Are we being good ancestors? This question is thrown at us by Robert Macfarlane in his text for Jennifer Peedom’s River, a 75-minute documentary about, well, rivers. It seems to me to be a question arising from a pernicious brand of pietism firmly yoked to the overblown fantasies of latter-day puritanism. Those who can tick the “yes” box are presumably members of The Elect; those who can’t may be destined for some Dantean delights in you-know-where – or maybe just a spell in a Gulag, to be re-educated. Macfarlane thinks that rivers are gods who have been enslaved by humans, monsters that we are. But the divine ones always have the last laugh; when they reach the sea they are re-incarnated, to the sound of the Australian Chamber Orchestra.
As a “film-and-concert project” River is an intriguing concoction. It is, in no particular order, a stunning array of images of water doing what only water knows how to do; an overlong list of music composed, arranged, excerpted and dragooned into accompanying what is billed as “a profound meditation on how water has shaped our landscapes and human existence”. It has a narration of mind-numbing dullness; Macfarlane’s words read by eminent American actor Willem Dafoe, whose tone of voice never moves beyond the middle range of a greyscale no doubt approved by Peedom. It also features William Barton, acclaimed Australian composer, vocalist and didgeridoo virtuoso. Alas, the sum of all the parts does not amount to very much more than a sermon delivered, at length, to the converted. I have no doubt that with a more enlightened script (narrated with the gravitas such a subject requires), a shortening of the video footage, and a score out of which a single composer could fashion a concert-length work, the project would be less tortuous to sit through.
The musical element of the enterprise is perhaps the most disappointing; it rarely moves out of a greyscale similar to that used for the narration. Extracts from works by Bach, Sibelius, Mahler, Vivaldi and Adès are all served with vanilla ice-cream which, even if made with Madagascan vanilla, still tastes of vanilla. Of the good ancestors only the pizzicato movement from Ravel’s String Quartet has any sparkle about it – sorbet rather that ice-cream. There are also extracts from, and arrangements of, works by Barton, Piers Burbrook de Vere, Pēteris Vasks, Jonny Greenwood (Radiohead) and Richard Tognetti, the ACO’s talented director. Barton was vocalist in a segment from his piece, the inspiringly-named Water, but the timbre of his voice matched the flavour of all the other sounds on stage.
Despite my reservations about the quality of the music I willingly concede that the ACO, an ensemble of strings, is a very fine band. Highly polished and well drilled, it has a superb tone which, even in pianissimo passages, gleams like old gold caught in the light of the setting sun. Its short season at the Barbican, part of an Australian/UK cultural exchange, will have higher moments.
Having said that River preaches to the converted, I need hardly add that it was given a rapturous reception in the form of a standing ovation. Sometime soon I expect to be carted off to the coldest region of the Gulag archipelago.
