
The Prince of Persian Art
If you didn’t already know, it’s Indian & Islamic Art Week in London currently. Leading…
If you didn’t already know, it’s Indian & Islamic Art Week in London currently. Leading…
The ‘Vidal Sassoon: Outtakes’ exhibition at Somerset House pays tribute to the most influential British hairdresser of all time, described as a ‘rock star, an artist and a craftsman’.
“The diamante curtain sweeps aside to open with all dazzlingly beautiful members of the 10 girl dance troupe performing the number God Save Our Bareskins.” Le Crazy Horse Paris trots into London…
“The rawness of her writing, when performed by two such gifted actors, has a profoundness and power worthy of attention.” Sandi Toksvig’s Bully Boy at the St James Theatre…
This autumn sees an unprecedented assembly of works by the Pre-Raphaelites, launching at Tate Britain before touring worldwide, offering a rare chance to view over 180 pieces, including textiles, stained glass and furniture.
“Sheridan Smith has come one heck of a long way from the days of Two Pints of Lager and a Packet of Crisps.” Rachel reviews Hedda Gabler at The Old Vic…
“We had a direct view of the English Chamber Choir and orchestra; the Belmont Ensemble of London, conscientiously tuning their instruments and awaiting the conductor’s signal to begin…”
“Long considered a masterpiece in the ENO repertoire, the opening night of the final ever revival of Nicholas Hytner’s well-loved production of The Magic Flute was seen as many as like parting from a good friend.”
‘The everyday world is shrouded. We see it dimly. Only when we love do we see the true person. The truth of a person is only visible through love. Love is not the illusion. Life is.’
Any audience would have understandably high expectations of a concert version of the hit Broadway…
”If it weren’t so enjoyable, one might be tempted to call it opera” – so said theatre critic Brooks Atkinson re-assessing Carousel some years after its first premiere.
“The bitch is dead now.” This is the final line that James Bond utters in Ian Fleming’s 1953 novel, Casino Royale, the first of the Bond series. It’s a sentence laced with anger and despair…