Sticks and Stones

3. Not the Nine O’Clock News. It pains me to have to dump this in third place, as it is a fantastic and often ingenious program that could always put it’s finger on the perfect angle from which to parody its subject, but the competition is tough. Stunning talent from the young Atkinson, Rhys Jones, Smith and Stephenson, but often the one-gag sketches would be unsatisfying, while the longer ones would stretch a joke too far. That having been said, they expertly lampooned the era in which they worked, even if the musical sketches and montages sometimes fell short of the mark.

2. Monty Python’ Flying Circus. Originally I had this marked out for the gold, before I realised that while Life of Brian may be the most sublime comedic creation since Revelations, it would not be fair to take that into account when judging this category, as the Flying Circus was in truth rather hit and miss. Although the segues between sketches were often ingenious, the running gags never tiresome, the acting superb and the sheer originality and freshness astounding, I find that they would from time to time sacrifice funniness for quirkiness, which hampers them. Even so, the main thing that keeps MP in the number 2 slot is those bloody cartoons, which personally I can’t abide.

1. A Bit of Fry and Laurie. In my opinion the most talented artists (I mean, Stephen Fry, for God’s sake - and Hugh Laurie, by George!), and with the most consistently funny material ever seen in sketch comedy. They excelled in every aspect - their parodies were inch-perfect while at the same time not being parodies at all (something the other two never quite achieved) , the musical numbers faultless, especially with Stephen in the picture, the wordplay simply peerless and the intermediary skits never disappointing. Fry’s eloquence and Laurie’s musical gift (merely the pinnacle, rather than the whole, of the remarkable talent each) make for what I believe to be the best Comedy Sketch Show in history.

I am aware that all of these groups come from the University of Cambridge (as do runners up Sacha Baron Cohen and the Beyond the Fringe crowd), though looking at the list I would argue that that says more about Cambridge than about me. Maybe I’m just hopelessly biased.

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What would you rather have: A Steinway, or a 200 year old Conrad Graff? Bernard Holland of the New York Times wrote a delightful piece about the intricate differences to be enjoyed in the two very different but equally fine instruments. Holland explores the rich heft in the Steinway’s sound: how it can maintain a note for much longer than the Graff can, and how it bellows across a room in a manner that older musical instruments could not have achieved. Regarding the Graff, he praises its grace, clarity and delicate subtlety, making specific comment about how 200 years of grime have added to - not detracted from - the quality of the instrument.

It turns out that both pianos have significant downsides. Levin, arguing for the Graff, stated that the Steinway is a bully of a piano, ham-handedly mashing delicacies in older music into a weightier and louder sound. Holland compares the Steinway playing Schubert to King Kong stroking Fay Wray (or Naomi Watts if you prefer). That is not to say that the Graff did not come with problems too; its age and fragility meant one could not play emphatically and vigorously for fear of damaging it. The result of this more timid playing is that crescendos are not as dramatic on the Graff.

Music has always been something very foreign to me, so I truly appreciated Bernard Holland’s carefully composed article; it made the world of classical music accessible, allowing me to learn more about an interesting difference of opinion in an art form I do not readily understand, but do appreciate.

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It has recently occurred to me, in another one of my numerous “mind-journeys” that most art would be more appropriately termed “fart”. Gone are the days of fine painting, of clever expression through surreal landscape, of talent.

Instead we have inanimate objects with signatures polluting the galleries in the middle of our metropolitan cities. But this begs the question, as art is so relative to the viewer, can it ever be objectively defined? One man’s masterpiece is another man’s cultural puke. Indeed, the da Vincis’ and Van Goghs’ were considered the same in their day, and yet we marvel at their work with awe all over the world.

Perhaps my great great great grandchildren will one day hold today’s nonsense in this regard. Perhaps I am not wrong and they wont and will look at the art I admire as the measure.

Perhaps, the reason this “trash” is art, is because of what it is making me do; form opinions, discuss, and react to an expression through whatever medium. And that is why art can be defined. Only art can provoke such strong reactions in so many people.

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