wang Po is at the 113 km mark, and when we reached it in early 1943, was quite a new camp, the rains had not started and the camp was quite dry and fairly clean. We were by now dying off quite frequently but not more than one or two each day and we were still on two bowls of rice per day, not one.

Wang Po area 1980s

Wang Po area 1980s

… near the village of Wang Po the river makes a sudden eastward loop into a rocky gorge that cuts into the line of the railway and here it was necessary to build a viaduct about half a mile long to carry the rails over the gorge beside the river.

Wampo Davies book

Our camp was set up on the west bank, opposite the working site as the gorge made it impossible to build a camp on the east bank. The camp was located on the edge of a forest of teak trees, which were to be the source of timber for the construction. We were a big group, a thousand or more I think… . One half of the group worked on the trees preparing the beams, the rest, of which I was one, worked in the gorge.

Wampo pc3

Our first job was to clear rocks and boulders from the planned route of the viaduct, which we did by drilling and blasting. The holes were made with a rock drill. One brave man holds the drill while two others smite the head of it with sledgehammers. We Linemen were used to sledgehammer work and did not often damage the hands of the drill holder but some of the other parties suffered several damaged or broken wrists. There was no power machinery of any sort in the whole construction, just hand tools.

By the time of the midday tea break our holes had generally gone in deep enough, and while we rested and drank our tea (no midday rice now), the Japanese engineers packed the holes with plastic gelignite and set detonators and lengths of safety fuse in them. There might have been as many as fifty blasts set off at once and it was important, both for us and for the Japs, to make sure they all went off. In the afternoon we shifted all the broken rocks and carried them down towards the riverbank.

When all the boulders had been cleared we set about making the concrete foundation piers, all built by hand with hand mixed concrete. …  which had to be carried to the site on the usual rice sack stretchers. Wet concrete makes a very heavy load. The Japanese engineers had already set up wooden shuttering for the piers… .

I should have mentioned that we had to cross the river from the camp to the site, morning and evening, but as it was in the dry season the water was quite shallow and you could walk on the bottom most of the way and only had to swim in the middle.

While we were clearing the rocks and building the piers, the other half of the group were felling teak trees. Very tiring work, as fresh teak is extremely hard. The trunks when felled were cut to length and then squared up by Japanese engineers using an adze. I have seen one of their engineers square up a log fifteen foot long and around two foot thick in one morning’s work.

When the concrete piers were nearly finished, 27 Line Section and others rejoined the timber party and started the very heavy task of carrying the squared timbers down to the riverbank. The intention had been to float them across the river but some of the POWs who had worked in the Burma teak forests insisted that green teak is so dense it will not float. The Japanese were unconvinced but the first trial proved the point. From then on we swam the beams across the river fastened to bundles of bamboo to keep them afloat.

Wampo pc1

A few elephants with their Burmese mahouts helped in this work of shifting the beams down to the river but they were the only powered machinery on the job. They seemed extraordinarily precise, even fussy, in their handling of these heavy loads seemingly without any orders from the mahouts. There were not enough of them, of course, and we had to do much of the carrying ourselves. I reckon these beams must have weighed around 3/4 of a ton (or tonne) each, more or less, depending on their length. At first we tried to get them up on to our shoulders like undertaker’s men with a coffin. But the edges were too rough and sharp, so instead we used the ever-present bamboo poles. Eight or ten stout poles pushed under the beam and then lifted with one or two men at each end and the beam could then be carried down to the river looking like a giant caterpillar.

There were no cranes, simply intricate bamboo scaffolding fastened onto the rocky cliffs above the site and multi sheave pulley blocks fastened to it. A long rope over the pulleys with 50 POWs tailing on to it served to raise each of these beams into its proper position, where they were then all fastened together with dog spikes.

When the trestles were in place, held up by more bamboo props, then the even heavier horizontal beams which connected them together had to be heaved up into place by the same method and then spiked together. With the crudest estimate there must be between 500 and 1000 beams in the viaduct. While we were doing this other groups of POWs had laid sleepers and rails on the prepared embankment and were ready to go on over our viaduct as soon as each section was completed.

[The next section of the Railway had already been completed, so] we POWs who had built it were actually carried forward for a short section of our next march in railway trucks over the viaduct. I remember it as a very scary proceeding. The train went at a walking pace and at each rail joint, with its sudden change of direction, we felt that the wheels might easily jump the track and tumble us all down into the River. We got over without incident but I heard that the engineers kept a working party permanently on the viaduct with crowbars to lever bogey wheels back on to the rails if they came off.

Wampo pc4

I have to admit that when this job at Wang Po was finished we POWs felt a certain mixed up pride in the work. We could see the completed viaduct and it worked and we had built it ourselves without mechanical aids of any sort beyond hand tools and a few elephants. I was left with a great admiration for the skill and planning ability of the Japanese engineers and an ever-growing bitter hatred for our guards.

[The b/w photo is from Peter Davies, The Man Behind the Bridge. The others are postcards from the 1980s/90s]

What makes writers mad

There is a great article in the Guardian by a new Canadian novelist about what makes writer’s mad. I agree with every word. AND it’s a smashing read.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2013/jul/25/anakana-schofield-how-to-write?CMP=twt_gu

Unforgettable Macbeth

I didn’t have a category for theatre, but our experience two days ago requires its own category. We saw an ‘encore’ of the live performance of Macbeth relayed to the cinema from a deconsecrated church in Manchester and starring Kenneth Branagh and Alex Kingston.

The stage was the central aisle and the apse of the church. The floor of the body of the church was a muddy heath and the sides were wooden hoardings, with the audience raised and confined behind them (I was reminded of the barreras in a bullfight). Witches appeared from windows and doors let into a wooden screen at one end. At the other, the apse (with a hard floor), was an oasis of calm lined with banks of candles and the stained glass windows soaring above.

The action, hemmed in by the hoardings on that narrow stage, on the mud, gave us ambition, love, power, anger, despair and spiritual agony. The noise of men and arms rebounding off the wooden sides created a real sense of physical effort and danger in the battle scenes. Emotions seemed heightened by being confined and channeled by the spaces.

The comic elements and the witches were introduced without destroying the tension. Every word was audible every line comprehensible, casting brilliant. The whole was potent and compelling beyond any production of Macbeth I have ever seen.

This was a short run for the Manchester Festival only, but I understand that the live recording will be going out internationally in cinemas in October. See it.

writing, painting and Tolstoy

I am more than half way through Anna Karenina now, and I had an ongoing draft blog about several things that struck me. However, this morning I read Tolstoy’s description of an artist letting visitors into his studio to look at his latest painting. Tolstoy writes about the moment that the artist, unveiling the painting, sees it anew from another’s point of view. “…he saw it with their indifferent, estranged, new eyes and found nothing good in it.” He saw banality and a “heap of defects”.

The idea of their attention excites the artist, the smallest praise, the slightest suggestion of defects affects him deeply and alters his own judgement of his work. The fact that he had assessed his visitors fairly accurately on sight and knew that they were unlikely to offer him constructive comments does not alter their effect on him.

Although Tolstoy is talking about painting, every word can be translated to written work. Since I started writing I have been baffled at how one day you can read a piece you have written and be surprised how well it reads and a few days later the same passages will strike you as banal or defective in some way. Pick up the book a year later and you could have either of these reactions. It is as if some malign optician is forever changing your glasses until you have no idea when you are seeing straight.

In October I will be meeting a reading group to discuss a novel about an opera singer I published in 2008 (Unseen Unsung). I will have to re-read it. Will I be appalled, amazed, embarrassed? I really wish I knew.

Independent Swallow in the opera house

Although I have seen bats joining in on stage at Glyndebourne, this was the opera La Rondine – the Swallow at the Royal Opera House, London.

EG said that, as usual Puccini’s female lead was a victim. But as we talked about this, we realised that this is not the case. The story, like Traviata, is of a courtesan finding true love with an innocent boy. In Traviata, the boy, Alfredo, knows all about Violetta’s past, but she is persuaded by his father into sacrificing her happiness to free Alfredo’s family from the shame of associating with her. In Rondine, Magda deceives her innocent lover into thinking of her as equally innocent, and then when he wants to marry her, freely decides to renounce her him and return to her courtesan life, rather than pollute the expectations of his pure family. She is distraught, but she is a free agent and it is her lover, Ruggero, who is the weeping victim at the end.

The setting, in charming detail, was the 1920’s. The direction was so detailed that the singers gestures brought the period to mind as much as the costume. All the characters continued to act their roles (with some very funny by-play), while the main singers carried the story. It was an evening beautiful to watch and listen to and especially moving at the end. It was the last of three performances by the two singers of the main parts – Magda and Ruggero – and they both ended in tears at the final onstage parting.

And in this opera there are no bodies on stage, everyone lives, though not necessarily happily, ever after.

Heat wave good; heat wave bad

The lilies are opening and the air is heady. The lawn is brown and crisp underfoot and the lettuces are a withered heap every evening, no matter how much water I give them.DSCN4171DSCN4175DSCN4176

The rhododendrons, that I am foolish enough to grow, are limp in their pots and the underground rainwater harvester has run out.

DSCN4169

On the other hand we have finally tackled the failed seal round the bottom of the big shed/garage. We raked out all the rotten wood and there has been enough serious heat to really dry out the timbers. I have started to refill with fresh sealant (including, I notice, my shirt). This sealant, once dry, is proof against sun, rain, rot, mice, cats, goats and probably acts of god. We shall see.

DSCN4177

It has been so hot in the middle of the day, that I have stayed in the cool and finished the revised draft of my book of Far East POW memoirs and letters. Tackling the index has left me cross-eyed and may require a week’s repose.

They are prisoners; they are safe – POWs 10

For Phyllis, and the other relatives in England of the men who vanished in Singapore on 15 February 1942, their greatest fear was that their men had died or been wounded in the fighting. The best news they could hope to hear was that they were prisoners. They might be bored or hungry, but they would be safe from death until the end of the war. In addition they could be sent comforts, they would be able to communicate (when the authorities had sorted a route out) and all would eventually be well. So Barry’s father wrote to him:

“I know that you will understand how important it is in spite of the many difficulties of being a prisoner to try and keep fit in mind and body. I hope you will try and find some special interest. You have a real gift for languages try if possible to keep up your French and Malay to learn to write in Arabic characters, and if possible also to learn to speak Japanese. Also learning good verse will be a help and writing and composing yourself. Also if possible work with your hands. I’m afraid that as yet we cannot send you any parcels but perhaps you can get some books in Singapore.”

Relatives have no information about those who have already died. Relatives of these men would go on writing into the blue, waiting and hoping, sometimes as long as three years. The War Office struggled to get reliable data, from any source. Sometimes relatives heard before they did. One wife wrote to Phyllis on 5 January 1943:

“I have had no official news of my husband, but a friend of his, serving in the Middle East, sent me an airgraph, telling me my husband was a prisoner, he wrote as though I had already heard the news, so each day I hope the good news will arrive, and as soon as it does I will let you know.”

The situation never improved. On the 5th of November 1945 nearly three months after the end of the war in the Far East, one of the mothers wrote to Phyllis:

“I am sorry to trouble you, but I wonder if you could try & find out any information about my son, we have not heard a word about him, & as they are nearly all home, makes us wonder if anything has happened to him.”