God Rot Tunbridge Wells is essentially a monologue for the dying Handel, played by Trevor Howard (himself towards the end of his career). Handel looks back at his success, his sexual frolics, his benefactors, his critics and the cultural scenes he inhabited as well as mulling on matters of spiritual and musical significance. As he does this, his memories are shown without dialogue in staged scenes from his life (the technique of these scenes is not unlike silent movie narrative).
The monologue is written by British playwright John Osborne and his contribution tells us less about Handel than about JO himself; the obsessions he gives Handel – appreciation of Englishness whilst despising suburban mediocrity, hatred of critics and academics, valuing whilst failing at friendship, a conflicted relationship with Anglicanism, unfocused attacks on priggishness whilst celebrating his own snobbery, descents into sentimentality - are all Osborne's own. That Osborne can only write on a single register – splenetic ranting – only compounds the feeling that we are listening not to an 18th century composer but a 20th century angry old man. Some of the writing is very good and Howard speaks it superbly but it is on such a single note that it becomes rather tiring over two hours.
The piece is made worthwhile by director Tony Palmer's usual brilliance at integrating music with film visuals. The camera movements and the cutting are perfectly in tune with the soundtrack; he knows just when to track in gradually, just when to finesse a slow cross fade, just how to create a montage of images which give a visual expression to the music. Handel's music is gloriously celebrated here and we get many beautiful excepts.
The monologue is written by British playwright John Osborne and his contribution tells us less about Handel than about JO himself; the obsessions he gives Handel – appreciation of Englishness whilst despising suburban mediocrity, hatred of critics and academics, valuing whilst failing at friendship, a conflicted relationship with Anglicanism, unfocused attacks on priggishness whilst celebrating his own snobbery, descents into sentimentality - are all Osborne's own. That Osborne can only write on a single register – splenetic ranting – only compounds the feeling that we are listening not to an 18th century composer but a 20th century angry old man. Some of the writing is very good and Howard speaks it superbly but it is on such a single note that it becomes rather tiring over two hours.
The piece is made worthwhile by director Tony Palmer's usual brilliance at integrating music with film visuals. The camera movements and the cutting are perfectly in tune with the soundtrack; he knows just when to track in gradually, just when to finesse a slow cross fade, just how to create a montage of images which give a visual expression to the music. Handel's music is gloriously celebrated here and we get many beautiful excepts.