What I regret about 2010

Thinking about the year that is almost gone, I realise that I have changed my mind about a few things. The first – but foremost – is Christopher Hitchens. I’ve seen a couple of interviews he’s done since having treatment for his nasty cancer, and I’ve read, with great pleasure, his memoir Hitch 22. I knew him very slightly in the late 60s-early 70s, and was not a great fan. I was probably made nervous by his self-assurance – something I often felt around the golden boys and girls who hung out at the King’s Arms pub in Oxford.

I made a
huge gaffe once, by saying to someone who was probably an old girlfriend of his
that I had assumed he was gay. One of the small felicities of his autobiography
is the straightforward way that he confirms my first impression: my blushes
could have been spared if I’d known then any of this boyfriends who were later
to be members of Mrs Thatcher’s cabinet.

My prejudice
against him, which grew over his stand on the Iraq war, was wrong. Hitch is a
hero. He has cheerfully faced down adversity, shown quiet courage (the best
kind), and blown a cerebral raspberry to the god-bothering brigade who
anticipate a death-fearing conversion to their childish theism. I wish him
well, and I wish I’d always done so, as his example teaches me more about
living a worthwhile life than (to quote Lytton Strachey) Mr Jehovah, Mr Jesus
or any of their prophets or disciples.

         What
else have I been wrong about? Well not about Lord Lloyd Webber’s Love Never Dies (or, as we still think
of it, despite his rewrite, Paint Never
Dries). It was too feeble to go to Broadway, and though I haven’t seen it
again (and don’t plan to, thanks) I’d be very surprised if it crosses the
Atlantic even wearing its new clothes. Is it the worst thing I’ve seen all
year? Probably.

         One
of the best, though unreviewed by me in the day job, was English National
Opera’s A
Dog’s Heart by the Russian composer Rastakov – though the real point of
it was the raucously imaginative expressionist staging by Complicité, complete
with puppets and multiple voices playing the title role. My Russianist
goddaughter tells me that Mazzonis’ libretto is fairly true to the original
tale by Bulgakov. Director Simon McBurney’s production had the good or ill
fortune to be reviewed by a lot of non-specialists who were rude about the
music. Unfairly, I thought, as the score was full of quotations that added
greatly to the fun, and was not as difficult to listen to as one or two of my
theatre-critic colleagues insisted. You have to wonder whether a production as
expensive as this, with its big band, huge cast and elaborate sets can be
revived. You have to hope so. Was this the ENO’s best effort in 2010? Yes,
probably, though I enjoyed the new Pearlfishers
a good deal more than most of my colleagues, and was one of the few critics who
really liked Rufus Norris’ Don
Giovanni. I note that Jonathan Miller’s production of The
Mikado will celebrate its 25^th anniversary at ENO on
February 26. As I have an anniversary of my own that day, I probably won’t be
there to applaud Sir Jonathan; but don’t you think it might have been
appropriate to mark this milestone by commissioning the great man to direct
another production? After all, this, and his La
bohème and Rigoletto
have kept the house solvent through many a year.