There was something of a Canadian invasion at the O2 last night, but this is about as far from lumberjacks and mounties as it comes. Abel Tesfaye, better known as the Weeknd, is getting straight to the point. “I want to get on top, London!” This may of course simply be a metaphor for his and mentor Drake’s meteoric rise to fame, but Tesfaye does seem to like saying naughty things.
My, what an entrance Jack Whitehall makes on the last night of his first arena tour. The 25-year-old - not that long ago making his Edinburgh Fringe debut - rides into the arena on a Segway with music blaring and fireworks. But he may have overreached himself, however, as a whole tier was curtained off and the remaining two were by no means full.
What a career arc Miranda Hart has had; from playing tiny venues at the Edinburgh Fringe in the early 2000s, followed by roles in television comedies including Hyperdrive, Lead Balloon and Not Going Out, to starring in her own sitcom, Miranda, and in the BBC One drama Call the Midwife. And now she is returning to live comedy not with a few dates in standard-size venues, but with an extensive arena tour.
When the red curtain opens - or drops with delicious melodrama - on the second night of Taylor Swift’s residency at the O2 Arena, the first thing you notice is her eyes. We’re a crowd of thousands, packed into the second largest stadium in the UK, and with our monumental collective gaze directed at one person you wouldn’t expect such intimate details to translate. But Swift need move only her eyes to elicit screams like you’ve never heard in your life. She swoops them oh-so-slowly to the right, pauses, then to the left, pauses, smiles.
Walking into London’s cavernous O2 Arena for Peter Gabriel’s So 25 show last night felt like stumbling onto the set of some David Lean epic: Peter of Surrey, if you will. With a number of imposing lighting and camera rigs framing the already roomy stage, the show’s chroniclers sat perched perilously in suspended chairs with their equipment focused on the band setting up before us.
For certain types (yes, I was that serious-minded teenager) in the late Seventies Rod Stewart made a convenient hate figure – a coke-snorting dinosaur with interchangeable blondes on his arm who, having made some decent records, was now making banal ones like “Do Ya Think I’m Sexy” (and that was one of the better ones). Last night, the only moment Rod looked slightly embarrassed was singing that travesty of Disco, at 68. Even Rod now admits discs like 1980’s Foolish Behaviour were “a pile of shit”.
It opened with a standing ovation. And in a place the size of the 02 – the venue put on this earth to make Luton airport feel better – that’s impressive. It was that kind of evening: not so much Streisand in concert as an opportunity for worshippers at Barbra’s shrine to do a whole lot of basking in her genuinely unparalleled glory. Fifty years at the pinnacle of popular music is not to be sneezed at. That she can sing with a 60-piece orchestra and still deliver shiver-inducing money notes at the age of 71 is truly something. It is not, however, everything.
Oh my goodness but that Mrs Carter knows how to entertain. Sparkles, glitter, flames, fireworks and costumes galore: The Mrs Carter Show had the lot and so much more. A tight eight-piece band, 10 dancers, three backing singers and extraordinary lighting effects - not to mention Beyoncé's honey voice, her sexy swagger and all-round bootyliciousness - made for a thrilling two hours in a cavernous space that she made feel almost intimate.
Occasionally an ensemble cast comes along that makes you want to get down on your knees and give praise to the movie gods; A.C.O.D. (Adult Children of Divorce) has such a cast. The directorial debut of Stu Zicherman brings together Parks and Recreation stars Adam Scott and Amy Poehler and expertly tosses into the mix Oscar-nominee Richard Jenkins, along with bona-fide comic geniuses Jane Lynch and Catherine O'Hara. And that's just for starters.
Many of us have felt the frustration mixed with nervousness, even fear as night has descended on a country walk, and we’re not quite sure where we are. And it's the sense of familiar foreboding that makes Jeremy Lovering’s debut feature such an effective chiller.
Tom and Lucy are taking a touching gamble on romance. Having met at a party, they have agreed to accompany each other to a music festival in Ireland. En route, Tom takes an additional plunge, and reveals that he has booked them into a hotel for the night, one that promises “your own slice of paradise”.