Books and Arts Archives

Thursday

April 20, 2023

What makes a novel funny?

What makes a novel funny? As well as being too enormous a question to tackle properly here, such an enterprise would, I suspect, require so clinical an approach to reading comic fiction as to remove entirely any possible joy or amusement. As the old saying goes, deconstructing a joke is like dissecting a frog: nobody laughs, and the frog dies. However, the question came to me again recently, as I reread John Kennedy Toole’s A Confederacy of Dunces. I howled with laughter from the initial farcical scene outside a department store, through Ignatius J.

Harry Mount

Curtis Sittenfeld is the great American observer

If a Martian landed on Earth and wanted a quick summary of the state of modern American life, I would point him toward the works of Curtis Sittenfeld. Sittenfeld (born 1975 in Ohio) is a novelist. Like all the great ones, her perceptions are more accurate about real life than most nonfiction writers’ could claim. In Prep (2005), she skewered American class in the story of a Massachusetts boarding school; Sittenfeld herself went to private school at Groton. In Rodham (2020), a novel about Hillary Clinton, she nailed today’s politics. And, in her best book to date, American Wife (2008), a thinly disguised novel about George and Laura Bush, she filleted the American approach to inherited money, and the swaggering confidence it produces.

James Snell

Madness and cannibalism with David Grann

David Grann is one of a very select club of writers: those whose books of history are so diverting that they almost seem implausible. Their narrative constructions are so effective, the dialogue so apposite, that jaded readers might think everything has been made up or twisted to give the books life, in novelistic fashion. And yet — as with the books of Erik Larson — that’s not true at all. It’s all there in the notes: everything between quotation marks was actually said or written. It’s a remarkable skill. This is a hell of a story, and I use that word appropriately. Those who shipped out from Portsmouth on HMS Wager in 1740 — part of George Anson’s circumnavigation of the globe — struggled through hell.

Robert S. Erickson

Broadway brings back Bob Fosse’s Dancin’

To kick off the new revival of Bob Fosse’s Dancin’, a lone performer comes onstage to inform us that, per the recommendation of the WHO, the CDC, the US Surgeon General and sundry others, the evening’s proceedings will not include any plot, message, or moral. I pinched myself. Wearing Fosse’s signature bowler hat, the speaker, played by Manuel Herrera, promises nothing but “dancing, some singing... and more dancing” — and for the most part, this dazzling two-and-a-half-hour musical revue lives up to that promise. Directed and staged by Wayne Cilento, who danced in the original production, the first revival of Dancin’ on Broadway is a treasure trove for Fosse fanatics, a smart introduction for the unfamiliar and a delight for everyone between.

Peter Vertacnick

Ernest Hilbert weathers the storms of life and fatherhood

Storm Swimmer, Ernest Hilbert’s fifth collection of poems and winner of the 2022 Vassar Miller Prize in Poetry, is obsessed with bodies of water, especially the ocean. Even before the book begins, Hilbert declares this preoccupation through three sea-based epigraphs, running a wide gamut from Apollonius of Rhodes to Rachel Carson and Iris Murdoch. Over the forty-four formally various and adept poems that comprise this ninety-page, seven-section text, Hilbert engages repeatedly with different aspects of the oceanic to dazzling effect. Often he effects our encounter with the sea through the experiences of the swimmer, who almost always is a struggling figure. Sometimes — as in the case of the title poem — he must contend with the weather: “Without the sun the sea is tangled steel.

Philip Womack

Forbidden love in the Great War

Alice Winn’s beautifully written and engrossing debut, In Memoriam, comes hot on the heels of Tom Crewe’s debut The New Life, which followed the tortured relationship between two men at the turn of the century, and was loosely based on the life of the scholar John Addington Symonds. Winn has turned her impressively attuned eye to World War One, and two young men who fall in love at their public school (old money, military and aristocratic connections, tailcoats and buggery), before heading off to the front; the flower of their generation, doomed to die as the mechanistic future tears apart chivalric ideals, and society starts to question its very nature.

Alexander Larman

Noël Coward, the English playwright who loved all things American

Half a century after his death, the playwright, songwriter, actor, director and general Renaissance man Noël Coward is regarded, with some justification, as the quintessential English polymath. His best-known plays and songs, from Private Lives and Present Laughter to “Mad Dogs and Englishmen” and “London Pride,” seem so steeped in their Britishness — even if Coward was catering to a country that loved seeing a distorted, exaggerated version of itself — they could be placed in a time capsule as perfectly executed microcosms of the national identity. Any man who could write “Wouldn’t it be dreadful to live in a country where they didn’t have tea?

Adrian Brune

Is the New York subway the city’s best gallery?

Milton Glaser was among the most celebrated graphic designers in the world, honored with one-man shows at such glittering institutions as the Museum of Modern Art and the Cooper Hewitt National Design Museum. Glaser was the first graphic designer to receive the National Medal of the Arts award. His “I ♥ New York” logo has been emulated everywhere, and his Push Pin Studios set the standard for graphic design outfits around the world, likely creating more theater posters and magazine covers than any other in New York. But when Glaser pitched one of his “dotty landscape paintings” to the 2017 Metropolitan Transit Authority’s (MTA) call for artists, its Art & Design judges turned him down. Glaser took the rejection in his stride.

William Newton

Why are there no paintings in Star Wars?

Why are there no paintings in Star Wars movies? The question occurred to me recently, rewatching The Rise of Skywalker. I’m old enough to recall seeing A New Hope in a drive-in in summer 1977, as well as the infamous Star Wars Holiday Special on television in 1978. Over time, my interest in Star Wars has shifted into something akin to nostalgia, so it may not be surprising that this question never struck me before. What is surprising, however, given their glaring omission from the films, is that the man who created the Star Wars universe happens to be a major collector of art — including paintings — and is due to open the Lucas Museum of Narrative Art in Los Angeles by 2025.

Francesca Peacock

Lana Del Rey’s new record: samey, stale, sterile

The title song of Lana Del Rey’s ninth studio album, Did You Know That There’s a Tunnel Under Ocean Blvd, opens in a style now typical of the thirty-seven-year-old singer-songwriter. Amid the swelling string accompaniment and slow beat, the artist sings “fuck me to death, love me until I love myself.” So far, so in keeping with the musician who made her name with the dark, sensuous songs of 2012’s Born to Die (“my old man is a bad man, but I can’t deny the way he holds my hand”) and 2019’s Norman Fucking Rockwell! (“Goddamn man-child, you fucked me so good I almost said ‘I love you’”).

Nicky Otis Smith

The importance of going to the movies

By the beginning of this decade, popular American cinema was once again in peril — just as it was in the 1950s and the Eighties. Then the threat was television and home video, respectively. Now it is streaming. There have been peaks and valleys in between, but before the pandemic, these were the major existential challenges to Hollywood and American movie theaters. The survival of theatrical exhibition after an unprecedented sixteen-month absence speaks to the power of the medium and the ineffable itch that going the movies scratches. Even Steven Spielberg looked desperate, if relieved, when he told Tom Cruise earlier this year, “You saved Hollywood’s ass and you might have saved theatrical distribution” with Top Gun: Maverick.

Sunday

April 2, 2023

Andrew Stuttaford

Shipwrecks, amputations and polar-bear attacks: the doomed voyage of the Karluk

The heroic age of polar exploration gave birth to epics as grand and as harsh as the landscapes in which they unfolded. And, as in all the best epics, their protagonists are often of interest not only for what they do, but also for who they are, or, in the case of the Arctic adventurer — “explorer” is too confining a word — Vilhjalmur Stefansson (1879-1962), who they pretend to be. Stefansson is the “villain” of Buddy Levy’s Empire of Ice and Stone: The Disastrous and Heroic Voyage of the Karluk, a tale that reads like an unusually grim, remarkably gripping Edwardian imperial yarn.

Fred Sculthorp

Andrey Kurkov brings clarity to the Ukraine invasion

"War and books are incompatible,” decided Andrey Kurkov, one month into Putin’s war against Ukraine. Reading his Diary of an Invasion, it’s not hard to see why he thinks so. Homes are evacuated; air raid sirens go off day and night. You get shelled. There is a never-ending cascade of bad news: about friends, about war crimes, about the possibility of nuclear catastrophe. The loss of luxuries. No tonic water, no whiskey-and-soda. There isn’t much time to think. Kurkov’s book came to the attention of the West when it was published in the UK last September. Since then, it has emerged as one of the first serious works of literature to come out of Ukraine since the invasion.

Friday

March 31, 2023

Amanda Craig

The quiet rise of Outback Noir

No Australian woman has ever won the Booker Prize — and yet in the stylish genre called Outback Noir, women reign supreme. Of these, the queen is Jane Harper. Her 2016 debut, The Dry (successfully filmed with Eric Bana), marked the start of a new kind of detective fiction that has gained an international following. Some of this may be due to the way we love this version of Down Under. Forget about Sydney, Melbourne or Perth. Portraits of small societies where embattled individuals get swallowed up by the big bad bush, parched or flooded, give an apocalyptic, Mad Max edge to a distinctly Australian setting. Arthur W.

Tuesday

March 28, 2023

Robert S. Erickson

A stripped back Doll’s House on Broadway

The difference between a divorce and a funeral seems lost on the director Jamie Lloyd; ditto for bird cages and prisons and, in the end, Henrik Ibsen’s A Doll’s House (1879) and a sanatorium. Lloyd’s new, minimalist production on Broadway is so stripped of ornament, so unremittingly rote, that this reviewer nearly handed his valuables to an usher and asked for a padded room. At the play’s close, the director has the embattled housewife, Jessica Chastain’s Nora Helmer, make her defiant exit through the back wall of the theater upstage; a garage door opens and she strides onto the rain-soaked pavement, probably to be harassed by tweakers or shoved into oncoming traffic. Peals of laughter erupted in the audience — here was our chance!

Saturday

March 25, 2023

Nicky Otis Smith

Why were 2000s movies so hypersexual?

Even though the endless debate about sex scenes in movies recurs every three or four months, it remains fixed. Nothing ever moves forward; nothing more is understood; no one’s perspective is shifted. Dug in on both sides of an argument that remains black and white, people refuse to move. Maybe one day they’ll be able to talk in Technicolor, but for now, some are distressed by erotic cinema and others are desperate for more of it. Stellar home-video labels like Severin, Arrow and Vinegar Syndrome continue to provide high-definition discs of genre films full of naked women and bloody bodies. But if Tom Cruise is the only real movie star left, the world won’t get more than a chaste kiss (maybe) from modern American cinema.

Wednesday

March 22, 2023

D.J. Taylor

How America influenced George Orwell

Some of the most tantalizing pieces of George Orwell’s journalism are the reviews written on the hoof, filed against deadlines, sent straight to the typewriter while World War Two raged above his head. One of them is a round-up of four reprinted dystopian novels supplied to the weekly magazine Time and Tide in July 1940, shortly after the fall of France. (Today, it’s rarely reissued and barely available outside the stout bindings of volume XII of Orwell: The Complete Works.) The four books are Jack London’s The Iron Heel (1908), H.G. Wells’s When the Sleeper Wakes (1910), Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World (1932) and Ernest Bramah’s The Secret of the League (1907).

Tuesday

March 21, 2023

William Newton

Drinking with Picasso

In February 1900, a critically acclaimed art exhibition went up at a Barcelona café called Els Quatre Gats. It was neither the first nor the last show mounted at the establishment, a popular drinking spot for avant-garde artists, writers and others. It was, however, the very first solo outing for one of the café’s regular patrons: a brash nineteen-year-old local art student named Pablo Ruiz Picasso. It has now been fifty years since Picasso died, on April 8, 1973, and even as that anniversary is being commemorated worldwide with new exhibitions and publications, he has never really faded from public consciousness. His art and even personal objects associated with him are avidly collected, and he continues to inspire filmmakers, musicians and other artists.

Saturday

March 18, 2023

Mitchell Jackson

There’s more to Pamela Anderson than Playboy and sex tapes

Pamela Anderson cites Joseph Campbell’s The Hero with a Thousand Faces as the template for her memoir, Love, Pamela. The pop literary critic’s analysis of mythical heroes famously inspired George Lucas’s Star Wars. As Lucas deconstructs the heroes of western literature, Anderson dismantles the banal Madonna/whore template that has dominated tabloid coverage of her life. Unfortunately, Anderson supplants one boring motif with an even more tedious one: the archetype of the celebutante victim.

Monday

February 27, 2023

Dan Jones

The difficulties of writing historical fiction

I was dozing, a little hungover, on the morning flight from Prague to London, when I saw them for the first time. Ten men on a beach, dragging a landing craft up the sands. Where? Can’t tell yet. When? The fourteenth century. Who? Don’t know, but they look like trouble. I woke up. Through my AirPods I heard the Blur singer Damon Albarn growling the final song from their 1997 album Blur. “In these towns, the English army grinds their teeth into glass / You know you’ll get a kicking tonight...” I opened my laptop and started making notes. The men came surprisingly well-formed. They were soldiers of fortune in the Hundred Years’ War. They already had names. Faces. Talents. Foibles. Yearnings. Secrets. I wrote down as much as they could tell me before the plane landed.