Things to do in London today

FEATURE: Why has the world gone crazy for Paddington Bear again? Though you can buy all of Michael Bond’s books in the gift shop, let’s be clear here: the Paddington Bear Experience has very little to do with the first 50 or so years of the marmalade-loving ursine’s existence. Rather, the lavish new central London immersive experience makes no bones about fact it’s a live extension of the world of the two (soon to be three) StudioCanal movies. Theoretically I suppose that’s a shame. Debuting in print in 1958, Paddington has a rich history and London’s first proper attraction dedicated to him doesn’t explore it at all. But who are we kidding here? The Paul King films are modern masterpieces, and Paddington would be left as a beloved but past-his-prime nostalgia character if it weren’t for them. He’d have his little statue at the station. But nothing like this. You don’t absolutely need to have seen the films, but there are countless callbacks to them in this gentle adventure, which essentially an immersive theatre show. As we begin by waiting at a small recreation of Paddington Station to board our train to Windsor Gardens, we’re serenaded by a pre-recorded version of the band from the films playing ‘London is the Place for Me’; when we make it to Windsor Gardens for this year’s Marmalade Day Festival, designer Rebecca Brower has faithfully recreated the entire downstairs of the Brown’s boho Notting Hill pad. And then of course there’s Paddington himself - constantly teased as

Alvaro Barrington is letting you in. He’s opening his arms, opening the doors to his childhood home, opening the windows into his memories.  To walk into the London-based artist’s Duveen commission is to walk into the Grenadian shack he grew up in. The sound of rain hammering on the tin roof echoes around the space as you sit on plastic-covered benches; you’re safe here, protected, just like Barrington felt as a kid with his grandmother. You’re brought into her home, her embrace. In the central gallery, a vast silver dancer is draped in fabrics on an enormous steel pan drum. This is Carnival, this is the Afro-Carribean diaspora at its freest, letting loose, dancing, expressing its soul, communing. You’re brought into the frenzy, the dance, the community. But the fun soon stops. The final space houses a dilapidated shop, built to the dimensions of an American prison cell, surrounded by chain link fencing. Its shutters creak open and slam shut automatically. This is a violent shock, a testimony to the dangers facing Black lives in the West: the police, the prison system, the barely concealed injustice.  After all the music and refuge of the rest of the installation, here, it’s like Barrington’s saying: ‘You want this? You want the carnival, the music, the culture? Then acknowledge the pain, the fear, the mistreatment, the subjugation too.’ I don’t think the paintings here are great, but painting’s not Barrington’s strong suit. He excels when he’s collaborating, sampling, sharin

Artists spent centuries making art about light – the divine rays of the Renaissance, the shimmering seascapes of Turner, the foggy hazes of the Impressionists – but it wasn’t until the 1970s that anyone really thought to make art with light. British artist Anthony McCall was one of the first, creating pioneering films that used projectors to trace shapes in the air, somehow seeming to turn nothingness solid. It was a trick that the world wasn’t ready for. His immersive, smoke-filled environments, shown in New York lofts, were met with relative indifference, so he left art behind for decades. But the world caught up, and a ubiquitous trend for immersive art in recent years has seen his work reappraised. Now he’s at Tate Modern, taking over the galleries that until recently were home to the blockbuster Yayoi Kusama ‘Infinity Mirror Rooms’. It’s a tough immersive act to follow. Kusama’s work is big, glitzy, selfie-friendly, but McCall’s isn’t. And in the wider context of London and its epidemic of heinous Klimt and Dali light shows, or even the good stuff like you see at places like 180 The Strand, can McCall’s simple, geometric films keep pace? It feels physical, like the light is hitting you slap bang in the face. After a room of sketches and an early film showing men in white overalls lighting fires at dusk, you’re plunged into darkness. The four light works here are quiet, ultra-meditative things, nothing more than shafts of white in a pitch black room. In the earliest work,

Everyone’s got an opinion of Barbie. Whether you adored playing with her growing up, loathed her for her wildly unrealistic body measurements, or came to appreciate her for her cultural impact, there’s no denying the 11.5inch leggy blonde is one of the most famous toys – if not women – on the planet. Now one year after Barbie-mania had London in a chokehold, Barbara Millicent Roberts has once again tottered back into the capital’s collective conscience, this time via a Design Museum exhibition celebrating 65 years of the iconic doll.  The clothes, the handbags, the mansion, the seemingly perfect boyfriend. Barbie has it all. And so does this exhibition. It provides an extensive look into how the toy was designed, how she has evolved over the years, and how she has influenced fashion, design and wider culture. Created in partnership with Mattel, Barbie’s parent company, the show looks at the toy not just as a kicky blonde doll, but as a brand, and from a design angle it can be considered a real success.  In a dark room filled with rainbow-coloured windows we are taken on an odyssey of all of Barbie’s different head and body shapes. I died a little inside learning about the 1968 Stacey, Barbie’s British friend who had stubby eyelashes, a pasty complexion and a funny shaped head who, in a cruel joke, is lined up next to the bronzed original Malibu Barbie.  In a section dedicated entirely to Barbie pink, we discover that Barb wasn’t always obsessed with the colour, and that it wa

While its permanent collections are showing their age now – that age being approximately 163 years – the Natural History Museum’s temporary exhibits are a world apart. Modern, witty, spacious and hi-tech: they’re a window into what might be if the NHM was refounded in the twenty-first century. ‘Birds: Brilliant & Bizarre’ doesn’t have an especially incisive story to tell beyond ‘birds are great!’ (It would be weird if it was ‘birds are terrible!’) but it is is, nonetheless, a beautifully put together journey through the story of our avian pals that mixes slick techy stuff with a thoughtful delve into the museum’s vast taxidermy vaults (if your archive includes an entire family of stuffed hummingbirds – including the nesting babies – you might as well give it a public airing occasionally). One great thing for younger audiences is that our feathered friends are an offshoot of dinosaurs - hence licence for the first quarter or so of ‘Birds’ to concern itself with their prehistoric ancestors, with particular attention paid to dino-bird crossover creature archaeopteryx. After that it’s an entertaining grab bag, a nicely laid out mix of… bird stuff, with a striking early piece being the gigantic stuffed albatross suspended from the ceiling with its gigantic fluffy chick under it. We’re told the mother was killed by a fishing trawler, which sets up the eco undertones of the rest of the exhibit. It’s not just about wacky bird facts, but the sense that these creatures’ lives are in ou

What is Bubble Planet? Having opened at the tail end of 2023, Bubble Planet is another manifestation of the popular phenomenon that I’m calling Instagrammable immersive family experiences. This one is a particularly close kin to the now defunct Balloon Museum. Where is Bubble Planet? Located in the increasingly culturally vibrant Wembley Park, I’m about 75 percent certain it’s in the same building the last Secret Cinema show was in, just a few minutes walk from the station. What happens at Bubble Planet? The theme is nominally bubbles, though this is interpreted extremely freely, from a balloon room and a ball pool, to a computer generated ocean and a VR experience, both of which do technically feature bubbles. There is a lot of descriptive text on the wall, but it’s mostly waffle rather than anything you need to pay attention to. Is it any good? God help me, I have been to a lot of these things with my children and maybe I’m developing Stockholm Syndrome but I’d say Bubble Planet is the best example in London of This Sort Of Thing: I have literally seen some of these rooms (or something very close to them) before, but not in a combination that so conspicuously maximises the fun. Unburdened by the weird artistic pretensions of the Balloon Museum or the penchant for padding out the attraction with rubbishy little rooms where not much happens a la most of the other experiences, Bubble Planet all killer no filler, if by ‘killer’ you mean ‘room full of giant balloons that keep bu

Money can buy a lot of things, but it can’t buy taste. Luckily, Sir Elton John would probably know his art from his elbow even if he hadn’t become one of the world’s biggest, richest megastars. For decades now, he has been building a world class collection of photography with his partner David Furnish. It’s been shown all over the world, even at the Tate in 2017, and now it’s the V&A’s turn.  The exhibition is absolutely rammed full of iconic images by some of the most important names in photography: Diane Arbus, Robert Mapplethorpe, Juergen Teller, William Egglestone and on and on. Like you’d expect from a megastar, it’s pretty dazzling. The show is grouped into big overarching themes: fashion, reportage, desire, etc. The fashion bit runs the gamut from experimental Harry Callahan cut-outs to stark Irving Penn minimalist luxury via debauched guy Bourdin naughtiness and a beautifully tasteless portrait of Sir Elton’s bejewelled hands by Mario Testino. Style, glamour, cheekbones, cocaine; that’s fashion for ya.  Things get a little grittier in the celebrity section. There are famous images of Joni Mitchell, Ray Charles,Frank Sinatra, and three incredible photos of Miles Davis’s hands by Irving Penn. But this is where the cracks start to appear. Images of tragic figures are everywhere; Marilyn Monroe forlorn and lost, Chet Baker broken by drug abuse, James Dean beautiful and young, but not for long. Celebrity is a curse, a dangerous burden that can crush you just as readily as

It’s hard to know if Italian Renaissance master Andrea Mantegna was issuing a doom-laden warning or just a doe-eyed love letter to history. Because written into the nine sprawling canvases of his ‘Triumphs of Caesar’ (six of which are on show here while their gallery in Hampton Court Palace is being renovated) is all the glory and power of Ancient Rome, but its eventual collapse too. It starts, like any good procession, with a load of geezers with trumpets, parping to herald the arrival of victorious Caesar. As they blare, a Black soldier in gorgeous, gilded armour looks back, leading you to the next panel where statues of gods are paraded on carts. Then come the spoils of war, with mounds of seized weapons and armour piled high, then come vases and sacrificial animals, riders on elephant-back, men struggling to carry the loot that symbolises their victory. The final panel, Caesar himself bringing up the rear, remains in Hampton Court, so there is no conclusion here, just a steady, unstoppable stream of glory and rejoicing.  The paintings are faded and damaged, and have been so badly lit that you can only see them properly from a distance and at an angle. But still, they remain breathtaking in their sweeping, chaotic beauty.  Partly, this massive work is a celebration of the glories of the classical world and its brilliance, seen from the other side of some very dark ages. But along with its rise, you can’t help but also think of Rome's demise, of what would eventually come a

You know how you get all tongue-tied and stupid, blushing and awkward, in front of someone way too beautiful? Monet will do that to you too. There are 21 views of the Thames here, 21 paintings almost too gorgeous to be real.  He came to London a couple of times, the old impressionist master. He stayed at the Savoy each time, and looking out from his balcony across the river, he saw in the fog of London a swirling miasma of psychedelic light. The play of sun and fog and smog created fields of orange and pink and grey and blue that smothered the bridges and choked the Houses of Parliament in a heavy blanket of pure colour. He came back again and again, eventually painting 120 images of Charing Cross Bridge, Waterloo Bridge and the Houses of Parliament. He wanted to show a bunch of them in London in 1905, but it’s taken until now to finally happen. It starts with sulphurous yellow and bubble gum pink, the pillars of Charing Cross Bridge just a series of green shoots growing out of the fetid river. And it only gets more abstract. Everything is sickly and pallid, belching fumes and thick smog. Then the sun tries desperately to poke out, but its rays are smothered. It’s reduced to a faint, weak dot fighting through the fog. It resets your eyes, forcing you to look and look and look It still has its power, though. Poke your head through to the next room and there it hangs above the gothic towers of Parliament, cursing the city to live under a blood-red pallor. The eight paintings o

‘Ah, the Silk Road!’ you nod, sagely. That romanticised overland route between Asia and Europe that flourished in the Middle Ages as intrepid Chinese merchants took silk over the arduous routes in the West. Camels! Deserts! Caravans! Marco Polo! In fact, as with much of history, ‘the silk road’ was somewhat made up in retrospect to describe a less tangible phenomenon. The British Museum’s new exhibition Silk Roads contains little in the way of first person accounts of adventurous journeys from one end of the world to the other, because a few intrepid explorers aside, this simply wasn’t a thing that happened. Instead the silk road of myth was the sum of myriad trading networks – of everything, not just silk – between Japan, north-east Europe and West Africa. Was the sixth century bronze Buddha unearthed on the Swedish island of Helgo in 1958 directly traded there by a wandering salesman from present day Pakistan, where it was forged? Probably not, but the two were sufficiently interlinked by trade that its presence is perfectly explicable. Camels were involved at times, but so, more prosaically, were boats – some of the best preserved items in the exhibition are mass produced Chinese crockery made for the export market, retrieved from an ancient shipwreck in 1998. What Silk Roads is great at is conjuring an image of a Dark Ages that was far from dark, a teeming, interconnected world in which cultures were shaped by nascent religions – Buddhism, Islam, Daoism, weird offshoots