Crash and burn

Covering three generations of family history over 164 years, The Lehman Trilogy is an epic story of vaulting ambition and mounting greed that’s conquered theatres from the Southbank to Broadway since premiering in 2018.

I had heard great things about Es Devlin’s stage design, in particular – pairing a rotating, open-office construction (all glass panels, filing boxes and little else) with a panoramic Luke Halls video projection of skylines and more behind. So I picked up a reasonably priced ticket for the current run at the Gillian Lynne Theatre.

Most of us are familiar with Lehman Brothers, once the fourth biggest bank in the US and whose collapse was integral to the 2008 financial crash. I wanted to know how we got there, and indeed how the Lehmans came to New York from Bavaria via the plantations of Alabama. So if you too are up for a dynamic history lesson with a side order of sibling rivalry then get yourself down there before June … and buckle up.

Clocking in at more than three hours, the production features a three-man cast of Nigel Lindsay (Broken Glass, The Pillowman, Four Lions), Michael Balogun (Macbeth, Barbershop Chronicles, Blue/Orange) and Hadley Fraser (Les Misérables, City of Angels, The Deep Blue Sea) who excel at playing umpteen characters in the most chameleonic and rapid-fire fashion, from stubborn or combative board types to flirtatious dames and petulant children.

Following the company’s evolution as traders in fabrics, raw cotton, coffee, cash then stocks and shares feels logical and astonishing at the same time. (We should probably add human beings to that list, says Professor Sarah Churchwell, though the play is rather silent on the matter.) The family managed, in different ways, to fulfil, flog and repackage the American Dream. One that had a familiar gleam, a sure thing-ness and insatiability about it every time.

Looking into their crystal ball, they said you too can make it, trust me, but act now or miss out. Lehman gets rich in the process and as a result, they only want to get richer while the get-rich philosophy in a capitalist society brings more fresh fish to the trawler. But there’s only one problem as Lindsay points out while in narrator mode: “What happens if they stop believing?”

Sam Mendes’ direction instills poise at certain moments and frenzy at others. I like the use of magic marker scrawlings on the glass panels to signify the changing name and focus of the company, minimising the need for too many props or complex set changes, which would break the momentum. However, more pauses to catch our breathe would have been welcomed. ⁣Make no mistake, this production is relentless and always moving.

The pianist accompanying the actors with Nick Powell’s score, Erika Gundesen, was delightful and even partook in a little comedy where the story touches on one of the brothers’ efforts to learn the instrument in a very plodding manner. It’s a rights of passage, right. Together with the sound design elements, Powell’s score manages to both evoke the world of period drama and convey that sense of dark clouds overhead. There is a foreboding in the air.

I had a fidgety, flustered woman beside me who kept complaining about all the exposition in the script, questioning the importance of relaying events in such a play-by-play manner. Clearly, she didn’t know what she was getting into. ⁣Check the running time. “Epic” is unofficially in the title.

That said, playwright Ben Power’s adaptation of the Stefano Massini novel could do with an edit. At times, it felt more like listening to an in-depth podcast series than watching a play. On the flip side, the lengthy duration will give you more opportunities to marvel at the actors – their energy, endurance and elasticity. And how the stage, the “fourth dancer” as Devlin calls it, is constructed in a minimalist way to let them shine in each of their many roles from different perspectives.

Tickets (closes 20 May)

Anatomy of a miracle and the cave mentality

I knew enough about the Tham Luang Nang Non cave operation to question whether we needed a Hollywood dramatisation directed by Ron Howard (Rush, Frost/Nixon, A Beautiful Mind).

The Wild Boars football team and their young coach were stuck inside for 18 days in 2018, with a depleting oxygen supply and hardly any food as water rose up from a biblical monsoon. Each boy (aged 11-16) had to be sedated using ketamine and carefully manoeuvred like a package along 2.5 miles of the tightest twists and turns. An 11-hour round trip for each 'delivery'. Can you think of a more unlikely, no, impossible rescue? The drama is built in. Just roll back the news reports.

Despite this, and the fact that I can neither swim nor handle tight underground spaces – judging by a panicky experience in Derinkuyu Underground City in 2019 (hello, claustrophobia) – I dived into Thirteen Lives over Christmas. 

It's a workmanlike play-by-play that conveys the mounting jeopardy of the situation and the pivotal role of volunteer cave divers Rick Stanton (an ex-fireman played by Viggo Mortensen) and John Volanthen (an IT consultant portrayed with sensitivity by Colin Farrell).

The real Rick Stanton (played by Viggo Mortensen) and John Volanthen (played by Colin Farrell) beside some of the Wild Boars football team who were trapped inside the cave

They hardly cut the figure of action heroes at first glance. Two rough-around-the-edges Brits with a little middle-aged spread who squabble over the last custard cream. But they are extraordinarily good at what they do in these situations, far better equipped than the Thai Navy Seals.

The film begins to tell the story of how they defied the odds while also revealing how slim they knew the chances were at different stages of the rescue. For instance, they estimated that they would lose 10 of the 12 boys by taking the drastic action to anaesthetise them. 

The focus is on the stars, as you would expect – Mortensen and Farrell are as low-key and unfussy as they need to be – but Howard is careful to acknowledge the contribution of an international team (90 divers participated in the rescue, out of which 50 were foreigners).

The director’s attentiveness to cultural sensitivity and accuracy is commendable, whether it’s casting kids from Northern Thailand, honouring retired seal Saman Gunan who died during the rescue or Beiret Bureerak who later succumbed to a blood disease.

And there were thousands of other heroes, from the army and local villagers helping groundwater expert and engineer Thanet Natisri to devise a way to divert water from above, to the farmers who sacrifice their crop harvest to offer a vital outlet for the endless flow (rain was falling at a rate of six inches per hour).

Meanwhile, family members keep vigil. Thai officials deliberate and try to contain panic while poised to point the finger at each other. Governor Naronsack (Sahajak Boonthanakit), incompetent though compassionate, is first in the firing line.

Revered Buddhist monk Phra Khuva Boonchum arrives to perform religious rites, to will the rain to stop (it did) and pray for the wellbeing of the team. And the world's media congregates to collect minute-by-minute updates to sate a transfixed global audience. 

The film does a good job of showing the logistical challenges of the rescue, particularly when doctor Richard 'Harry' Harris (Joel Edgerton) goes against his better judgment and instructs the rescue team how to safely administer the ketamine every 20-30 minutes. Swiftly followed by a dose of atropine to reduce the secretions their passengers could choke to death on. The real Harris said he felt like he was committing "euthanasia" and sullen-eyed Edgerton really draws out the dread in his predicament.

Also, we appreciate how difficult it was for the rescue divers to know whether the boys were still breathing as visibility was so poor and they were desperate not to lose the guideline. The added peril of using adult-sized masks on emaciated boys was an important detail. There were real concerns about the seal breaking, on top of everything else.

What a feature film like this can’t convey is the pitch-blackness of it all. For obvious reasons, so let’s not be too critical here. What is more galling is the lack of emotional insight into those being rescued or their families. Ingredients that would have helped to make Thirteen Lives even more rounded and absorbing. 

The reason for this incomplete picture is rights and securing exclusivity is like an “arms race”. Netflix scooped them for the boys' story, which became the miniseries Thai Cave Rescue. In 2021, a year before Howard's film came out, National Geographic produced a documentary called The Rescue. It featured highlights from 87 hours of on-location Navy Seal footage as well as in-cave reconstructions filmed at Pinewood Studios.

Producer PJ van Sandwijk then approached Howard to make the film adaptation, with the Oscar-winning director choosing to break down the "anatomy of a miracle". Stanton came on board as a technical adviser, to help make the diving scenes look as real as they could be, though they were shot in Queensland. (Credit to Simon Christidis for his underwater camerawork and to cinematographer Sayombhu Mukdeeprom.)

But it’s the portrayal of the main characters and their threadbare backstories that I was questioning more after watching The Rescue. In the documentary, Stanton and the others admit to being a slightly awkward breed apart. Some were loners as kids or obsessive to the detriment of personal relationships. Others liken themselves to dispassionate daredevils who have a ruthless degree of focus that overrides any thought of risk to oneself.

Thirteen Lives can’t help but be gripping and suspenseful, even if we know the outcome. But Howard’s film fails to peel back the psyche of these rescue divers and that’s a missed opportunity.

His partly hands-tied approach plus his commitment to authenticity (from VFX to tunnels, underwater sound and props) makes this feel more like a naturalistic documentary or technical re-enactment than the nuanced and more emotionally resonant character study it could have been. That's not to invite melodrama or mawkishness, things Howard was right to avoid.

For a near-complete picture, you’ll just have to watch everything. You can stream Thirteen Lives on Amazon Prime and Apple TV among other platforms.

PS Did you know that the coach Ekapol Chanthawong (played by Teeradon ‘James’ Supapunpinyo) was a trainee of Buddhist Monks at one time, and used his knowledge of meditation to teach the kids to calm themselves and conserve oxygen? Eleven of the boys were later ordained as novice monks at the Wat Doi Wao temple, where they stayed for nine days.

View fullsize

Coach Ekapol Chanthawong (played by Teeradon ‘James’ Supapunpinyo) leads his team in a meditation to help calm them and conserve oxygen

View fullsize

Wild Boars football team at Wat Doi Wao Buddhist temple

Sax appeal: Kenny G and the tyranny of good taste

Hey, do you want to watch a film about Kenny G? Umm… Ha, that was my first reaction. But Penny Lane's 2021 documentary for HBO is a real eye-opener, revealing much about our perceptions of jazz, the purpose of critique and the boundaries of good taste.

The permed piper of schmaltzy, sax-y pop is a polarising figure. G (government name Gorelick) has amassed more than 75 million album sales with behemoths including Breathless and Duotones.

I remember one man I met while backpacking in India who really went hard for this guy, right over my head. And that was after his prolific 90's period. Either listeners over there are a couple of years behind … or class is timeless.

Anyway, G may be the best-selling instrumentalist of all time but he has been ridiculed for decades and vilified for tarnishing a great art form. Let me put it this way: his music has never spoken to me. And I object to him saying the music of Coltrane and Charlie Parker isn't "heartfelt". However, the fact that he has connected so deeply with so many people for so long can't be without merit. Can it?

We also need to separate the man from the music. Early on in Listening to Kenny G, he says most people know him more as a sound than a personality, which is true. And guess what, he's a likeable guy! Humble, self-deprecating, a little square, corny in an endearing way. And eager to please – he wants to give Lane the best interview she's ever had [cue excited puppy face]. 

But you won't catch him kvetching that much and he seems incapable of hate. As for hard work, practice is his mantra. He racks up two to three hours a day. This guy lives to learn. He's not only one of the most skilled golfers in music. G man also has a pilot's licence and ain't afraid to use it.

G came up in Seattle and excelled in the Franklin High School Jazz Lab under James Gardiner who turned him on to Grover Washington Jr. He made his name in the group Cold, Bold & Together and would play with whoever passed through town, from Sammy Davis Jr to Liberace. Arista records impresario Clive Davis caught him playing with Jeff Lorber Fusion and offered G a deal.

Davis tried to place him in and around the evolving disco-pop / R&B of the day and in very cheesy videos, but it didn’t work. Can’t think why… Not even Kashif, fresh off producing ‘Love Come Down’ for Evelyn “Champagne” King, could find the magic formula.

Then one appearance playing the syrupy ‘Songbird’ on The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson and suddenly he was the sound of contemporary jazz. To the despair of intrepid players grinding night after night and to the ire of purist Pat Metheny.

As Smooth Jazz Network's Allen Kepler recalls, instrumental hits were few and far between on the pop charts up to that point. Ramsey Lewis' 'The In Crowd' and Average White Band's 'Picking Up The Pieces' were outliers.

Now here’s G following up on one smash hit with another. Soon he’s everywhere, from living rooms to dentists’ rooms. Did you know his song 'Going Home' has become the unofficial closing anthem for food courts, outdoor markets, shopping malls and train stations in China?

It's the functionality of his music, its anodyne nature, that appeals to some and offends others. The New York Times' jazz and pop critic Ben Ratliff poses a hilarious question: "Is Kenny G's music a weapon of consent? Does it make people agree to comply and if so … why?"

It has the whiff of a gaudy fragrance, a weapon of mass seduction. His instrument cavorting in the mix on a bed of roses, like a diva to a ballad. There’s no call and response, no dialogue, as Pop Matters critic Will Layman notes. The dynamic that makes so much jazz out there interesting and thrilling. "This is not sex," he says. "This is masturbation."

Ratliff sees a paradox – it's from a tradition and yet has no conceivable past. 

Writer Jason King calls him a deeply problematic figure: G's been a gateway to jazz for many listeners but he's also extending a long and troubling history of appropriation in popular music where black artists innovate then white artists come along and stylise, receiving greater financial remuneration and critical acclaim. To his credit, G admits his skin colour probably helped his career, only to step back over the line by making a queasy duet with Louis Armstrong.

The final chapter of Lane’s jaunty documentary sees him trying to adapt to a new age by meme'ing (well) on Twitter, appearing in videos with The Weeknd and Katy Perry, even parlaying his Valentine's Day serenade of Kim Kardashian into a respectable feature on Kanye's ‘Use This Gospel’ from the album Jesus Is King.

On 2021’s New Standards, he attempted to play a bit more instead of telegraphing a goopy melody. But it’s a far cry from the incendiary excursions of Shabaka Hutchings or Kamasi Washington. Next, G's eyeing up an Oscar for best score. You can't fault his ambition.

Footage of one concert shows him trying to spread a little "sax education" by covering ‘Desafinado’, which became a major hit for Stan Getz. Then 'Naima' by … John Coltrane. The audience looks back at him with a mixture of confusion and indifference.

Perhaps there's the rub. Does listening to Kenny G say more about the listener than the artist? I'll let you be the judge. Give him a fair hearing though.

View fullsize

View fullsize

View fullsize

View fullsize

View fullsize

View fullsize

View fullsize

View fullsize

View fullsize

Breaking up is hard to do

Perhaps my ruthlessness is showing but after hearing the premise of Martin McDonagh’s fable The Banshees of Inisherin, I doubted a two-hour film about the end of a friendship would hold my attention. When it's over, it's over, right? After all, Colm (Brendan Gleeson) is simply bored of Pádraic (Colin Farrell), the guy he meets for a pint at 2pm every day without fail.  

Now here’s the thing. This isn't present-day London or whatever, full of useful distractions and endless possibilities. It's a fictitious, beguiling yet desolate slab of land in the Aran islands of 1923. Round those parts, losing your one and only friend is the most brutal bereavement.

Meanwhile, prying eyes and the whispers of townsfolk only magnify Pádraic's sense of rejection. Aside from dutiful sister Siobhán (Kerry Condon), little donkey Jenny and sharing the odd bottle with not-so-simple Dominic (Barry Keoghan), his life is solitude.

For all its beauty, there is a darkness that lingers in the air on Inisherin, a foreboding wind drifting over the lake where it's rumoured someone took their own life. The spectral Mrs McKormick (Sheila Flitton) appears like a cross between a harbinger and a banshee, as she foretells more death. In the distance, civil war rages between two sides who were on the same side just one year earlier. An apt backdrop for this acrimonious separation.

There’s an obvious question here, right: why the sudden and drastic decision to part ways? On the surface, Colm wants to spend more time on his music instead of chatting bollocks with Pádraic. But through solemn eyes and hints of despair in the confession box, it's clear that Colm is following a conviction far greater than time efficiency. 

No, this is about his mortality. His legacy too perhaps, as he tries to write a song for the ages (which has the same title as this film). A defining work that will outlast him. As we see, he is willing to go to extreme lengths to succeed. And even further to keep his word, an unspeakable act of self-harm for a musician whose hands are his lifeblood.

Pádraic goes through his stages of grief and, after an absurd and tragic turn of events, becomes vengeful. It’s unexpected to say the least but this wouldn’t be a McDonagh script without a wicked surprise or two.

In his hands, ridiculous can be hugely entertaining as we know. Remember one of his standout plays, The Lieutenant of Inishmore, with the IRA hitman who loves his cat and wouldn't hesitate to chop off your nipple? The dialogue is full of that trademark sardonic wit and a penchant for the macabre.  

The writer/director calls this his break-up film, which feels both neat and enticing. How often do we get to see two male characters contend with the absence of one another like this? The Banshees of Inisherin unravels complex emotions, sifting subtle nuance from the wreckage of this relationship.

Although it’s undeniably funny, McDonagh doesn't shy away from the sadness of the situation nor a character's capacity for cruelty. Consider how Pádraic destroys what he once was, a nice guy, in a desperate attempt to salvage a friendship before he torches it. Loss can corrupt the soul. 

For all its momentum, I felt a stillness and brooding intensity to the film that really took hold. We are trudging around that island, trying to make sense of what's happened, dealing with the fallout. The cinematography of Ben Davis (Layer Cake, Eternals, Three Billboards in Ebbing, Missouri) is incredible, rendering the straits and acute tonality of McDonagh's world like a portrait artist.

From the craggy cliffs, piled stone walls, celestial skies and majestic greens of Inishmore – where Padriac's house is – to the rugged coastline of Achill where the film reaches its open-ended conclusion. Davis took reference points such as John Ford westerns and paintings of the 17th-century Dutch masters to give us a heightened sense of person and place in unison.

Farrell is one of the most underrated actors in Hollywood, a guy whose earlier hellraiser image and occasional duds (Total Recall, anyone?) have overshadowed his gift for subtlety and his ability to provoke empathy. Consider his range over time: Tigerland, Minority Report, The Recruit, Miami Vice, In Bruges, True Detective, The Lobster, The Batman. And the chemistry with Gleeson is effortless; there's this innate rhythm to their back and forth. I would love to see them as rival gangland bosses or something in the third and final part of a trilogy.

Two other actors really deserve plaudits. Condon (for being able to convey Siobhán's steel and her melancholy, her yearning for something beyond this island. And Keoghan (Dunkirk, Calm with Horses, The Killing of Sacred Deer) is a mercurial talent. He takes a good part and makes it great, delivering unforgettable lines with a fullness of being that always makes us feel more than one thing at one time. That scene with Siobhán by the lake will break your heart.