Arts Reviews

Over 100 contributors to the New York Review of Books, including such intellectual heavyweights as Ian McEwan, Darryl Pinckney, Michael Walzer, and Joyce Carol Oates, have signed a letter (I did as well) that is being released today to protest the ouster of Ian Buruma as editor for publishing a controversial essay by the former CBC radio broadcaster Jian Ghomeshi. In triggering an international debate over editorial freedom and the #MeToo movement, Buruma has been more successful than he could ever have imagined. To some extent that success is, of course, inadvertent, a consequence of his being fired, or pressured to resign, from his post as editor. Initially, Buruma’s detractors, who celebrated his ouster, had the upper hand.

Yesterday I had an interesting conversation with John R. MacArthur, the publisher of Harper’s. We spoke about Ian Buruma’s departure as editor of New York Review of Books. Rick is a friend, I should say. I should also say that I believe he is a hero of free expression — and an increasingly lonely voice speaking up for authentic dissent in America. You can hear our podcast here. https://audioboom.com/posts/7016868-trial-by-twitter-is-ian-buruma-the-victim-of-a-new-mccarthyism Buruma, in case you haven’t heard, lost his job after he decided to publish an article by Jian Ghomeshi in the forthcoming edition of New York Review of Books.

We are told that we have lost the ability to hold two thoughts in our minds at the same time. The truth about the explosion of America’s favourite blended family, the Mia Farrow ménage, requires us to recognise several thoughts at once. They boil down to three thoughts. That’s still a lot to think about at the same time, but at least all three are, unlike Mia Farrow and Woody Allen, mutually compatible: Mia Farrow was not a fit parent. Woody Allen is a creep. Ronan Farrow is a hypocrite. Another truism which isn’t entirely true holds that people who believe everything end up believing in nothing. This is not the case here.

If I had to define rock’n’roll in one sentence, it would be: ‘The Blues from the Forties, played by Country musicians in the Fifties.’ Which is to say, black music played by white people. In the Sixties, and almost entirely at the prompting of the Beatles, the Rolling Stones and other white foreigners, white Americans allowed themselves to be persuaded of the merits of black American music. This created a small heritage industry, summarised in a 1991 album title by one of its beneficiaries, Screamin’ Jay Hawkins, as Black Music For White People. The black originators, ripped off once by R&B labels, and once again by the white impersonators, were granted the chance of being ripped off again by a new generation of promoters, selling their old hits to white audiences.

Like Socrates and Cher, the name of Delacroix says it all. Here is the hot lunch of 19th century French art among so many dishes served cold — exoticism and eroticism, à la français. We can all form some image of the piratically handsome Romantic swashbuckler. We can also picture something of his harems, lions, and malfunctioning blouses rendered in his colours of blood and bone. Or, at the very least, we know someone who can. And just so, the major survey of Delacroix’s work, which opens this week at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York, is simply titled Delacroix — no subtitle, s’il vous plaît. The Met’s gift shop even sells a black shirt with his name typed out in white. The latest from the House of Delacroix.

It’s been fifty years since 2001. Not fifty years since the start of the second Bush presidency — though that was long ago too — but a half-century since the release of Stanley Kubrick’s science-fiction masterpiece 2001. A new ‘unrestored’ version of the film, made by Christopher Nolan from the original film negatives and sound recordings, has been in theaters this summer, including select IMAX theaters. I caught the final showing at the Smithsonian’s Air and Space Museum cinema — the Lockheed Martin IMAX Theater, as it’s naturally called — this week. How does it hold up after five decades?Not well, is my first impression.

This adaptation of Anton Chekhov’s play is handsomely mounted, as they say, and features a stellar cast (including Annette Bening, Elisabeth Moss and Saoirse Ronan), but it won’t be setting the world alight. It is not a waste of 90 minutes, and Bening is superb, as if you even needed me to tell you that. But it doesn’t especially distinguish itself otherwise and I kept waiting for it to deliver emotionally. I waited and waited and waited, but no, nothing. The film is, of course, set on a country estate just outside Moscow, because if it weren’t set on a country estate just outside Moscow it plainly wouldn’t be Chekhov.

Jazz may be an egalitarian, collaborative music, but jazz musicians honor their best with the laurels of hierarchy. Everyone knows the royal monikers of ‘Duke’ Ellington and ‘Count’ Basie, and most people know that Billie Holiday was ‘Lady Day’. But there’s also a whole aristocracy of hip name-drops: ‘The Baron’ (Charles Mingus), ‘Pres’ (Lester Young), ‘The Court Jester’ (Ornette Coleman), ‘The High Priest’ (Thelonious Monk). The list goes on, and on. The mid-century saxophonist Hank Mobley (1930–86) was never ennobled in such fashion — unless you count Dexter Gordon’s hilarious handle for his friend, ‘The Hankenstein’. Nor has historical consensus enshrined Mobley as a leading musician of his era.

Reports of the death of bookstores are fiction. In 1931, there were about 4,000 bookstores in the United States. Almost all of them were gift stores, selling a limited stock of paperbacks. Only about 500 of them were specialist bookstores, and almost all of them were in major cities. True, between 1995 and 2000, the number of independent bookstores collapsed by 40 per cent. Amazon opened for business in 1994, but two other factors were big-city gentrification, and the expansion of mediocre chains like Barnes & Noble and Borders, which went public in 1995. Now, the big chains are gone — and who, apart from a homeless person looking for a day bed, will miss them? — and independent bookstores are booming.

In a recent column, I vowed to return to a point made in passing. To refresh your memory, the American magazine the Nation printed a formal apology for running a harmless 14-line poem by a white writer about homelessness. The poet’s sins: using the word ‘cripple’ and adopting a voice lightly evoking what I gather we’re now to call ‘AAVE’: African-American Vernacular English. Facebookers were incensed, comments huffy. The poet apologised, too. I decried this ritual progressive self-abasement as cowardly and undignified. But it’s worth taking a second look at that story as a prime example of screaming emotional fraudulence in the public sphere.

‘The chief business of the American people,’ said Calvin Coolidge, ‘is business.’ Commerce to Coolidge was a kind of religion: ‘the man who builds a factory, builds a temple.… The man who works there worships there.’ In the forward momentum of American industrialisation from the turn of the 19th century through the Great Depression, skyscrapers, factories, docks and railroads, all became urban temples. If you had looked closely at one such building, a 20-story structure going up at 100 Church Street in Lower Manhattan in 1958, you would have seen two figures clambering up scaffolding trying to reach the highest point, pulling out first a camera, then a sketchpad.

Is it good to contact your inner child — assuming, that is, you have one at all? And if you do, how far should you go—throwing tantrums, eating snot, wetting the bed? As an advocate of regression, Walt Disney was right up there with Arthur ‘Primal Scream’ Janov and R.D. ‘The Mad Aren’t Mad’ Laing. At least Yanov and Laing did their best to help troubled adults towards happiness. Disney did his wicked best to drive guilty parents into penury. Disney, the evil genius, realised that to really make money from children’s entertainment, you had to follow the money. Flatter the breadwinner, and he’ll spend bread on taking the kids to the movies, buying them stuffed toys, and even going to a Disney-themed resort.

I got some bad news this week. I discovered that I’m a ‘privileged, white male’. It was my agent who broke it to me. We were talking about the trouble he’s having in finding a publisher for my book — a work of non-fiction — when the following exchange took place. Me: What’s wrong with my book? Agent: There’s nothing wrong with your book. It’s brilliant. It’s moving. It’s funny. Me: OK. So what’s the problem? Agent: You’re the problem. Me: Excuse me? Agent: You’re a middle-aged, privileged white man. You’re out of fashion — and so is your book. Publishers think you’re too male. Too white. Things are difficult for writers like you at the moment.

It all began with the orders. In the preface to his Gentleman and Cabinet-maker’s Director (1754), Thomas Chippendale started with ‘an explanation of the five Orders’ — those foundations of all architecture, the Tuscan, Doric, Ionic, Corinthian, and Composite. ‘Without an acquaintance with this science,’ he continued, ‘the cabinet-maker cannot make the designs of his work intelligible.’ Nearly two hundred years later, Evelyn Waugh said much the same thing. Writing in 1938 in Country Life, Waugh noted that by learning the orders of architecture, ‘you can produce Chippendale Chinese; by studying Chippendale Chinese, you will produce nothing but magazine covers.’.

The Spectator USA Life 'n' Arts podcast launches this week with fanfares, the popping of corks, and much coughing and wheezing into microphones. From now on, every week I’ll be casting a pod with artists, writers, thinkers, painters and even people who do something useful for a living too. First up is the novelist and essayist William Giraldi. Author of the novels Busy Monsters and Hold the Dark, and The Hero’s Body, a memoir of misspent youth as a bodybuilder, Giraldi is one of the few contemporary American critics worth reading. This month, he publishes his first collection of essays, American Audacity: In Defense of Literary Daring (Norton).