Monday, August 13, 2012

The Octopus’s Garden

After the outstanding Danny Boyle-driven opening ceremony and two weeks of equally astonishing athletic feats across the board, last night we finally arrived at the closing ceremony of the London 2012 Olympiad.

But… (fairly) closely guarded secret as it was, what would it actually comprise…? Part peculiar comic-book circus or a celebratory carnival of (British) music from the last five or so decades? Would Sir Cliff of Richard make a token appearance, would Dame Kate of Bush come out of hiding and perform live for the first time in more than thirty years? Would the Strolling Bones get the nod or would it be down to Status Quo to provide some invisible-pony-tail Dad-Rock? Would it be more wake than festival? Or, perhaps, it'd be a sum of those and many other parts?

It was and it wasn’t some of the above. Yet again, Britain proved itself a world-beater... in Pantomime.

Starring… The Villains:

The Spice Girls as The Ugly Sisters – the vision of Posh Spice frantically clinging to the ‘elf ‘n safety cage atop her black London taxi, out-of-time miming to ‘Spice Up Your life’ while hurtling around the stadium will live long in the memory… if only the taxi had just driven straight out of the park.

George Michael as The Village (People) Policeman, proving the Olympics can be bought by agreeing to sing one song on the basis that he was allowed to plug his tuneless new song straight after. Horrible. Jacques Rogge – hang your head in shame.

Eric Idle as The Widow Twankey – awkwardly warbling away surrounded by a glee club of high-kicking Roman legionaries, men dressed in Welsh women’s national costume and backed by a chorus by roller-blading nuns. Surreal so long as one’d taken the correct pharmaceuticals.

Jessie J as Cruella de Ville – killing a billion indelicately and indiscriminately with her song(s). A thoroughly unpleasant noise.

Taio Cruz and Tinny Temper as Dennis The Menace and Gnasher; hiding behind their designer-shades, all the bling and crocodile-hide transport couldn’t disguise the ineffectual twaddle proffered. Perfect pee-break / kettle boiling / extra glass of the well-chilled moment.

as The Tin Men – Suggs really should have opted for the full-mime option; flat as a Shrove Tuesday pancake resonated far beyond Camden Town tube station. Even Lee Thompson's Sax-in-Space moment seemed half-hearted.

Russell Brand as Russell Grant – involving him within the performance in the first place was enough of an own goal; his desecration of I Am The Walrus when he failed to even mime convincingly was pure travesty.

Brian May as The Scarecrow – his three minutes of ear-wrenching six-string pyrotechnics before slugging his way into We Will Rock You like a past-his-sell-by-date heavyweight boxer was more than enough. Being accompanied by Cruella de Ville writhing at his feat (sic) like a recently beheaded snake underneath Roger Taylor’s Barclay’s bank of kettle drums redefined unnecessary.

Annie Lennox as The Cheshire Cat – her entrance on a ghost Galleon was pure and unadulterated theatrical-magic; sadly the performance as underwhelming as soggy toast.

The Household Division Ceremonial State Band as Dick Whittington’s Cat – Blur’s Parklife didn’t translate well as a jerky arrangement for massed ranks of trombones.

Ed Sheeran as a ginger Andy Pandy – thankfully a song as good as that can’t be totally annihilated but, along with Big Ears (the tall bloke form Genesis) and The Classic Car Collector – the only Floyd-ster who could be bothered to show up – this was not a performance at which the Division Bell could come quick enough.

Liam Gallagher as Petulant Postman Pat – take one great song; the brother who wrote it can’t be arsed (for whatever reasons) to perform it with the original band… solution – bring on the other brother as substitute. As exciting as waiting for a letter posted second class.

One Direction as Wishee Washee – and, they were. Utterly pointless.

The Heroes:

Boris Johnson as Baron Hardup – the sight of him doing his Dad Can Dance routine alongside Mr and Mrs Cameroon in the upper-twit tier while Cruella de Ville, Dennis The Menace and Gnasher slaughtered The Bee Gees made one realize just why Barry Gibb stayed at home, pleading a previous hair-washing appointment.

The Set Designer as Sleeping Beauty. It began as a thing of wonderment and evolved into… something else again. Chapeau. It’s a shame that Thomas Heatherwick's spectacular flames had to be extinguished.

The Pet Shop Boys as Tweedledee and Tweedledum – what’s not to cherish when our favourite dead-pan-twosome perform from underneath gigantic conical chapeaus while being pedaled around the stadium clingfilmed inside two rickshaws and covered by fluorescent orange origami.

The Lighting Designer as Buttons. Whoever programmed the lighting throughout the entire show deserves as knighthood as much as Sir Bradley of Wiggins, Lord Mo of Farrah, Dame Jessica of Ennis and Queen Victoria of Pendleton will be (rightly) anointed in the forthcoming didn’t we do ever so well Olympic pat-on-the-back honours list.

The Supermodels as The Wicked Witch(es) Of The West – if looks could kill and they probably will… Games With No Frontiers: take a bow Kate, Naomi and the others… probably the first time you’ve all been in the back of one of Eddie Stobard’s finest for a while.

Ray Davies as Aladin – for igniting the lamp; a billion people singing the Sha La La’s when instructed and pulling one right out of the bag.

Take That as Tinkerbelles – if only for Jason Orange’s running on the spot routine as he waited for Sir Gary of Barlow (hat-tip to courage in light of recent personal events) to morph into the Queen Mother of Song center stage.

The Video-designer as Snow White – the inclusion of Lennon’s face, full-screen, as he (and a children’s choir) sang Imagine was heart-stopping as was Yoko’s unfolding piecemeal design of her husband’s face in repose, like a gigantic death-mask… A dry eye in (Our) House…? Not a chance.

Darcey Bussell as Princess Jasmine, the senior flight attendant air-lifted into impossible Phoenix arising ballet-shapes.

The Who as (the) Genie(s) Of The Lamp – showing Queen, The Kaiser Chiefs and Muse just how to do it with a startling rendition of My Generation… real lyrical irony given that this Olympiad can only inspire this (and future) generations.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

The 'playlist to end all playlists' it certainly wasn't - unless we are to take that phrase with a copious spoonful of irony.

Ray Davies' magnificent song sent shivers down my spine, and the sight of Lennon, and the unfolding brilliance of his death mask simultaneously stopped and tugged at my heart. But....oh , so many pointless and underwhelming appearances. The ginger bloke doing 'Wish you were here?' Mr. Gilmour, the song title says more than I ever can about that one. Never send a boy to do a man's job.

Really the whole thing was just an object lesson in how we've stripped the music of our land of all class over the last 40 years or so. The Who were a wonderful reminder that there is life in (some of) the old dogs yet. And..that Emilie Sande - who the hell is her manager? She's on EVERYTHING!!