Berkoff directs his actors in tableaux, as if constructing a moving image from millions of separate stills. Every scene is a sight to behold, with actors contorting and writhing into different shapes and poses; mouths agape or clenched in horror, admiration, revulsion or angst. It mirrors the mannered speech of Berkoff’s players, though the lines are never stilted; there’s a smooth rhythm to it all that’s quite entrancing.

At the centre of everything is Simon Merrells, a huge and apparently effortless performance that pitches Oedipus as part-Berkoff, part-Blair. The play begins with him at the centre of a long table and he remains at the centre – everything radiating out from him. He absolutely commands the play, as befits the character on whom everything hinges.

There are problems; the play threatens to sag as Oedipus staggers towards the inevitable and the stylised choreography may grate on some.

But as a kissing cousin of Berkoff’s previous Greek, Oedipus is a fascinating, unnerving and deeply affecting production brought to life by a virtually flawless cast.

There’s a fuller review over at SevenStreets

However, the odd thing seems to crop up that doesn’t belong on SS (an unfortunate abbreviation, admittedly) that I’ll whack on the blog.

Here’s a good example, our very own Dave The Pap getting up close and personal with Empire panto star Pamela Anderson (though not as close as several rock stars appear to get on various internet films).

Verily, our cockles are warmed.

Have a good one.

To say that the play ends with a bloody slaughter shouldn’t really surprise anyone after what unfolds over the course of the previous hour and a half, but the brutality of it certainly raised a few eyebrows.

I wasn’t familiar with the play, imagining some John Osborne slice of 50s realism, so didn’t anticipate the events that were to follow; namely incest, murder and revenge.

First impressions were excellent, though, with a small cast putting nary a foot wrong, especially Hugh Skinner as troubled protagonist Giovanni, Matti Houghton as his sister Annabella and Eileen O’Brien, with an initially amusing turn as the latter’s Guardian, Putana.

Kevin Harvey, first seen at the Everyman in a brilliant production of Yellowman years ago, also puts in an interesting performance as Friar Bonaventura, mentor and confidante to Giovanni.

Young, massively bearded and scouse, where Bonaventura appears to be a much older character, he makes an unlikely sight, but it’s strong and animated.

Similarly incongruous is Ken Bradshaw, with a strong Irish accent, as Vasquez, calculating manservant to the vengeful Soranzo. But that works too, to the extent that Vasquez ends up as one of the production’s more intriguing characters.

I won’t bother to explain the plot, with its twists and turns. Suffice to say, things don’t really end well for anyone concerned.

It’s really strong stuff, in several senses of the word and, I thought, somewhat ambiguous. What I took for some pointed comment on the hypocrisy of the characters’ skewed morals could be viewed as something rather more simple; the straight-up belief that the female characters, portrayed by most of the men as various shades of whores, harlots or out-and-out witches are just that.

For it’s not clear with whom the play’s moral centre, and where the sympathies of the author, reside. Giovanni, despite the carnage he’s responsible for, is shown as something of a Byronesque romantic; Vasquez, the closest thing to an out-and-out antagonist, seems almost ennobled by his part in the last act’s mayhem; it’s not clear if the Church is mocked for its twisted morals or elevated for them.

Because of that ambiguity there’s the suspicion of a hefty streak of misogyny running through Tis Pity She’s A Whore; and the grand guignol finale does little to suggest otherwise.

Still, I couldn’t fault the production, the cast of Everyman Family players, sets, music and direction were quite superb. But there’s a lot of nagging doubts as to the intention of the play, and of this production. To an extent, that makes it all the more powerful, but it also makes it all the more troubling on several levels.

Don’t take your Grandmother. Or, for that matter, your sister.

The smell of paint is a powerful sensation to me, and the understanding of the value of good craftmanship that that my Grandfather placed in a job well done is a lasting impression. These things, even in an incremental sense, made me feel like I understood the characters in Robert Tressell’s book a little more.

So, it’s important to me. As a socialist it’s also a hugely important tome. A challenging book, in terms of tone and heft, it’s nonetheless perhaps the best explanation of socialism framed as fiction ever written.

There’s an added poignancy that Tressell, a decorator, died penniless and tragically young in Liverpool in the second decade of the twentieth century. He would never know the success of his book, locked in a trunk in an attic for decades.

I went to see the Ragged Trousered Philanthropists at the Everyman feeling generally positive, but wary that the lengthy book would be tough to recreate on the stage.

In the final analysis, I feel my caution was well placed. This is, largely, a faithful recreation, but fails to do justice to the book.

Characters that are well-drawn in the book are often glossed over in the adaptation, particularly Easton, a generally well-meaning painter undone by circumstance, desperation and ignorance. His plight lends Tressell’s book another dimension among several other protagonists who are rather one-note.

Whereas Tressell’s antagonists are rather more Dickensian in their straight-forward villainy and selfishness, Easton gives the book a more ambiguous aspect. He’s a character from a DH Lawrence novel, rather than a Dickens novel. In the adaptation he is afforded little of the subtlety the book gives him.

The ‘Dickensian’ aspect of the baddies in the play – the town councillors, who also own all the town’s businesses and are thoroughly unpleasant chaps – is conveyed with masks so the actors can double up, but it’s a rather pantomime aspect to the proceedings.

The pacing sags in the second act too, with the action preceding the annual beano and the subsequent speeches serving to stop the momentum that builds up to this point.

However, the performances are generally excellent, particularly Nicholas Tennant as the uncomplicated Crass and Finbar Lynch as Owen, a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders.

As an adaptation, the Ragged Trousered Philanthropists doesn’t really convey the breadth and depth of the original novel. As a production, most things worked well.

The cast and the set are excellent, but all the good work is heavily, and bizarrely, undermined by two scenes that bookend the play, showing a modern-day couple viewing the house with an estate agent.

It’s shockingly misjudged, utterly pointless and very clumsy. It assumes that the message from Tressell’s book will not resonate with a modern-day audience unless it’s put on a plate – and it’s something of an insult to the novel and those watching.

It’s a shame, as the Everyman’s production has a lot to praise derived, as it is, from a text that must be phenomenally hard to transfer to the stage faithfully.

That’s not a lesson I’ve really taken to heart over the years, and I currently have several pieces of foaming, spleen-venting real estate around the web. So much for that.

However, in the case of reviewing One Night In Istanbul, it makes things very difficult indeed. I could speak about the singular lack of virtually anything that was funny about it; the sheer ineptitude of it as a piece of theatre and the predictable, numbing lack of ambition to it all.

The fact that Darren Farley, a very amusing impressionist, does virtually no impressions; the awful music; the checklist of references; the wasting of a talented cast; the chip-on-shoulder mentality revealed by the writing in the programme.

However, I’m going to leave it there. I could dissect One Night In Istanbul and prevaricate at length about the social, cultural and political implications of the rise of such ‘scouseploitation’ in Liverpool. But I don’t think there’s much point.

‘It is what it is,’ is probably the kindest thing I can say about Nicky Allt’s latest romp, although there’s no small feat in rounding up a cast and crew largely devoid of experience, staging a multi-run production and selling a reputed 25,000 tickets.

I’m also aware of the kind of shitstorm that such opinions attract, having read Marc Waddington’s piece in the the Echo.

I expect that someone will be along shortly to suggest that I couldn’t possibly find it funny as I’m not from Liverpool, or that I should lighten up a bit, or I should take my Dad’s advice.

All of which is something of a red herring, because the bottom line is One Night In Istanbul is an extremely basic piece of work. And that’s nothing to do with my postcode, my sense of humour, my footie shirt or my birth certificate.

There’s ben quite a run of more whimsical fare at the Everyman and Playhouse recently, what with the Rock’n'Roll panto; the Spike Milligan effort and wonderful The 39 Steps.

The latest is Hansel and Gretel, recently transferred from the Old Vic, where it played in the Christmas panto slot. So there’s not a huge change of tone, but there’s a slightly more knockabout quality to this new production by Kneehigh.

Kneehigh’s stuff, I would suggest, is slightly marmite in that it is very theatrical, in the truest sense of the word. At times it’s a little self-consciously wacky and the actors are never that short of mugging their way through lines, but this is essentially a production for children after all.

It works just as well for big kids, however, and I loved the Mousetrap-like (the game, not the play) mechanical tricks that are scattered through the narrative.

It’s all very silly and enjoyable, but it’s carried off by a confident and amusing cast. I particularly liked Giles King as a South American condor and Stu Barker as the wavering-voiced Hansel.

A greek chorus in the shape of two rabbits also adds another dimension, and the wonderful music reminiscent of the Eastern European folk music from which the tale derives.

All in all, great fun. A pleasingly grotesque and amusing tale, carried off with real energy and enough wit in execution to maintain the attention.

But Ghost Stories is a total change of pace, tone… well, everything to the last few productions.

Scripted by Andy Nyman, who helps Derren Brown out with his shows, and Jeremy Dyson, the silent member of the League of Gentlemen, Ghost Stories is a new take on an old horror standard – the short-story anthology.

Horror is a genre that lends itself perfectly to the short story, a form that is perfect for the surprise denouement, the ironic comeuppance, the rug pulled from under the feet.

Whether in the classic short stories of Saki, O Henry or Edgar Allen Poe; the mid-20th century sci-fi stylings of Bradbury, Ellison or Heinlein; TV series such as Tales of the Unexpected or Tales From the Crypt; or 70s horror anthologies like Asylum or Vault of Horror, there’s a long-time association between form and genre. The two fit together like a teenage babysitter and a call from the telephone upstairs.

Ghost Stories observes these time-honoured rules in the way that those Hammer anthologies would: a series of chilling tales bound together by an overarching narrative, in this case a lecture by the paranormal sceptic Professor Phil Goodman, played by Nyman.

Somewhat predictably, there’s more to it than that, but the authors have begged that no-one reveal the secrets of Ghost Stories, and it’s churlish to spoil the fun for others.

Suffice it to say that there are three self-contained stories that should come with spotter’s badges for horror buffs. Silent Hill seems to have provided most inspiration for a lot of the visuals, audio beds, sound stings and general creeping sense of dread that pervades the action on set and breaks through the fourth wall, infecting the theatre itself.

But the fact that Ghost Stories does not hide its many influences is not to its detriment. Although anyone well versed in horror films or literature will see twists and turns coming – they’re handily sign-posted after all – there are genuine stabs of fright, the creeping-flesh slow burn of dread and a genuine style and verve to it all.

It is, without exception, well-executed in terms of script, acting, set design, audio and visual FX. Dyson’s hand in the dark humour and direction of the narrative will be evident to anyone who’s read any of his short stories, while the little signifiers littered throughout the script will be recognised from Nyman’s work on Derren Brown’s shows.

I think the health warnings that accompany the promotional literature may be apt, there are genuine scares and a well-developed sense of the uncanny throughout.

Clearly this was too much for a good chunk of the audience who nervously laughed while, astonishingly, a minority openly talked throughout the play. Presumably the alternative of sitting in silence, the spell unbroken, was too uncomfortable; either way I thought it exceptionally bad behaviour.

It’s a symptom of hard it must be to create something genuinely chilling on stage, where audiences are unwilling to allow themselves to be too disturbed by a play. A single laugh or audible stage whisper can take an audience straight out of their suspension of disbelief.

But Ghost Stories maintained a powerful hold on me throughout. It felt like the product of two people who understood the demands, quirks and rigours of the medium perfectly – and it showed in a brilliantly entertaining, and genuinely unsettling, experience.

Andrew Beattie reviews Terry Pratchett’s Nation, which was shown at Fact earlier this month.

I am well aware of Sir Terry Pratchett’s Work. At any given moment my Dad is likely to recite lines of conversation from some of Discworld’s finest and not so fine characters chuckling to himself and leaving me with a brief insight into the undoubted kooky genius of Sir Terry.

I have often contemplated reaching into the shelf in my Dad’s office and plucking out one of Sir Terry’s novels from behind the various Discworld collectables gathered over the years but I have always stopped short, he’d immediately notice it missing for a start.

I can be forgiven then for expecting some first rate wizardry yesterday from the NT Live production of Nation screened at FACT, live theatre broadcast to a handful of Cinemas nationwide. I was of course, so very wrong.

Nation, set in a parallel universe in 1860, is the story of the bringing together of two teenagers, Mau and Daphne, after a Tsunami destroys Mau’s island and Daphne’s boat, stranding them together, along with Daphne’s talking parrot, on a small South-Pacific Island. The play follows the characters as they seek to rebuild the Nation along with other stranded refugees that have landed from neighbouring islands seeking help and all their trials and tribulations along the way.

Within minutes of his arrival on stage, the talking Parrott had me in stitches with its shouts of “Arse” and “boobs” and before I had time to fully prepare myself we had romped into Song and Dance routines that had me tapping my feet and dreaming of long white beaches and nights spent under a palm tree looking at the stars. I was hugely entertained and hooked on the story unfolding seamlessly before me.

The cast was excellent throughout and the initial misunderstandings of Mao and Daphne, played by Gary Carr and Emily Taaffe, were both touching and hilarious. The supporting cast can also be proud of a good day’s work particularly the baddie Mr Cox, played by Paul Chahidi, who turned out be a right bastard and of course the excellent aforementioned talking parrott Milton, played by Jason Thorpe.

The highlights of the performance for me were the extraordinarily vivid underwater scenes, excellent lighting and vivid backdrops creating a mystical underwater world, and the puppets, the repulsive feasting grandfather birds and a large two man beer drinking pig.

As a result of a most enjoyable afternoon spent watching what turned out to be a fantastic NT Live Production and after a fleeting glimpse into the mind of Sir Terry I’ll be going now to raid the fabled bookshelves so that I can return, for a few hours at least, to the Nation.

• View more of Andrew Beattie at Who Is Andrew Beattie?

The fact is, though, due to diminishing time and a lot less potential choices – compared to the Capital of Culture year – I’ve struggled to find that many things to weigh up this year.

Work, cricket and an expansion of my blog commitments elsewhere mean that I’ve found it tough to devote as much time to wandering around galleries and the like over the last twelve months.

But quite a few of the people I asked to help me to compile the best of 2009 in Liverpool have also found it tough.

Is it evidence of a cultural hangover in Liverpool? Perhaps, but realistically it’s probably that there have been less headline events.

If I cast my mind back I can bring to mind an excellent late season run at the Everyman and Playhouse; Stephen Shakeshaft and Franceso Mellina at the Conservation Centre, Bridget Riley at the Walker; Abandon Normal Devices at FACT; The Beat Goes On at World Museum; a great series of Liverpool University talks at the Phil; the Magical Mystery Tour at the Maritime Museum; White Feather at the Beatles Story; Liverpool Beer Festival; and the annual treat of the Picket’s Christmas quiz. And my gratitude to the Picturehouse for showing The Thing, amongst plenty other leftfield fare.

Elsewhere the Leeds-Liverpool canal opened; Michael Shields finally won freedom; people power on Hope Street defeated Tesco; Liverpool’s food and drink festival was a victim of its own success; there was cricket in the park during the Ashes, while LCC hosted a sell-out 20/20 featuring Freddie Flintoff; Macca and Gordon Brown paid visits to the Pool; Liverpool Tweetups; and Liverpool signed off as Capital of Culture with the Transition Light Night.

Stuff that I meant to go to but didn’t make include a couple of apparently-amazing gigs by the Wild Swans; several nights at the Kazimier people raved about; I kicked myself for a week over missing Colour Chart at the Tate; and no doubt half a dozen other gigs I intended to see.

Stuff I’m still uncertain about includes Liverpool One; the Echo Arena; the raft of new buildings at the waterfront; the same cast of dodgy political characters continually wrangling in city hall; and the city’s continued post-Capital direction.

Still, there’s no denying that there’s plenty of stuff still going on in the city.

My own favourite was the Long Night of the AND Festival – one of those great, infrequent, nights where Liverpool is transformed into an all-singing, all-dancing cultural space and unlikely treats can be found around every corner.

I’ve asked a group of people well placed in media, music, arts and other general culture vultures to venture their high- and lowlights of Liverpool in 2009, plus a typically-Scouse detour on the 80A bus.

So, browse the assorted thoughts below, and Claire’s fantastic doodle, and let me know your own thoughts.

Etsu

In Japan there is a chain of fast-food outlets whose symbol is a terrifying cartoon granddad who looks like Buster Merryfield on Buckfast. It’s called ‘Beard Papa’ and it sells – what else? – cream puffs.

Until Beard Papa has muscled Greggs off our high streets and sickly-sweet pastry balls injected with tepid fake cream replaces chip butties as workmen’s lunchtime snack of choice, the ‘Japanification’ of Britain will be incomplete.

But our embrace of Japan grows every year. In 2009 I discovered something unimaginable even three years ago – perfect, authentic sushi served in Liverpool.

Etsu, located at Beetham Plaza, has actually been going since late 2007 and won several local ‘restaurant of the year’ awards in 2008, but it remains under the radars of most who live in Liverpool.

Run by David Abe, a friendly, half-Japanese, half-Scouse local businessman, it employs genuine Japanese sushi chefs who were apprenticed in Japan – unlike the vast majority of places where sushi is served in the UK. It shows.

The sashimi (raw fish), nigiri (raw fish and rice) and maki (raw fish, rice and seaweed) is super-fresh, exquisitely prepared and succulent. Meals are enhanced by the genuine Japanese extras on the menu, the pickles, the edamame (soybeans in their pods), the miso (clear soup) and gyoza (dumplings). To drink, as well as beers and wines, there is a choice selection of sakes.

I’ve been to Japan on several occasions and never eaten sushi like this outside the country. As well as the food, Etsu gets the ambience exactly right.

Sushi is often served as a either delicate, high-end food, or a canteen-style snack in Britain whereas in Japan, sushi places are very much neighbourhood restaurants, humble, friendly, informal, but proud of their high-standard cuisine.

It’s like this at Etsu, which is run as scrupulously as a Michelin-starred eaterie and yet is as relaxed as Bill Murray in Lost in Translation. I doubt you’d get better Japanese food anywhere in Britain.

Jonathan Northcroft

Dreaming of Liverpool

• Click here for a larger version

Claire Pitt
A Little Piece of Me

OMD, Sound City and Alma de Cuba

While OMD at the Phil were astoundingly good, I secretly wished I could have heard the mighty RLPO more. Despite its continued favour with orchestras, they’ve yet to fashion an oboe engineered to be heard above the sound of 2,000 geography teachers clapping more-or-less in time to Enola Gay. Still, there’s always the DVD to fill in the bits I missed.

Louder and even more thrilling was Liverpool Sound City – and, for me, the standout night was Heartbreak and Metronomy at Alma De Cuba.

Liverpool’s at its best when everyone’s invited to the party, and, during Sound City, it was like Liverpool’s great music-loving massive (those not sated by Argentinian Beatles tribute acts in August, anyhow) were darting around, catching impromptu performances by Brooklyn starlets here and this summer’s festival must-sees there. Actually, that’s exactly what it was.

Alma’s a great venue, but there’s still a whiff of the cassock about it. Not this night.

The pulpit was possessed – and we were all pogo-ing along, throwing our cares, and our expensive chill-filtered vodkas, to the winds – like that episode of Songs of Praise where the continuity announcer warns ‘this programme contains strong language and violence from the outset’.

As Cliff said, ‘Why should the Devil have all the good music?’.

David Lloyd
Skrift

Go Penguins

I’ll put in a quick word for what I hated about 2009: Go Bloody Penguins.

Open letter to Wild In Art, the company behind the penguins and 2008′s Superlambananas: Please don’t do another one in 2010.

If this sort of project becomes a tradition Liverpool is going to wind up looking like a crap Noah’s Ark.

To everyone else I say this: Avoid them like the plague. Unless you’re driving a fire-shooting Bradley tank.

Nick Holloway
Mercy

Irish ups and downs

So after a brilliant year in 2008 – one that started with the most hope and optimism I think I have ever had along with pride in the city – I thought I should carry some of that over to 09 and try to get to as many gigs and shows as possible.

It kind of worked with one significant high and one very memorable low.

Let’s start with the low – Lord of the Dance at the Empire Theatre. Dear Lord, I have never been more embarrassed of the Irish culture in my life – or rather the bastardisation of it.

Neon costumes, fastened with velcro and stripped off on stage to reveal what can only be described as bikini-clad Irish dancers. Horrendous.

The music, the effects – everything bloody awful. What annoyed me more was that some people thought it was good – if not great.

Thankfully I had the experience of dancing in the aisles to Sharon Shannon at the Philharmonic Hall.

The most beautiful sound: energetic, full of passion and the gig made me smile and remember seeing her as a much younger girl with my dad.

2009 – I made some of my best memories and looked back on many more.

Mairead Smyth

Liverpool’s hangover

Liverpool, 2009. What a bastard of a hangover, eh? Granted, I was away for half of it, but what I did see just seemed like a tidal wave of diarrhea.

Aye, this last year was the year that Liverpool ate itself. All that potential that seemed to be brewing under throughout the tail end of the 90s and Liverpool spunked its load on a Jetsons-style shopping centre, an arena that’s not as big as Manchester’s and a year that proved we can put on a party, but are not so good at the come-down.

The City Centre became more aggressive; previously cool bars were either uprooted or became drowned in scallydom; even the Burritos didn’t taste quite as good.

Musically, the only bands that were ever mentioned in the local media seemed to be well into their middle age. Mostly talented, granted, but very provincial.

I used to guffaw on my trips home, to find the Sheffield Star still talking about Boy on a Dolphin or Babybird, now the Echo is the same.

So come ‘ed Liverpool, summon some of that much vaunted Scouse Spirit and do something interesting in 2010; or carry on drowning in a pool of yer own sick.

Simon Ryder

Blue Heaven

My overriding memory of 2009 has got to be beating Manchester United in the FA Cup semi-final on penalties at Wembley.

OK, we didn’t go on to win the cup in the end. But beating Man U at Wembley was still a special experience. To win on penalties in the manner we did was something else.

My sister’s boyfriend, a Man U fan, was sat next to me in the Everton end.

His face was such a picture when Phil Jagielka netted the last penalty and the Blue end erupted.

While football may not count as culture in many peoples’ book, the FA Cup semi-final is the highlight of my 2009.

David Bartlett
Dale Street Blues

Wood Bus

Late in the year there was an incident which reminded me that if nothing else, Liverpool still has the capacity to be inexplicable. 

It was on a cold evening at the end of November, during rush hour, when I was braving the fourth ring of hell that is our local bus service.

After fighting to the back of an 80A to a seat that everyone else was ignoring, I set about trying to read my newspaper which, though Berliner-sized these days, still isn’t conducive to being dealt with in a crowded area.

After a few stops the bus began to thin out a bit, and as I looked up from the theatre reviews, I noticed that a double seat had become empty across the aisle from me.  As I was about to move over to give myself some more room, I noticed that the seat was already occupied.  By a Yule log.

I say it was a Yule log.  It was certainly large and squat and resembled the stump that the log lady in Twin Peaks used to carry round.  Its yuleness was probably just an attribution for the time of year. 

In June it probably would have simply been a log.  But it was the end of November, the season of good(ish) will beckoned and so for the purposes of this anecdote let’s call it a Yule log. Yule for short. I took a picture. 

As you can see the wooden enigma was minding its own business, but most significantly didn’t look like it would take kindly to having my arse sitting on top of it, probably about as impressed as my arse would be finding itself trying to get comfy on that bark. 

I could not help but stare, like this was some spectral herald for the upcoming festivities and a reminder that I needed to buy some more presents.

The intellectual part of my brain which I often let out to visit on occasions such as this assumed that it was owned by one of the passengers and so since I was already sitting, my seat already warm, I thought no more of it and returned to enviously lapping up the offerings in the west end that I was missing.

Presently, someone, a student probably, with a huge backpack, who had previously been standing approached. He asked the woman sitting diagonally opposite if they owned the log. They denied all knowledge. He attracted the attention of the teenager directly opposite who was listening to Kings
of Leon. She shrugged.

Undeterred he worked his way through all of the people in the vicinity. Including me. No, we each said in turn, we didn’t know anything about it. Do we look like we’d know anything about it? 

The student, having ascertained that no one would admit to ownership of the log, simply walked away.  He didn’t put it on the floor.  He didn’t pick it up and sit down. He stepped back down the aisle and continued to stand.

Clearly the log will have had previous ownership and that owner, presumably on their way to a Twin Peaks meet-up, may have left the bus and then realised their mistake turned balefully as the bus sped off into the distance. 

Could they have phoned the bus company’s lost property when they returned home? “I left a Yule log on the bus. A log. Well, it is November.”

I passed by Yule on my way off the bus at my destination.  I imagined, given that no one would take responsibility for it, because it was small enough not be noticed by the driver, Yule continued his journey indefinitely and unconcerned about its fellow passengers, arrogantly taking up two seats. 

He could still be out there now, somewhere, going from the centre to Speke, round and round and round again.

Stuart Ian Burns
Feeling Listless

Glenn Brown

Know from the start I’m a fraud. We’re a few days shy of 2010 and I am eyes-to-ceiling trying to recall the hundreds of cultural events I’ve attended in Liverpool so I can select this year’s favourite.

Only there aren’t hundreds to pick from. Not even half that number. We might even be down to double figures – but only just, and that includes the Nouvelle Vague gig, which I know was brilliant but remains hazy, let’s say. My god, what have I been doing? And it’s not culture’s fault either; it’s mine!

The shame has prompted a new year’s resolution, that’s for sure. Even so, I don’t want this to detract from the considerable talents of my choice because the Glenn Brown exhibition at the Tate, which rocked up in February, really packed some punches.

I hadn’t seen this English painter’s work before so I had few expectations. I knew he was in the business of reproducing other artists’ work – such as Rembrandt, Dali and Auerbach – in his own style to develop them, or reduce them, as some might argue, into a new work. And I also knew his art was littered with pop culture references.

I was immediately struck by the macabre sense of playfulness in his art. He’s confrontational, dark and provocative and also funny. As a result, I found myself curious and uncomfortable. In the next moment laughing and, in the next moment, repulsed and confused!

I adore Frank Auerbach, so I was particularly in awe of Brown’s ability to replicate the thick, gloopy brushstrokes – the ones that look edible – that are synonymous with Auerbach and others like him.

And I’m glad I enjoyed Brown’s borrowing skills; it could have gone the other way. No-one likes a poor impersonator, do they?

Even Brown’s picture titles smack of pop culture satire: ‘The Great Masturbator (2006)’ as opposed to Salvador Dali’s onanist in 1929, and ‘Let me take you by the hand and lead you through the streets of London, I’ll show you something to make you change your mind (1992)’ give you a taste of his delicious naughtiness.

It was a strange exhibition, evoking a range of emotions, which is a real coup in my book.

I often felt as though I was looking at something that was violating beauty, like the portraits of eyeless people, which was unsettling – but a little crunch of humour in other rooms lightened the discomfort.

The exhibition felt important too. I admired Brown’s shock tactics, his thoughtfulness and, at times, ingenuity and I wanted to know more about him; the artist.

Like leaving the cinema dying to talk about your best bits, I left full of awe, chattering on about nothing in particular, I’m sure – but he’d hooked me in.

I felt like I’d found someone new I’d always remember and look out for, and I love it when that happens.

Tori H-D
Twiverpool on Twitter

Daniel Johnston

I was introduced to Daniel Johnston a few years ago, in my days of working in a record store. I kinda liked him, but was probably a bit more into harder / metally stuff at the time and kinda left him be. An intriguing character, with a lot of history relating to manic depression which is reflected in his songs.

I was pretty excited about seeing him despite the 1am stage time he had. Kurt Cobain was quoted as revealing that Daniel was his favourite songwriter too. Anyway, he came on stage and did nothing but impress, quiet, quaint and reserved initially leading into some pretty rocking stuff with Liverpool band Hot Club de Paris as his backing.

I think people can I either like or loathe Daniel, he’s messy, loose, his voice quivers but for me his lyrics and songs are so touching and full of emotion, you don’t even notice technicalities. Whether it be about lost loves / loneliness or comic book heroes, he pulls it off with passion.

A brilliant end to a mammoth night of trekking between gigs for Liverpool Music Week.

Matt Thomas
Mattthomas.co.uk

A city at ease with itself

There was a danger that 2009 in Liverpool would feel a bit like after the Lord Mayor’s show, what with Capital of Culture ending and all that.

Thankfully we don’t have an elected Mayor and won’t for as long as the drones in the town hall have anything to say about it, so there was no sense of disappointment after his carriage had passed us by, because it didn’t exist in the first place, or something. I’m not really sure where I was going with the mayor thing, but suffice to say, 2009 was great.

To me, 2008 was like electric shock therapy which made the city and the world wake up to what we have on our own doorstep.

Now the Culture hoopla is over, in 2009 we have been left to enjoy ourselves around a city that we now recognise as pretty great – be that a pub crawl at the top end (I’d recommend the Phil, with eats at the Everyman Bistro), enjoying the waterfront or living it up in Mathew Street.

Liverpool is at ease with itself, wearing a smoking jacket, cravat and slippers as it warms its hands of the embers of what was once a beautiful imaginary mayor’s coach. And long may that continue.

Neil Macdonald
Scyfilove.com

With no prior knowledge of the stage version, currently on at the Liverpool Playhouse, I’d wondered about how it would translate.

The answer should have been obvious from the posters – drawn in a kind of rip-roaring noir style – and indicative of the tone of the play. It’s the 39 Steps redrawn as a pastiche, or even a farce. And it works quite superbly.

Using the Hitchcock film as a template, the play extracts the maximum possible comedy value from the settings, archetypes and the form.

As a four-hander, it falls to three of the cast to don multiple personalities, accents, coats, genders, ages and even items of the set. There’s little attempt to cover this up, indeed it’s played up to at every turn.

There’s a real joy to the cast struggling with the physical and actorly demands of the narrative. It’s all very meta, with deliberate fluffs and lots of Hitchcock asides, but it fits beautifully.

Richard Braine and Dan Starkey, particularly, are on the receiving end of the play’s character’s twists and turns – and the whole thing is redolent of a slightly Wodehosian air of particularly British mayhem.

Or maybe that’s because I spent the whole play trying to work out what I’d seen Braine in. Lots of things is the answer, but I was thinking of his turn as Gussy Fink-Nottle in ITV’s 90s Jeeves and Wooster.

Katherine Kingsley is dishy and amusing in every role, whereas Dugald Bruce-Lockhart as Hannay is so much early-C20th boys adventure tale heroic leading man it’s hard to believe he’s not simply playing himself.

Every bit of the 39 Steps works wonderfully – it’s an absolute pleasure. The little things – the Hithcock references, the snow falling fro the ceiling at the end, the staff dressed up in period garb. Make sure you catch it before the end of the year.