Northern Lights

The TV screen at home has been bright, albeit with plenty of darkness in the tales told, over the past few months. I nearly ugly-cried at the last episode of Our Friends in the North, which wouldn't have mattered since J is currently in Dublin. There was a Guardian article stressing how topical it still is - about corruption, greed, Tory heartlessness and a Labour party that sometimes looks like the opposition - so I thought it was time I watched.

The special genius is to have created an epic in only nine episodes, taking us from 1964 (the four main characters pictured above) to 1995 (below): like Fawlty Towers, its leanness is part of its power as time goes by (though of course I knew the perfect comedy from the start, whereas this is new to me). And what rich characters. How I love Gina McKee, who always reminds me of our English teacher at school sighing 'lovely lady, lovely lady' over Desdemona - only Desdemona can be played with real toughness, and the resilience/occasional fury of McKee as Mary is so impressive to watch. Christopher Eccleston plays the inexpressible mid-life crisis so well that you almost hate him before time puts things right. Mark Stone as the loser who still seems to be able to make money also has you hating him through much of the first half; then there's the nuanced relationship with wife no. 2 (Tracey Wilkinson, so good and very sympathetic in the final episode). The richest acting of all comes from Daniel Craig as Geordie - such a tale of a naturally talented and good person who keeps going off the rails. Interesting that people could see Bond in him here; though the beautiful eyes are there throughout all his changes of hair. 

Occasionally there's a bit of stagey melodrama, but other roles are so well taken by a gallery of British actors of an older generation - Freda Dowie, Peter Vaughan, Alun Armstrong, David Bradley, Tony Haygarth, Peter Jeffrey, David Threlfall. An immortal classic which constantly has one gasping at the resonances with now; the only thing missing is the climate question.

Which very definitely informs two Nordic series. I regretted not having known about the Icelandic thriller Trapped earlier, but when I found out it was directed by Baltasar Kormákur of Reykjavik 101 fame (and a superb Peer Gynt in Barbican's Pit for which the Icelanders involved, quite a few of them to be seen in Trapped, learned their roles in English), I hastened to catch it. The first series is the best; to my mind there's a progressive falling-off in 2 and 3 (the last to be found on Netflix as Entrapped - glad someone told me). Even so, Ólafur Darri Ólafsson  as grizzled, melancholy giant Andri offers another piece of finely nuanced acting, and I loved his sidekicks, the incorruptible Hinrika (Ilmur Kristjánsdóttir) and  Ásgeir (Ingvar Eggert Sigurðsson). 

Wasn't sure Norway's Ragnarok would be for me - I avoid dramas set in a fantasy world entirely, like Game of Thrones - but the interweaving of present-day reality and Norse saga is so well done and maintained (right through to the very last episode where - not I hope a spoiler - the 'was it a dream?' question is sensitively and movingly handled). 

The parallels with the myths were all the more surprising because up to now I had been more dependent on Wagner's version, and so much in the Eddas (though I did read both for my Ring classes) is very different. Three cheers, then, for the lucid, often witty and direct retelling by Neil Gaiman.

This will inform my autumn term Opera in Depth Zoom classes on Das Rheingold starting on 9 October, as will my impressions of Barrie Kosky's first Ring instalment at the Royal Opera. I'll do a publicity drive anon, but meanwhile the flyer is below (click to enlarge).