Yesterday, I watched an opera about a school shooting. Yes, really. Kaija Saariaho’s Innocence, written to Sofi Oksanen’s libretto, to be precise. It was the first time I’d seen a contemporary opera — Innocence was written in 2018 — and it made for a strange experience.
I’m used to watching famous operas where the music takes centre stage. The story is for entertainment, but the primary focus, in my experience thus far, has always been on the orchestra and the soloists.
But Innocence was different. The story was so gripping, so powerful, that it entirely overshadowed the music, almost relegating it to cinematic sound effects. In fact, this extends to both the cast and the orchestral accompaniment.
The standout star, in my view, was Finnish folk singer Vilma Jää in the role of Markéta, a student who died in the shooting, but who still haunts the survivors. Her unique sound comes from her use of Finno-Ugric herding calls, which she contributes to Innocence in four cadenzas.
Most of the singers, however — at least when compared to the calibre usually seen on the Royal Opera House stage — had fairly mediocre voices. Or perhaps it was the direction, because in a bid to convey emotion, one of the singers was intentionally screeching — which, while jarring and suitable to the plot, was painful to listen to.
Despite my critique, my impressions of the opera are overwhelmingly positive — it’s a performance that will stay with me for a long time. Perhaps the fact that it takes place in an international school hits particularly close to home, because I’ve even been to the International School of Helsinki, which is presumably the school referenced.
But most of all, it’s a powerful piece because it explores the multitude of perspectives in any tragedy, including shades of grey and various degrees of blame.
Yesterday, I had front-row seats to one of the biggest events on the running circuit — the London Marathon. Though I wasn’t, unfortunately, running it myself, I was doing the next best thing — volunteering!
Sutton Runners, the running group I belong to and occasionally show up to the training sessions of, were manning two spots on the course, one of which was a crucial crossing point for spectators and Londoners caught up on the wrong side of Westferry station.
The thing that struck me immediately as soon as I donned the high-vis reflective vest was how much perceived authority it bestowed upon me. I was being asked how to get to places, whether certain things were allowed, or just being stopped for marathon updates. The answer to most questions was a resounding, “I really don’t know”.
We started our day at 5:30 in the morning to make our way to the volunteer meeting point for 6:15, where a bus took us all the way to Westferry in East London. We grabbed our pre-packed lunches at a local church, where the lovely nun in charge gave an impassioned speech about the importance of community, and headed out to set up the crossing point.
Once it was ready, we waited for the first marathoners to come through. It started with the wheelchair race, the leader of which — Marcel Hug — was so far ahead that it took several minutes for the rest of the pack to show up. Turns out, he completely obliterated his own record, finishing the marathon in 1:23:44.
The women’s elite athletes came through shortly after, but the surprise winner of the event — Sifan Hassan — wasn’t among the first four at that stage. We had to watch the drama unfold at home once the race had finished. Kelvin Kiptum was holding a significant lead when he passed us at mile 20, but it was Mo Farah a few moments later that made the strongest impression — he looks exactly like the photos.
We stayed until six or so, but there were still a few runners coming through when we began packing up. I feel guilty, because everyone deserves to be cheered if they’re going to do something as momentous as a marathon, but at the same time, after more than ten hours on my feet, my own legs were aching. We cheered everyone remaining on the route until we saw the 8 hour car, and then boarded our bus and headed home.
I’ve applied for the ballot, so here’s hoping next year I’ll be among the runners!
I bought into the hype. I read so many positive reviews of the newest stage adaptation of A Streetcar Named Desire that I decided to book tickets. Yesterday, my husband and I headed down to the Phoenix Theatre in London’s West End to watch Paul Mescal & co bring Tennessee Williams’ drama to life.
The staging was beautifully done — an empty platform, surrounded by caging. It perfectly encapsulated the feeling of a gritty New Orleans neighbourhood. Even better, the artistic direction chose to include a drummer set up on the mezzanine, acoustically accompanying tense moments with percussion.
But the use of actor bodies was slightly strange — to suggest memories (or perhaps ghosts), one of the actors danced an elegant, but ultimately jarring dance. Which was, perhaps, the intention. It was almost as if the director wanted to show the physical presence of the past in the present.
When it comes to showing the gradual descent into madness, I think the performance did a superb job. The haunting music, paired with Blanche’s increasing desperation and hysterics, made for atmospheric theatre. That being said, it’s a tall order to stage a piece with such an illustrious history.
I happened to overhear a fascinating conversation during intermission. Three young women in the row ahead of me had struck up a conversation with two septuagenarians directly in front of them — a comparison of generational perspectives, if you will. The older women were saying that Paul Mescal didn’t have the raw animal desire of Marlon Brando, while the younger women disagreed.
From my perspective, they had a point. Mescal was good, but he wasn’t raw. And seeing such a well-known storyline on stage forces a comparison between all the other versions you’ve ever seen. During the pandemic, I watched a recording of the Gillian Anderson version at National Theatre, and while I wasn’t bowled over at the time, it seemed like the stronger version when compared to this. Then again, perhaps that’s the familiarity bias at play.
But as we know, I’m incredibly picky. So if you want an honest review, it was good. Not the “next best thing” that I’m eternally searching for, but definitely enjoyable.
A Streetcar Named Desire is at Phoenix Theatre until 6 May.
A while back, my husband came to me with an idea. He wanted to walk 150km in the Scottish Highlands. Not only that, but he’d be carrying his tent and sleeping bag, as well as a stove and all his food. He planned it for the week before Easter.
Now, I’ve done my own fair share of adventuring, so I figured I’d survive a week alone with the dog. But I wasn’t about to let him have all the fun, so I booked myself a flight up to Inverness and said I’d join him for the Easter weekend. We’d climb up Ben Nevis, then we’d spend two days in Edinburgh.
The week alone was tough. I got it in my head that I needed to go for 6km runs before work, plus walk the dog, so I was waking up at 5:45 most mornings. I’d also signed up for the Google UX Design course, which I was speeding through. Oh, and working ridiculously long hours at my day job, studying for my driving theory exam, cooking, cleaning, taking care of the dog, reading, writing, and generally driving myself insane.
So when the dog was picked up by the nice lady running the farm he’d be staying at and my last calls of Thursday were finished, I let out a sigh of relief and immediately headed to the airport. Five hours early. I was just that keen. Luckily, my American Express gives me complimentary lounge access, so I tried it out. I noticed everyone drinking alcoholic beverages, so I helped myself to a half pint of not very tasty beer, plus some snacks, and sat down to read.
Soon, it was time to board the plane and I was on my way to Inverness. Cristian picked me up from the airport in our shiny rental, complete with a lingering new car smell, and we stopped for the night in the centre of the city, before making our way to Loch Ness in the wee hours of the morning. We paused for a coffee brewed on Cristian’s portable stove by the lakeside (or should I say lochside?), then headed straight for the Ben Nevis carpark.
As usual, I overdid it. I was in such a rush for the first four kilometres that I was halfway up the mountain before realising I wouldn’t make it if I carried on at the same pace. We stopped by a small lake before continuing our ascent, which helped me calm down. By that point, Cristian had gotten the bug — he told me he’d see me at the top and sped up. Unfortunately for him, there were quite a few people on the trail already and he didn’t make it very far before getting trapped in traffic.
It was good for me, though, because having had some time to recover, I was back at it and pushing through to catch up to him. We made it to the top of the mountain in no time. It was a surreal experience — completely white, high above the clouds. We enjoyed the view for a while before beginning our descent. Before we knew it, we were speeding away towards Fort William for lunch. We spent the afternoon exploring Invergarry and Fort William, turned in for an early night, and were up again at the crack of dawn to drive to Applecross.
We didn’t regret it. Though our drive was more than 100 miles in the wrong direction, we were greeted by stunning views over the Isle of Skye and the beautiful mountains of the West Highlands. We were starving by the time we made it to Applecross, but we were too early — everything was still shut. A local pub landlady took pity on us, offering us some toast and coffee, which we enjoyed before Cristian decided to strip off and jump into Applecross Bay.
He managed 30 seconds. And then wouldn’t stop saying he swam in the North Sea. Which, to be fair, is factually accurate. But all good things must come to an end, and so we reversed back onto the NC500 and on to Edinburgh. I have very fond memories of Edinburgh — I was last there in 2012 presenting a paper at an academic conference, staying in a youth hostel, meeting future international penpals, reconnecting with a childhood figure skating friend, and failing to hike the actual Arthur’s Seat part of Arthur’s Seat.
This time, I put it right. We spent the first day in Edinburgh exploring the city centre and, notably, Calton Hill, where we watched the sunset. The following day, Easter Sunday, started with a coffee in one of the only cafes open, and a quick meander up (the correct) Arthur’s Seat. We then walked down to Portobello Beach, followed it up with a visit to the Botanical Gardens and back to our hotel on Newington Road.
After a long, well-deserved nap, we headed back out for another walk, this time through the city centre, Grassmarket, and up Edinburgh Castle. We walked something like 30 km that day, and my feet were throbbing. I have never been so happy to curl up in bed and wait for the dreaded 3 am alarm to catch our flight back to London. A very, very successful holiday indeed.
Swordfoosh 