A wonderful tapestry of a creative genius in his prime
Alittle too often, Alan Yentob’s Imagine… films focus on absolute legends in their slightly boring anecdotage. Chris Ofili – The Caged Bird’s Song (BBC Two, Saturday) was not one of those films. Though Ofili won the Turner Prize nearly two decades ago, has lately been made a CBE, and even has the odd sprig of grey in his hair, he came across as a restlessly curious artist in his prime, with plenty more to say and do.
This was the story of a remarkable commission. Invited by the Clothworker’s Company to design a tapestry, he submitted a vast, shimmering watercolour inspired by his adoptive Trinidad. Not an easy image to weave. “You’re a bit of a sadist, aren’t you?” suggested Yentob.
Nothing could seem further from the truth. I’ve no wish to stereotype creative geniuses, but they’re seldom like Ofili. What a lovely bloke. Modest, too. Yentob compared him to Titian, Goya and Rembrandt. “I think I would be the first lamb they would slaughter if I was in among that lot,” Ofili said gently.
His thoughtful ruminations on the genesis of his design trod that fine line between lifting a veil on the artistic process and letting the mystery be. Meanwhile, director Luke Mcmahon made a wonderful tapestry of his own. The ravishing sections that explored Ofili’s communion with Trinidadian culture felt more like a lyrical film for Arena. They were plaited into Yentob’s visit to the Dovecot Studios in Edinburgh to get a practical primer on the astonishing old-school craft of weaving.
Happily, there was almost nothing on Ofili’s work in the medium of elephant dung – for which he’s well known. I would have welcomed a bit more background on the history of tapestry, the showiest art form in the Renaissance whose practitioners were mentioned only in passing. And someone might have explained what all those caged songbirds in Trinidad actually are.
The Caged Bird’s Song was unveiled at the National Gallery in April, and will be there until the end of August. The BBC might have optimised the synergy of their story by screening this film two months ago. This stimulating programme should be viewed as an extraordinarily detailed picture caption, succeeded, if possible, by a visit to the gallery itself.
Do you remember how Friends used to subtitle its episodes “The one with…”? There were 236 of them in all. Fingers crossed
Poldark (BBC One, Sunday) doesn’t tot up quite so many or we’ll all expire from plot exhaustion. Episode six of series three will hereafter be known as the one with the toads, the toe-sucking and the PTSD.
First those toads. George Warleggan (Jack Farthing) was woken every morning by a pesky dawn chorus of them, croaking a reveille that played merry hell with that easily triggered nervous system of his. Long story short, Drake (Harry Richardson) fetched up on death row, and to save him his sweetheart Morwenna (Elisse Chappell) had to consent to marry the bloated parson Ossie Whitworth (Christian Brassington), who has a distinct likeness to the aforesaid amphibian.
Which brings us to those toes, property of a bored working-girl and spotted in the mouth of the parson while taking a break from his parish rounds. An entire nation’s eyes must have been out on stalks at the sight of this rarefied fetish being enacted just after the watershed. Do keep your pumps on next week, Morwenna.
Elsewhere, Dwight Enys (Luke Norris) couldn’t leave the horrors of war behind, causing his missus Caroline (Gabriella Wilde) to pout sorrowfully at her inability to console him. Poldark may be 90 per cent yarn and Yarg, but now and then it behaves like a responsible citizen doing its bit. This was one of those plot lines that nodded respectfully and sensitively at the traumas suffered by soldiers returned from warzones to this day.
Back in the unreal world, meanwhile, it was a quiet episode for Ross (Aidan Turner) and Demelza (Eleanor Tomlinson). They couldn’t stop smiling, which presaged nothing but ill. One does worry for the future employability of Jack Farthing, who is so delicious as the panto villain George that audiences may struggle to accept him in more nuanced roles. It’s a fine performance that ever-so-very subtly, somewhere among those disdainful eyelids and affronted cheekbones, suggests a touching study of deep insecurity.