Since the opening of the Glyndebourne Festival in 1934, there’s been a British summertime phenomenon known as country house opera wherein the upper echelons of British society spend the day watching live opera in converted country estates. Black tie is de rigueur, and performances are punctuated by extraordinarily long intervals so the audience can enjoy
by Gerard Davis It’s late summer in London and pouring rain as I make my phone call to Lisbon. At the other end of the line, newly promoted Royal Ballet first soloist Marcelino Sambé tells me he is sitting on his balcony in glorious sunshine, waiting for the start of the new season. It’s a
by Gary Smith Stepping into the bar of Hamburg’s Side Hotel, a deconstructionist building with ugly lobby lights, Alessandra Ferri wraps her pale, diaphanous shawl tighter around her shoulders. Sitting gingerly on an uncomfortable banquette, she orders tea. “Herbal tea,” she says. “No caffeine, it’s lethal, caffeine and jet lag.” Ferri smiles one of her