Tag Archives: writer’s life

After the Fireworks: Three Novellas by Aldous Huxley

“Ostrichism–it’s the only rational philosophy of conduct.”

In Aldous Huxley’s novella, After the Fireworks, fifty-year-old bachelor, author Miles Fanning is in Rome for his annual stay in Rome with his “oldest friend,” Colin Judd, a man Fanning confesses that he doesn’t like, but still a man who is an asset. It’s through Fanning’s relationship with Judd that we first get a glimpse at this famous author’s character, and it’s not a particularly flattering portrait. Fanning uses Judd for his house in Rome, and because of the free accommodations, he’s willing to let the possessive Judd fuss over him.

after-the-fireworks

Most of Judd’s competition is in the form of Fanning’s female fans, and Fanning, knowing this, has the habit of teasing Judd, provoking his friend’s jealousy.

He was having his revenge. Nothing upset poor Colin Judd so much as having to listen to talk about women or love. He had a horror of  anything connected with the act, the mere thought, of sex.

Fanning has received a letter from a twenty-one-year-old fan, Pamela Tarn, who just happens to arrive in Rome. Fanning, who sometimes has affairs with his women fans, knows that Pamela is too young for him, and he knows that he shouldn’t take advantage of her youth or the fact that she worships him. Fanning is happy to flirt with Pamela as she’s an attractive girl with “impertinent little breasts,” and after all, it’s very flattering to have a young, beautiful girl hanging on his every word:

There was even something quite agreeable in resisting temptation; it had the charms of a strenuous and difficult sport. Like mountain climbing.

He mentions Pamela to an old, female friend, Dodo, a woman he contemplated having an affair with years earlier. She knew Pamela’s mother Clare, and according to Dodo, Clare, a mediocre woman, was a fantasist when it came to her GPs (grand passions) and so-called Caprices. It seems likely that Pamela, “vamping by correspondence,” may be a lot like her mother–a born groupie.

What she’s seen of the world she’s seen in her mother’s company. The worst guide imaginable, to judge from the child’s account. (Dead now, incidentally.) The sort of woman who could never live on top gear, so to speak-only at one or two imaginative removes from the facts. So that, in her company, what was nominally real life became actually just literature. Bad, inadequate Balzac in flesh and blood instead of genuine, good Balzac out of a set of nice green volumes

 

After the Fireworks is an interesting tale for its exploration of an author’s relationship with a particularly persistent fan. Fanning enjoys the attention from attractive female fans, and yet also cringes at the thought that anyone ‘understands’ him. He’s well aware that women read his books, identify with the heroines, and imagine that their lives are part of some sort of epic romance (sometimes with him in the picture). It’s a phenomenon known as “Miles Fanningism”

The plot contains some chapters with Pamela writing, rather immature observations about Fanning, in her diary, while inadvertently revealing her youth, inexperience, and unrealistic worship. After the Fireworks has a literal and figurative meaning with Fanning arguing, logically, in one particularly strong passage, why they shouldn’t engage in a love affair, but the problem is that Pamela won’t take no for an answer…

This could have been written as a tragedy (Anna Karenina is mentioned) but instead this is an excellent novella about human folly. Just because we know we shouldn’t do something, doesn’t mean that we will behave sensibly. The story had a Jamesion feel to it, and no doubt the location accentuated the connection.

This is one of three novellas published in a single volume. The others are Two or Three Graces and Uncle Spencer. I thoroughly enjoyed this tale and was pleasantly surprised by Huxley. Isn’t that a great cover?

Review copy

8 Comments

Filed under Fiction, Huxley Aldous

Dear Mr M: Herman Koch

“At first the man feigns patient interest in an adjustable bed frame or a chest of drawers, but before long his breathing grows labored and he begins tossing glances toward the checkout counters and the exit, like a dog smelling the woods after a long trip in the car.” 

I loved Herman Koch’s novel The Dinner and liked Summer House with Swimming Pool. These are both very different novels but they share some characteristics: black humour, nasty people, and skewed morality. Dear Mr M, a story of revenge, focuses on a famous writer who is oblivious to the fact that he’s being stalked. The writer, M and his stalker, Herman have deep connections, and over the course of the novel, those long-standing ties are gradually revealed through several perspectives.

The novel opens with Herman narrating. It’s a strong invective as Herman spits abuse at M, a writer he despises, but this isn’t dislike based on M’s professional shortcomings. No, what exists between M and Herman is personal and has putrefied over the last 40 years.

dear-mr-m

A sense of menace arcs over the narrative as Herman watches M which isn’t hard to do since Herman is M’s downstairs neighbour. A game of cat-and-mouse is afoot with the mouse, M, so deeply buried in his own writerly concerns that he’s oblivious to Herman’s malicious activities.

M’s breakthrough novel was Payback, a fictionalized account of the real-life disappearance of a history teacher named  Jan Landzaat. Landzaat was last seen by his pupil, the teenage Laura (with whom he’d been having an affair) and her high school boyfriend, prankster, Herman. Landzaat, who’d been dumped by Laura (and Mrs Landzaat) wasn’t taking Laura’s rejection well when he barged into Laura’s life and the remote home owned by her famous father. There’s no one single story about what happened that weekend, but Landzaat was never seen again. …

But forty years have passed. M’s career is now in eclipse. He’s married to a much younger woman, and above all else, he’s tired–tired of the pathetically small attendance at book readings, tired of the same boring, and sometimes hostile questions, tired of interviews. M, the object of Herman’s decades-long venom is seen as a rather pathetic man who can’t even rustle up a decent cup of coffee in the local cafe. Herman wonders if M “is aware of his own mediocrity?”

In fact, you should see your face when you’re extolling your own intelligence. Your face, and the look in your eyes. It’s the look in the eyes of a rabbit who has misjudged the distance to the other side of the expressway–and realizes too late that the headlights bearing down on it are already too close to dodge. A look, in other words, that doesn’t believe itself for a moment, that’s paralyzed by the fear that the first tricky question will expose it as a fraud, once and for all.

A mediocre writer serves a life sentence. He has to go on. It’s too late to change professions. He has to go on till the bitter end. Until death comes to get him. Only death can save him from mediocrity. 

Koch shows us that there are two ways of perceiving men who have relationships with much younger (underage) woman–they can be seen as predators, which is the common view, or idiots. At first Landzaat seems to be a middle-aged predator, but as the plot continues, he morphs into a pathetic, emotionally weak loser who can’t accept the fact that Laura, his teenage lover, realizing that she’s made a horrible mistake, has moved on. Laura takes the nuclear option, and that leaves Landzaat alone in the aftermath of his affair’s destructive path. Through Herman and Laura’s eyes, we see how the young perceive the aging loser, and to Herman, every teacher is a loser:

Nowhere is the odor of mediocrity more pervasive than at a high school. It’s a smell that works its way into everything, like the stench of a pan of soup that has been bubbling on the burner for too long.

Dear Mr M, for its acrobatic, nasty subversive wit made me chuckle with sheer delight. Nothing is sacred here, and all of the characters are fair game for the author’s acerbic vision. Koch mines the deep well of student dislike for their teachers, so Herman’s observations about his “dropping like flies” high school teachers are vicious. Each “sad announcement,” for Herman, is just an occasion when “you had to keep your mouth shut and look serious, but what we mostly felt was a sense of justice having been done.”  Koch captures the students’ perceptions as teachers being old and decrepit, boring people who are so mediocre, they might as well die now and get on with it. And then of course, there’s that “one spectacular finish” by social studies teacher Harm Koolhass who “less than half an hour after a midnight landing in Miami,” takes a “wrong exit”:

Somehow we couldn’t reconcile the two images–the trousers and the beaded bag on the one hand, the corpse hanging out of the car with its neck twisted at a strange angle on the other. As though the halls, the classrooms and the auditorium of the Spinoza Lyceum were the worst possible preparation for a violent demise in an American B-movie.

Dear Mr M, shares some thematic connections with The Dinner (the insular world of youthful morality) and Summerhouse with Swimming Pool (a predatory male and an underage girl), but it’s ultimately not as successful a novel. While the first half or so of Dear Mr M was very strong indeed, the plot began to lag when it shifted to Herman’s high school days, and the story’s pacing cools down to teenage friendships and a certain ordinariness. These sections just couldn’t match the ingenuity, viciousness and hilarious spleen of the first half of the novel. That said, in the last chapter, Koch pulls the strands together brilliantly, and the novel ends on a splendid note. Flawed as the novel is, I’ll still read anything from this author.

Review copy

Translated by Sam Garrett

16 Comments

Filed under Fiction, Koch Herman

The Eskimo Solution: Pascal Garnier

“He kills people’s parents the way Eskimos leave their elders on a patch of ice because … it’s natural, ecologically sound, a lot more humane and far more economical that endlessly prolonging their suffering in a nursing home. Besides, he’ll hardly be doing them harm; he’ll do the job carefully, every crime professionally planned and tailored to the person like a Club Med holiday.”

In Pascal Garnier’s The Eskimo Solution, an author of children’s stories decides to branch out into a different genre. On a slim advance from his skeptical publisher, he’s rented a house on the Normandy coast, and begins working on a novel about a middle-aged man named Louis who decides to start killing the parents of various friends in order to ‘gift’ his friends with premature inheritances.

Since everything goes to plan, no trouble with the law or anything, he starts killing the parents of friends in need. Of course, he doesn’t tell them what he’s doing-it’s his little secret, pure charity. He’s an anonymous benefactor, if you like.

Gradually the writer begins to identify with his fictional character and the writer’s life spirals out of control as fiction and reality mix in a deadly and disorienting fashion…

the-eskimo-solutiom

Any one reading The Eskimo Solution will have to pay close attention to the text as Garnier melts back and forth into the crime writer’s life and that of his main character and alterego, Louis. The crime writer’s tale is written in the first person while Louis’ story unfolds in the third, so if you get lost it’s fairly easy to pull yourself back and hang onto ‘reality.’ Any sense of confusion, however, isn’t helped by the fact that there’s another Louis, an elderly neighbour in the crime writer’s life. I asked myself why Garnier used the same name twice and concluded that the two characters named Louis–one real, the other fictional–serve to blur the lines between fact and fiction (in this metafictional novel). And as the novel continues with the plot taking the stance of Life Imitates Art, Garnier is clearly dragging the reader into a life spinning out of control.

I really liked parts of The Eskimo Solution; it’s classic Garnier black humour with the crime writer  bemoaning the fact that he has to wait until his parents die until he gets his hands on a meagre inheritance, hoping all the old people will be wiped out by an epidemic, and pissed off asthe fucking doctors have made them practically immortal,” but overall this is not Garnier’s best by a long shot. The novel’s premise had a lot of promise, and if the crime writer had begun following Louis’ lead, this would have been a much stronger novel. Indeed, Garnier seems to play with this possibility–he even places two elderly people in the path of the crime writer. The elderly neighbours, Arlette and (another) Louis are harmless and sweet, but since the crime writer’s fictional Louis has been bumping off people over 50 at an alarming rate, Garnier dangles the murder of Arlette and Louis as a tantalizing possibility.

Anyway, if you’re a Garnier fan as I am (and this is novel number 9) you won’t be able to resist. The Eskimo Solution shows a middle-aged man chomping at the bit to get his hands on his parents’ money, and like many a writer before him, he uses fiction to resolve the issues in his life. Given that I’ve talked to so many people in the last few years who dumped their elderly parents in ‘rest homes’ while they cleared out their estates, selling off all the parents’ worldly goods asap, this novel hit a chord for me. Garnier illuminates the dark wish of many early middle-aged children, drags it to daylight, and takes it to a typical Garnier-ish conclusion. Garnier’s work can’t all be as good as Moon in a Dead Eye, and when you start reading a large number of novels from any writer, it’s inevitable that you rank them in order of preference. While I wasn’t crazy about The Eskimo Solution, it had its merits in spite of its flaws.

Order of reading preference:

Moon in a Dead Eye

Too Close to the Edge

How’s the Pain

The Front Seat Passenger

The Islanders

Boxes

The Eskimo Solution

The Panda Theory

A-26

Here’s another review at Words and Peace

Review copy

Translated by Emily Boyce and Jane Aitken

16 Comments

Filed under Fiction, Garnier Pascal

Betty Boo: Claudia Piñiero

“Sometimes we can take the right road, sometimes we have to take other roads without knowing whether or not they are going to lead where we want to go.”

Argentinean crime writer Claudia Piñiero takes us back to familiar territory, an elite community for the very privileged, in her latest crime novel, Betty Boo. In Thursday Night Widows, Piñiero explores the dark secrets that reside in the seemingly affluent gated community and the scandal that erupts when 3 men are found dead in a swimming pool. Betty Boo begins with La Maravillosa Country Club, a Buenos Aires community whose exclusivity and high security does not prevent the occurrence of a vicious murder. The dead man, Pedro Chazarreta, was the suspect in the recent high-profile murder of his wife. Although many considered him guilty, the case was dismissed “on the grounds of lack of evidence,” but now found murdered in exactly the same fashion, in the same house, Chazarreta seems to have received the death he deserved.

Betty Boo

The murder brings together a handful of main characters, including former crime reporter, Jaime Brena. Now humiliatingly demoted to writing meaningless, trite articles for the society section at El Tribuno, Brena, divorced and fighting for possession of his books, looks forward to the time he will own a dog, imagining how the relationship will be and what sort of pet owner he will become. He understands he’s a loner and that makes any relationships problematic:

Only a solitary person is able to be at the side of another without feeling the need, the obligation to possess or change him.

The new crime reporter, dubbed ‘Crime Boy’ by Brena doesn’t seem to have a clue about how to do his job, and Brena, somewhat reluctantly takes the new reporter under his wing. Meanwhile, slimy womanizer, the El Tribuno‘s editor Lorenzo Rinaldi hires Nurit Iscar, dubbed “the Dark Lady of Argentine fiction,” and also nicknamed Betty Boo for her dark curls, to write literary articles about the murder from the vantage point of a plush house within La Maravillosa. Nurit was once a writer of best-selling crime novels but she made the mistake of falling in love during an affair with a married man who had no intention of leaving his wife.

Because you were in love, your head was somewhere else and love and art don’t get on well. Sex and art do, but not love and art.

With her last book written during the affair, a romance called Only If You Love Me, a complete flop, and after a bitterly critical review, Nurit now refuses to write a novel again. Divorced and her children grown and gone, Nurit is a ghostwriter (escritora fantasma), and she’s currently working on the memoir of a privileged society woman.

Nurit and Brena are both great characters worthy of their own series. Both are now reduced to using their writing skills for survival, not for something they feel passionate about, but for generating soulless, meaningless rubbish on cue. Brena, involved with crime once again, is energized. Nurit’s affair was the inspiration for her ill-fated romance book, and now relying on ghostwriting for the wealthy who have the money to fund their own meaningless memoirs, she chugs along in life, aided and abetted by close female friends. Rinaldi’s offer to write articles for the paper could be just the jumpstart her career needs, or then again, as her friends are convinced, the offer may mask an ulterior motive…

Once Nurit is living in La Maravillosa, writing her own material again, and with life offering her choices, she finds that her old skills never left. The depiction of the elite housing community reveals the highly stratified layers within Argentinean society–the have-a-lots and the have-nots, with people like Crime Boy, Brena, and Nurit somewhere in the middle. The great irony of the novel is that while walls, excessively high security, and guards supposedly guarantee safety, murder stalks La Maravillosa.

She thinks how the quotidian –banal, even-elements of daily life can get mixed up with crime in a fusion that both robs the horror of any drama and makes simple things more horrifying.

 Betty Boo is not as tightly plotted as the previous Piñiero novels I’ve read (there’s a sidetrack history of the Betty Boo character, for example) and the dialogue formatting isn’t reader friendly. Still this is a novel from my favourite crime writer from Argentina, so I’ll call her the real ‘Dark Lady of Argentine Crime Fiction.’ This is a novel about second chances (and if you think about it, revenge is a type of second chance), but on another level the emphasis here is of creating a world of “counter-information,” “being informed from a different point of reference, outside the centers of power: an alternative media.” Since this is an Argentinean novel, the reference to secrets and “unpunished crimes” carries additional significance.

By the same author:

Thursday Night Widows

All Yours

A Crack in the Wall

Review copy

Translated by Miranda France

 

23 Comments

Filed under Pineiro Claudia

Jack of Spades: Joyce Carol Oates

Point me in the direction of a book written by an unreliable narrator, and chances are I’ll want to read it, and that brings me to Jack of Spades by Joyce Carol Oates. First the disclaimer: I’m not a fan of this author’s novels–although I like some of her short stories, so I hesitated when I saw this.

Jack of Spades is narrated by best-selling author Andrew J. Rush who lives with his wife, Irina in a prestigious home in Harbourton, New Jersey. Almost immediately we can tell that there’s something a little off about Rush, for while he appears almost gushingly humble and self-deprecating, he never misses an opportunity to slip in self-flattery even as he tries to paint himself as a nice, normal man, a pillar of the community. He describes himself as “the most famous of local residents,” and with 28 books to his credit, this is no doubt true. He writes “best-selling mystery-suspense novels with a touch of the macabre. (Not an excessive touch, not nasty-mean, or disturbing. Never obscene, nor even sexist. Women are treated graciously in my mysteries, apart from a few obligatory noir performances.”

Jack of SpadesHere’s where the cracks begin to appear in Andrew’s self-portrait, for while he’s busy emphasizing that his books are in good taste, then he reveals that he writes an entirely different type of book under the pseudonym: Jack of Spades, “born out of my restlessness with the success of Andrew J. Rush.” These books have a cult-type popularity, are extremely violent, sexist, “cruder, more visceral, more frankly horrific.” The local library refuses to stock any titles by Jack of Spades, so Rush donates copies.

So right away, we have a paradox: Rush goes to great lengths to continually explain how his books don’t offend, don’t cross any lines, but then he also produces, secretly, this whole other line of books that are offensive and written in extremely bad taste.  We can only conclude that Rush is a very complicated man who needs to hide his more vicious, violent side beneath the surface of both his personal and professional life.

But is Rush a nice guy at home? As layers of the story drop away, we see Irina through Rush’s eyes. Once she was a promising writer, but now she teaches at a small school. Even though Rush frequently prefaces the word, ‘wife’ with the term “dear,” there’s violence, dominance and control behind his attitude, and that violence occasionally seeps through the surface when she questions her husband or suddenly appears in the areas of the house that are more or less forbidden to her.

Soon after we were married, Irina gave up writing. I had been her most enthusiastic reader and had continued to encourage her, going through drafts of stories and novels, but something hesitant and self-doubting had crept into her sense of herself as a writer. Gently I admonished her–“Darling, you care too much for precision and perfection. There’s no need to polish each damned sentence–just say what you want to say.”

But Irina grew ever more shy about her writing. I hope it wasn’t because I insisted upon reading everything she wrote, and offering my heartfelt, sincere, and sympathetic critiques.

It doesn’t take too long before you realize that the veneer of nice guy and good husband (and what about those estranged children?) is stretched thin and that Rush could explode at any minute. The name ‘Jack of Spades’ is a pseudonym, but it’s also a label for Andrew’s dangerously violent alter ego.

The pivotal incident occurs when Rush is served with a summons to appear at the local courthouse. With a very nice touch, the summons is misspelled, and Rush, for a moment, imagines that there’s some mistake–surely the summons is meant for ‘Andwer J. Rash,’ whoever he is, and not him. But no … as it turns out, he’s being accused by some local nut of plagiarism–and not just plagiarism; he’s also being accused of actually breaking into someone’s home and stealing her unpublished manuscripts.

This accusation sparks a violent turn of events in Rush’s life. So far, he’s barely managed to keep the more violent side of his personality under control. The civil suit tests that ‘nice guy’ veneer to the limit.

There are many. many five-star reviews of Jack of Spades out there. For this reader, in the minority, the book doesn’t have much appeal. Perhaps if I hadn’t read Henry Sutton’s brilliant: Get Me Out of Here or Phil Hogan’s wonderfully nasty  A Pleasure and a Calling, I’d feel differently, but both Hogan and Sutton take the intricacies of the unreliable narrator to new levels; Jack of Spades does not. The narrative exposition lacks subtlety.  Both Henry Sutton and Phil Hogan constructed windows in the lives of two very different, cunning, psychopathic narrators, and while we read about the actions of these men with fascinated horror, it’s to both Hogan and Sutton’s credit that we can acknowledge the nasty intelligence and craftiness of their protagonists as they create mayhem for other people. In the case of Andrew Rush, there’s nothing to admire–not even the bestsellers. Being in his mind is an unpleasant chore.

Jack of Spades is at its best in its references to Stephen King. Andrew Rush is constantly compared to King. This comparison to Stephen King obviously bugs the hell out of Rush who tries to get some recognition from King, and then later he plays a nasty trick involving King that seems both tongue-in-cheek and also references how King attracts the nuts for some reason. While Andrew Rush can’t help but be flattered by the comparisons to King, there’s a niggling annoyance there that Stephen King is richer and much more famous:

With my third bestseller in the 1990s it began to be said about me in the media–Andrew J. Rush is the gentleman’s Stephen King.

Of course, I was flattered. sales of my novels, though in the millions after a quarter-century of effort, are yet in the double-digit millions and not the triple-digit, like Stephen King’s. And though my novels have been translated into as many as thirty languages–(quite a surprise to me, who knows only one language)-I’m sure that Stephen King’s books have been translated into even more, and more profitably. And only three of my novels have been adapted into (quickly forgotten) films, and only two into (less-than-premium cable) TV dramas–unlike King, whose adaptations are too many to count.

But who’s counting, right?

Review copy

 

14 Comments

Filed under Fiction, Oates Joyce Carol

The Last Word by Hanif Kureishi

“Otherwise, these days, no sooner has someone been sodomized by a close relative than they think they can write a memoir.” Author Hanif Kureishi seems to be an author readers either love or hate, and this theory is arguably authenticated by a number of vicious, personal comments about the author left on this blog–comments far too nasty to see the light of day. The Buddha of Suburbia was an amazing book, but Kureishi surpassed it with his phenomenal Something to Tell  You, and as Kureishi is not a prolific author, I was delighted to see that he’d written another novel: The Last Word.  This is a story of a young man, Harry, who’s commissioned by a flamboyant, out-of-control publisher, Rob, to write a biography of a Lion of British literature, now in his 70s, the aging Mamoon Azam. Harry goes to live with Mamoon and his second, expensive Italian wife Livia in order to gather material for the book, conduct interviews and gather information from the diaries of Mamoon’s first wife, Peggy. The last wordThere was some gossip that The Last Word was based on V.S. Naipaul, his approved biographer, Patrick French, and the resulting book The World is What it Is, a ‘warts and all’ “confessional biography” (Ian Buruma). Author Hanif Kureishi denies the connection, but when reading The Last Word, it’s impossible not to think of Naipaul–and not just because Naipaul and Mamoon Azam are both “eminent Indian-born writer[s]” who’ve made their careers and homes in England. There are other connections between the lives of the fictional Mamoon and the living Naipaul, and as we might anticipate from a writer of Kureishi’s subtlety, there are also some differences. While Naipaul apparently complied with his biographer’s demands, Mamoon proves to be slippery and the most difficult of subjects. The Last Word begins brilliantly with Harry travelling with Rob by train to Mamoon’s estate. Harry is busy thinking, somewhat dreamily, of the monumental task ahead of him. He’s a book reviewer and a teacher with just one well-received biography under his belt, and now contemplating his future & home ownership, “it had occurred to Harry, in the last year, at least as he matured, that he needed to be well off.” While Harry chews over the project of writing a biography about Mamoon, his publisher Rob, acknowledging that it can “inhibit” a biographer to have a living subject, wants something sensational. Something “mad and wild“:

Harry, the Great Literary Satan is weak and woozy now like a lion hit with a monster tranquilizer. It’s his time to be taken. And it’s in his interest to cooperate. When he reads the book and learns what a bastard he’s been, it’ll be too late. You will have found out stuff that Mamoon doesn’t even know about himself. He’ll be dead meat on a skewer of your insight. That’s where the public like their artists–exposed, trousers down, arse up, doing a long stretch among serial killers, and shitting in front of strangers. That’ll teach ’em to think their talent makes them better than mediocre no-brain tax-paying wages slaves like us.

So of course, we are in for a romp. Here’s Harry commissioned to write an authorised biography of a living legend–a man “too cerebral, unyielding and harrowing to be widely read, [Mamoon was] becoming financially undone; despite the praise and the prizes.” Mamoon is considered a serious writer whose work wrestles with moral issues, and yet publisher Rob, sniffing that there’s plenty of dirt under that stiff writer persona, is pushing for an expose, a dirt-slinging, tabloid style biography which will be a bestseller. According to Rob, Mamoon’s fiercely protective, expensive wife, Livia, is “a man-eater who never passed on a meal,” and Rob even suggests that Harry should be prepared to sleep with Livia to get his story. Between Livia, who wants only a whitewashed biography, and Mamoon who’d rather not have to participate at all, Harry seems to be severely outclassed by craft and personality. The writing here is occasionally brilliant, evidenced here by Rob’s enthusiastic descriptions of two of the women in Mamoon’s life:

Marion, his ex-mistress, a Baconian torso on a plank, is bitter as cancer and spitting gobbets of hate to this day. She lives in America and not only will she see you, she’ll fly at you like a radioactive bat. I’ve organized your visit–some people accuse me of being a perfectionist. There is also the fact he drove his first wife, Peggy, over the edge. I’m sure he wrapped oranges in a towel and beat her blacker and bluer than a decayed Stilton.

And then there’s Rob (my favorite train-wreck of a character):

If Harry thought of himself as a cautious if not conservative person, Rob appeared to encourage his authors towards pugnacity, dissipation, and “authenticity” for fear, some thought, that the act and the art of writing, or even editing, might appear “artistic,” feminine, nancy, or possibly, “gay.” Never mind Mamoon, Harry had heard numerous tales of Rob’s “sociopathic” tendencies. He didn’t go into the office until five in the afternoon, though he would stay there all night, editing, phoning, and working, perhaps popping into Soho. He had married, not long ago, but appeared to have forgotten that wedlock was a continuous state rather than a one-off event. He slept in different places, often in discomfort and with a book over his face, while appearing to inhabit a time zone that collapsed and expanded according to need rather than the clock, which he considered to be fascist. If he became bored by someone, he would turn away or even slap them. He would cut his writers’ work arbitrarily, or change the titles, without informing them.

The novel is about the difficulties of biography and how we align the image of a great writer with a not-so-great human being. According to Rob, Mamoon “has been a dirty bastard, an adulterer, liar, thug, and, possibly, a murderer.” Of course it’s Harry’s job to get to the central truth at the core of Mamoon’s life, so the novel should also, in theory, be about Harry’s journey of discovery. Unfortunately, from its very promising premise and phenomenal beginning, the novel takes a turn with the character of Harry. He’s introduced with hints of naiveté–the way , for example, we’re told that it ‘occurs’ to him that he’ll need to be well off–a phrase that implies a certain unworldliness. Mamoon seems to do everything he can to derail Harry’s desire to gain access, and Livia clearly wants Harry to write a “gentle” hagiography. Both Mamoon and Livia appear to select Harry for the job because he’s one of “the few decent and bright Englishman left on this island,” yet Harry not naïve or decent. As the plot develops, Harry is revealed to be quite the opposite of how he first appeared. And herein lies the central problem, at least for this reader. While the novel is at its best with Kureishi’s caustic bitter wit (seen through Mamoon and Rob), Harry’s personal life quickly overwhelms the central plot and the philosophical questions on which the story rests. Harry is a difficult, unconvincing character and his sexual relationship with a minor character feels particularly contrived. After setting up the initial central dilemma of extracting the sordid truth from Mamoon whether he likes it or not, the plot stagnates, teeters, stumbles and veers towards farce and some scenes and dialogue seem patently false. I’ve come to expect unpleasant characters in Kureishi’s novels, and that’s not a problem as nasty people can be great fun to read about. The major problem in The Last Word is plot momentum and hijacking. So what does Kureishi have to say on the question of how we align the great writers with their often less-than-great characters? The central issue seems to be not so much what a writer does or doesn’t do in his personal life as much as a matter of hypocrisy, and here’s Mamoon on the subject of E. M. Forster:

View? I have no views on a man who claimed he wanted to write about homosexual sex, a subject we certainly needed to know about. Since he lacked the balls to do it, he spent thirty years staring out of the window, when he wasn’t mooning over bus conductors and other Pakis. An almost-man who claimed to hate colonialism using the Third World as his brothel because he wouldn’t get arrested there, as he would showing off his penis in a Chiswick toilet.

Review copy

5 Comments

Filed under Fiction

The Parrots by Filippo Bologna

A writer writing a novel is like a serial killer who’s keeping a victim locked in the cellar. Every evening, he slides under the cellar door a tray with a little water and stale bread, just enough to keep his victim alive, anticipating the moment when he descends the cellar stairs to have his fun with her.”

As readers, we pay attention to those who carry off the coveted literary prizes in the publishing world. Those who directly benefit are probably the most interested in following the Trail of the Winners and the Losers. I note who wins this or that prestigious prize, but mostly my interest stops there. I don’t have any interest in reading a book just because it’s a prize winner, and I tend to be skeptical of the entire selection process. Nonetheless, I appreciate the efforts of those who try and read the short list for themselves prior to the announcement of the prize, and I also empathize with authors who wait for the news only to hear they’ve been passed over. It would be tempting (and also torturous) for those who didn’t win to read the prize-winning novel and chew over the reasons why this one won while theirs didn’t.

The ParrotsI’ll admit that the nasty side of me wonders what goes on in the minds of the contenders. The healthy thing, of course, would be for any nominee to cross fingers, ignore the process, hope for the best, and then behave gracefully when the prize falls to someone else. Sometimes it’s just not that easy to lose, and stories of rival authors attempting to sabotage each other through Amazon reviews give me hope for humanity. And that brings me to the Italian novel, The Parrots by Filippo Bologna, the cynical, but very funny story of three authors in Rome all competing for the same prize. These authors are known as The Beginner, The Writer, and The Master–all men at different stages of their lives and their writing careers. They are men who want/need that prize for a range of reasons, and given that I love to read books about people who behave badly, it was almost guaranteed that I’d like this.

The Writer, on his second unhappy marriage, and plagiarizer of his mother’s work, badly needs the prize. He tried writing novels “filled with love affairs, lonely desperate men throwing stones at the stars, missed dates, ashtrays overflowing with cigarette ends and women dragged by their hair, raincoated figures waking the night streets, cars speeding by beneath the streetlamps, the glances of strange women behind the windows of buses: that was how he imagined the stories he would one day write.”  But “his stories had kept slipping away from him, his sentences had jammed like rusty revolvers.”  

The Beginner turns out to be a tough contender, and according to The Writer’s publisher, The Beginner’s first novel may win the prize because it’s a “first book. And when it’s your first book, they forgive you everything.”

The Master plagued with bills, is convinced that other writers have the edge due to computers, if he could just “plug his technology gap,” he’ll be able to “rival other writers in creativity.” Facing cancer, he mulls over the “prizes he hasn’t won, the recognition he hasn’t obtained” and he sees the prize as “the only way to take leave of the world with dignity.” This drives him to desperate measures.

The Prize is organized and financed by The Patroness who as “the lines on her face crease a moment like a ruff, then relax” conjures up the image of an aging fashion model.  Votes roll in. The Publisher tells The Writer that he’s behind in the prize voting which he explains is due to the death of voters they used to count on. The rash of deaths has lowered the age of the typical voter on the panel:

The older they are, the better. What little time they have left isn’t enough to read all the books in the competition. So they have to choose: read or live. They can’t do both. That’s why they have to trust what we tell them.

On the other hand, there’s The Beginner:

They’ve had him park his arse on the right sofas, on TV and in drawing rooms, they’ve stuck him on the covers of women’s magazines. He isn’t very intelligent but it’s not vital for him to be intelligent–on the contrary. He’s polite, good-looking, blue eyes, women have a soft spot for him.”

“I don’t think he’s that good-looking, he has a stupid face.”

Of course, you get the idea that it isn’t about the books, it’s about the projected personalities, the PR campaigns, vote rigging, and  the pathetically unattended book events in provincial towns in which The Beginner offers “himself as a sacrifice to a handful of torturers who have emerged from their houses.” And of course, that’s taking the optimistic look that anyone will even show up. But there’s worse: “the neglected provincial writer chosen to chair the debate”:

Because he could well imagine ending up there himself. The Beginner had immediately recognised the type, universally knows as “provincial writer who hasn’t made it”.  It was a very specific, widespread and in no way innocuous, anthropological and literary category. Poisoned by the suspicion, if not the contempt, of their fellow citizens, hurt by the smugness of literary society towards them, worn down by rejection and their own inadmissible lack of talent, such people spent their wretched days exiled to their desks, writing imaginary reviews, updating their blogs, working away at novels doomed to the eternal darkness of a drawer. With the passing of the years, they ended up suppressing their feelings of failure and converting them into a sense of martyrdoms. They constructed vast conspiracy theories in which powerful publishers, ensconced in the centre of things, did all they could to crush anyone outside their own charmed circle–the only proof of this conspiracy, of course, being their own misfortunes. They founded small and apparently crusading publishing houses in some cellar, or directly in their own homes, clandestine distilleries where they got drunk on the very spirits they sold under the counter. By so doing, they were finally able to realize their dream and see some of their own manuscripts in printed form, just for the fetishistic orgasm of touching the cover, leafing through the pages, arranging them on display on the mantelpiece in their best room. The most enterprising of them even managed to found schools of creative writing–on the pattern of the more famous ones–in premises placed at their disposal by cooperatives or local authorities, more as an opportunity to exchange a few words with some human beings on autistic winter evenings than as an assertion of their own debatable teaching skills.

Ouch! That long quote gives a sense of the novel’s tone. Caustic, merciless, and cynical, this clever novel pokes fun at the publishing industry, and apart from the occasional sink into farce, this mostly works. I found the objectification of the three authors: The Beginner, The Writer, and The Master, a bit wearying at times, and asked myself why the author chose to write the novel like this. Why not give his characters names instead of leaving them as types? But after concluding the novel, it seems fair to argue that individualism doesn’t count–identity beyond production doesn’t matter as in many ways. The Beginner, The Writer, and The Master, while three separate human beings plagued with their own issues, are arguably the same person at different stages of their careers in this grubby cannibalistic industry.

The Parrots is a good companion read to Gert Loveday’s very funny novel, set at a writers’ workshop: Writing is Easy.

Review copy/own a copy. Translated by Howard Curtis.

11 Comments

Filed under Bologna Filippo, Fiction

My Biggest Lie by Luke Brown

“It is a sort of fun being a dickhead, that’s why there’s so many of us.”

My Biggest Lie, a humorous debut novel from British author Luke Brown is a tale of self-destruction, self-promotion, and the collision of both set against the unbridled hedonistic excesses of the publishing world. Thirty-year-old Liam Wilson was well on his way towards a good career–he lived with Sarah, the girlfriend he claims to love, moved from an indie publisher in Birmingham to a major publishing house is London, and was mentored by rockstar publishing director for fiction, the “flamboyant” James Cockburn.

my biggest lieWith Cockburn out of commission and in hospital under strange circumstances, Liam is entrusted with minding author Craig Bennett whose book Talking to Pedro won the Booker prize. Sarah has just broken up with Liam, and feeling lost and sorry for himself, all of Liam’s self-destructive urges emerge. Set on the task to babysit Bennett and make sure he doesn’t have access to drugs, Liam, as Bennett’s minder engages in a long-drug-fueled evening which ends with Bennett dead and Liam agreeing to “resign.” Now the scourge of the publishing industry, Liam heads to Buenos Aires, ostensibly to write that novel he’s always been talking about.

My Biggest Lie is a look at the life of that familiar character–the Affable Dickhead. That’s my term to describe Liam whose morally reprehensible behaviour is slightly ameliorated by his tarnished charm.  He’s not someone you’d want in your life–although I suspect we all know a Liam, and while as a friend his behaviour is intolerable, he’s great fun to read about. He’s not exactly an unreliable narrator, but he’s definitely a dodgy one. He doesn’t initially tell us the whole story of exactly what he did with either his girlfriend or with Craig Bennett. He makes us wait as he parcels out details, hoping to win us over with that overworked charm of the bullshit artist. Once on the top of his world, with a bright future, he blew it all in a series of self-destructive moves, and now he hopes he can win it all back: the girlfriend, the career, and perhaps even the self-respect. Liam is an entertaining narrator–definitely obnoxious, but with just enough self-disgust to make his train wreck of a life well-worth following.

I’d arrived in London from a small press in Birmingham with a reputation of frugality, integrity and luck. Everyone loves a plucky indie. It made people at the conglomerates trying to poach our successful authors feel good about themselves knowing that we existed, that there was room for us. I was embraced at book parties. Have you met my mate Liam? People thought that I was a nice guy. I cared about writers. Well I always had a lot of compassion but outside of work it mostly overflowed in the wrong directions, to the people who least needed it. To the people who exhibited moral failings, by which I mean the people with the option to. The carnal people, the libertines, the charmers. The lookers, the liars, the reckless. The success went to my head. That’s the point of success. I was drawn to the promiscuous and the criminal, like my mentor and the other JC, and who knew London publishing would be such a fine place to find these two qualities?

The novel started off very strongly but wobbled a bit when Liam arrives in Buenos Aires. Liam doesn’t know what to do with himself, and the plot seems to reflect Liam’s uncertainty. Left to his own limited devices leads to some self-examination, and while Liam admits some ugly truths about himself, he’s not exactly a reformed character.

Becoming a vainglorious prick has never been fundamental to creating literary art. No, I did that because it was fun, because I was morally exhausted and it was easy to pretend my behaviour was separate from my essence. But if the man careening around town in my clothes wasn’t me, then why did I feel so bad, and so proud, about the way he talked to women.

Stuck in a youth hostel with only Bleak House to read, Liam wallows in self-pity and admits his failings, but he’s soon back to his obnoxious ways when he resorts to stalking his ex-girlfriend via Facebook, and even contacts her friend Lizzie, whose macho boyfriend, Arturo, triggers bisexual fantasies in Liam’s already confused brain. While trying to jumpstart his novel, and attempting to arrive at some resolution about his involvement in the death of Craig Bennett, Liam decides to contact the two most significant people in Bennett’s life: Amy Casares and Alejandro Montenegro.

The book is at its funniest when describing the mud-slinging antics of the publishing world–writers who are “needy little vultures,” who chart “line graphs of their Amazon rankings.” The novel sagged in spots, and the endless drug fueled odysseys across London and Buenos Aires felt a bit anachronistic. At one point there’s even a mention of Jay McInerney (a sure sign we’re in Excess territory), and I wondered for a moment if we were in the 80s, but no, it’s post 9-11, present times. Who knew that people in the publishing industry were such party animals? One of the book’s most interesting and subtle aspects is that Liam doesn’t seem to get that when you’re a Booker prize winner or high in the food chain in the publishing industry, self-destruction is a form of celebrity-style self-promotion, but when you’re lower in the food chain, then being drunk at a book fair only makes you a liability.  The same rules just don’t apply.

Sociopaths. Laptop-dogs. Wolfes. Woolfs. carvers. Lushes. Lishs. Gougers. Hacks. Mice. Lice. Writers, they were the worst, the most awful, we pitied them but loathed them more; because if it wasn’t for them, the job really would be a pleasure.

 I liked this novel in spite of its faults; I don’t think it’s easy to write something funny, but Luke Brown managed it first time out of the gate.

review copy

7 Comments

Filed under Brown Luke, Fiction

The Son by Andrej Nikolaidis

“As a matter of fact, everyone becomes unbearable once we get to know them a little better. That’s why the most beautiful women are those on painters’ canvases, where they’re limited to their appearance.”

The Son, a novel by Andrej Nikolaidis opened with a quote by Thomas Bernhard. I took that as a good sign, and, possibly, an indicator of things to come. Would the novel be morose yet shaped by grim humour? I hoped so, and my expectations were met amply in this dour, yet bleakly funny book. Author Andrej Nikolaidis was born in 1974 and brought up in Sarajevo, Bosnia/Herzegovina, but is of Greek-Montenegrin background. In 1992, Nikolaidis and his family moved to Ulcinj, in Montenegro.

the sonThe narrator of the book is a nameless writer, and as the title indicates, he’s the son of a “blighted family.” He lives in isolation on a hillside in the middle of his family’s olive grove, “fifty hectares of viper-and-boar-infested scrub blocking our view of the sea.”  He hasn’t seen or spoken to his father who’s in bed, “paralyzed by the depression which had abused him for two years,” even though they live just a few yards apart. Stuck in his own swamp of depression, our narrator rants, moans and complains about a range of things–his ex (she finally got the gumption to leave), and the tourists who litter the landscape:

Everything would have been different if I’d been able to control my repulsion, I realized.

The sun was still visible through the lowered blinds. It had lost all its force and now, unable to burn, it disappeared behind the green of the olive groves which extended all the way to the pebbly beach of Valdanos and on so far as Kruce and Utjeha; bays sardined with bathers determined to absorb every last carcinogenic ray before going back to their accommodation. There they would douse their burnt skin with imitations of expensive perfumes, don their most revealing attire and dash off to discos and terraces with turbofolk music, full of confidence that tonight they would go down on another body with third-degree burns; possessing and forgetting another human being almost identical to themselves.

Our narrator is repulsed by the human race and does not exclude himself from his savage, unforgiving, pessimistic commentary. Unable to read anything but the most lurid crime stories, and unable to masturbate, he acknowledges that his “own hunger for the grotesque will destroy” him. Freud could have written a book about this character if he ever sought professional help, but these days, we’d throw Prozac at the problem. The bitterness, the ennui, disgust, and self-loathing all add up to a narrator who’s fun to read but a real downer to live with–hence the departed Mrs. and who could blame her? Even the narrator admits that they had a “fragile and bloodless” marriage, which was tested to breaking point, as they lived, stuck together in a small, smelly house for two years. Now alone, attached to no-one, and with little to do, he feels superfluous to life–a modern-day superfluous man–he describes himself as a “bystander” who’s just “passing through.”

Our insomniac narrator finds mild interest in life through the most outrageous stories about serial killers.

For two whole years I hadn’t read anything except the crime column in the newspaper. The only things which still interested me were crime news and books about serial killers. It was as though only overt eruptions of evil could jolt me out of my indifference. I no longer had the energy for the hermeneutics of evil. That was behind me now. I could no longer stand searching for evil in the everyday actions of so-called ‘ordinary people’. Instead I chose vulgar manifestations of evil. If a man killed thirty people and buried them under his house, that still had a wow factor for me.

Events take our narrator out of his self-imposed isolation and out into town for the evening, and most of the book chronicles his misadventures and encounters with various people. These encounters include a meeting with an old school friend, talking to a Muslim preacher, an assignation with a prostitute and a surreal run-in with a family of lepers who live in an abandoned underground Soviet era parking garage. Everything the narrator sees appears to underscore his life view that “everyone abuses everyone else” and that “human misfortune doesn’t derive from a social system of a geographical location, but from existence itself.

This is just a short book, but author Andrej Nikolaidis packs a lot in these bleak, wickedly funny pages. There’s no down-time between diatribes as the narrator vents against the human race with a wide range of subjects which include cannibalism, PC porn, the comparison between being a writer and a pimp, crime (“every family home can turn into a slaughterhouse,”)  and the “impertinence of beggars.” 

For its bitter, morose humour, The Son should appeal to fans of Thomas Bernhard. Extra house points must be awarded to Andrej Nikolaidis for having the wit, intelligence and balls to take a literary baseball bat to the knees of one of the most over quoted sentences from the giant of Russian literature: Tolstoy. This event takes place in an underground car park and the father of a family of lepers tells the narrator that they stay underground, because they’re “happy there” away from the society that rejects and ridicules them for their afflictions. The narrator sardonically notes that the leper is “unaware that he’d just convincingly refuted Tolstoy, who claimed that all happy families are happy in the same way.” Yet that realization underscores an encounter the narrator has with another family–Djuro and his daughters–all prostitutes. Djuro drives a car a “rusted red Moskvich with ‘Dirty Djuro and Daughters: Sex for Every Pocket’ painted on the side.” The family home, located in a cellar, is a ” three-room brothel,” and the narrator is confronted by the fact that even though Djuro, “endowed with entrepreneurial spirit,” has condemned his daughters to a life of degradation and prostitution, they still worship him. In spite of the narrator’s bleak world view, it’s these encounters that somehow, strangely, show how the human spirit endures–in spite of humiliation, degradation, and the bleakness of the human condition. Perhaps this paradox can be explained by the contrast between our self-focused narrator and those he encounters–people who genuinely lead miserable lives and yet find some sort of philosophy to transcend tragedy and cope with life.

The phone rang. A friend was calling to tell me that a DVD edition of the film Cannibal Holocaust had just arrived from America.

“What’s that?” I asked him.

“A film about an expedition of film-makers, who come across a tribe of cannibals in the Amazon jungle,” he said.

“Sounds good for starters. What happens after that?”

“Nothing much–the rest of the film is about the cannibals eating them. ….”

And here’s another review from Winston’s Dad

Translated from the Montenegrin by Will Firth. Review copy.

12 Comments

Filed under Fiction, Nikolaidis Andrej

All to Play For by Heather Peace

“We should be emulating the U.S. Look at the quality of their shows.”

If you feel that there’s a lot of crap on television these days, then All to Play For by Heather Peace, an insider’s look at the politics inside the BBC during the 1990s, is the novel for you. While BBC television is admired the world over and held up as the standard to aim for, this novel shows the death of the Old World Order of the BBC and the rise of aggressive new management aimed at cutting costs in a battle between Art vs Commerce.

All to play forThe book begins in 1985 at the Edinburgh Festival Fringe, a time “when art and commerce were the left and right of clashing ideologies.” A group of people are arrested, and as it turns out these 6 people become major characters in the drama that plays out at the BBC. While the story focuses on the careers of these characters, the plot includes many other figures in television, some that become successful and some that do not.

  • Feminist Maggie whose frank opinions win secret admiration but no friends at the BBC
  • Jonathan, good-looking, with the background that puts him on a BBC career track that should take him to management
  • Jill, full of ideas, a writer who can think on her feet, but who is naïve and taken advantage of
  • Nik, the son of a disgraced policeman who reinvents himself as a coke-sniffing, bisexual executive of Magenta Television Productions
  • Chris Briggs, the newly appointed Controller of BB2 “being groomed” for Director General and “possibly” the House of Lords
  • Rhiannon, the Welsh narrator
  • Andrea, a black woman, former secretary for the BBC who joins the production company Sisters in Synch & whose article argues that “The BBC risks remaining stuck in its past, hobbled by the imperialist culture which originally gave birth to it.”
  • Selina, Chris’s PA, blonde, impeccable, whose mediocrity is masked by her icy efficiency
  • Basil Richardson & Stewart Walker BBC drama producers and bastions of the Old Order World

From the debacle of the Edinburgh Fringe Festival, the story jumps forward to the “dawn of the nineties.” With the Thatcher government on its way out, privatization the word of the era, and the license fee under threat, Chris Briggs takes the helm of BB2 with the goal to please shareholders by making significant budget cuts. Told primarily from the viewpoint of the drama department, the novel, which alternates from Rhiannon’s first person to third person narration, shows how Briggs takes over the nervous staff at BBC2 and begins to make his imprint. Chris doesn’t understand creativity–he’s more interested in “a scientific basis for choosing programmes. … based on American systems,” and he’s ambitious enough to not be concerned about a body count of fired employees. In the background, New Labour (or “New Tory” as one character calls the party) rises seemly in parallel with the new market forces at the BBC.

One of our main characters, Maggie joins the BBC, initially with a 3 month contract, as a trainee script editor. Given the task of reading unsolicited scripts, Maggie soon learns that she works in shark infested waters, and that all the scripts, regardless of quality are uniformly rejected in this insider’s “Olympian” club. Maggie discovers that “because of the public service remit,” the BBC is required to read these scripts which are referred to as the “slush pile.”

Evidently she hadn’t been employed because they valued her opinions; they merely wanted her to stand at the gates of the BBC with a metaphorical riot shield, turning away the thousands who mistakenly believed that the “Auntie”  affectionately referred to by Terry Wogan was a kind, friendly organisation with writers’ best interests at heart and a sympathetic interest in their work.

And this is one of the best aspects of the book. The author shows that while BBC produces quality programming–albeit expensive programming–it’s programming of a certain ilk. There’s one marvellous scene which takes place during the Drama Discussion Group. Maggie, who’s enthusiastic about The EastEnders, and considers it one of the best things on television, picks up the vibe that the programme is held “in low esteem” by the Drama department. The meeting is basically run by insiders for insiders engaged in a circle jerk of praise. The BBC is a place where skill and intelligence are not enough– you need the “social expertise to navigate the arcane traditions,” and it’s essential to know “the ropes, the rules, the manners, the language, and most importantly, the right people.”  Criticism is  not welcome, and attitudes towards programmes reinforce patronizing snobbery and sexism. During the Drama Discussion Group, Maggie complains about a programme set in Bradford, Maggie’s “home ground.” No one is particularly interested to know if the programme presented an accurate picture or how people in Bradford felt about it. Maggie’s comment about the programme results in a cutting rejoinder:

“Unfortunately neither the ratings nor the audience appreciation figures are broken down by regions as small as that. Of course, we do know that inner city viewers are inclined to select ITV or BBC1 as a matter of choice, so given that Death went out on a Saturday night, I rather doubt whether we succeeded in diverting very many council estate inhabitants from more urgent affairs down the pub.”

From establishing that the BBC needs modernization in its processes and attitudes, the author shows the seismic changes that occur are not all positive.

The irony was that the poor old Beeb desperately needed reform and modernization in its working practices, no-one could deny that–but what we got was closer to Napalm.”

With a rising body count of the now unemployed, nepotism continues to reign–just with a different crowd at the helm. The BBC remains a closed shop especially for anything that smells even remotely ‘controversial’ (Peter Watkins, here’s thinking of you). Meanwhile, Nik Mason, “a self-made man [who] possessed no old school tie,” rises to the top of the food chain by his sheer ruthlessness. The gates of the BBC open to Nik and he becomes one of the Olympians not because of class, or accent but because he has the same vision & values: emulating the model of American television with cost the bottom line. Nik is just as ambitious as many of the other characters in the novel, but in his case he’s not picky about who he treads on to get ahead. Nik, who reinvents himself and fabricates lies about his past, believes that his “public persona was the only one that counted. It dictated everything about your life. It was the real you, because it was the one other people related to. The inner you could be safely ignored, kept private.” But in Nik’s case the public and private persona don’t seem that different. He’s arguably the most interesting character in the novel as he moves up into the highest echelons of the television world.

he laughed when he compared himself to the ‘old school’ staff in the BBC’s own Light Entertainment Department, whose power decreased in proportion to the rise of ‘Johnny Come Lately’ independents like himself. Young BBC producers were even denied royalties on their own work nowadays. They developed shows for a pittance and argued for them until they were hoarse, whilst a guy like him strolled in behind their backs, secured the gig, and strolled out again dripping gold. He loved it. All those public school chins hanging open. He never showed it of course–that would be vulgar–but alone in his loft apartment he smirked into his mirror.

There’s some insider’s information here–for example, at one point a character mentions that the number of programmes in development are 14:1–a reference of course, to the lavish expenditure during better days. While I struggled at times with understanding some of the political requirements behind the BBC agenda, I loved the scenes which depicted the creative process, and the times at which we see an idea or even a few words develop into a story treatment, a screenplay and then the finished product.  The scenes with Chris ordering up what he’d like to see on BB2, even as he demolishes idea after idea, are brilliant and catch the helplessness & depression of the BBC Drama department as their world slips through their fingers. In one scene, Chris states, “I want you to bring me a better, cheaper idea,” while in another, when an idea for a Welsh programme is pitched, he asks a room of speechless, intimidated employees: “Is Wales interesting right now?” As the book continues, we see the Drama department eviscerated due to cost cutting even as many people seem unable to adjust to the New World Order. It’s clear that the writers upon whom this system depends are often the ones given the shaft–either with their ideas sold at a give-away price, royalties that are non-existent and little or no payment for shelved or rejected work. Fans of film and television should find this unusual novel and its insider’s view fascinating, and if you’ve wondered why BBC’s costume dramas are rare, or if you cringe at the following statement, you should enjoy this book:

If we’re not careful we’ll lose everything worth watching, all the new, experimental shows, our television will be exactly the same as in the US: unwatchable rubbish, wall-to-wall mindless nonsense sponsored by corrupt Bible-Bashers, with a five-minute advertising break every five minutes.

This is the only novel I could find written by this author, and I hope she writes another.

review copy

15 Comments

Filed under Fiction, Peace Heather