The Stones of London by Leo Hollis: review

I've also reviewed Leo Hollis' The Stones of London, for the Daily Telegraph. Click HERE.

The Godless Boys by Naomi Wood: review

Naomi Wood: debut dystopian

Dystopian fiction ahoy, it's Naomi Wood's debut novel The Godless Boys, which I have reviewed for The New Humanist. Click HERE for the piece.

Abseiling, Cocktails, Bentleys and Bond Girls: Yes, it's the Launch of the new Bond Book

To the LONGEST BAR IN THE WORLD (TM) at St Pancras, for the launch of Jeffery Deaver's new Bond novel, Carte Blanche. Champagne, Bond girls and Bentleys were the order of the day as the author roared into the top concourse in a spanking new red car. Meanwhile some soldiers abseiled down from the ceiling. I have videoed it for your delectation. Why I turned the phone round half way through I have no idea; it looks like they are abseiling sideways which is less impressive, but never mind. Why they don't do this for every book launch I have NO IDEA. I'd like some soldiers abseiling at my next launch, please. And some Bond Girls.

There were plenty of Flemings in attendance (sp.); one gave a speech. It would have been Ian Fleming's 103rd birthday on Saturday. The author spoke too, his voice booming around the vaulted arches whilst a lone soldier perched far above him, but I caught no more a glimpse of him than the impression of a bald head and a smiley face. My hero Charlie Higson was also there; I spoke to him about writing children's books, and he gave some excellent advice, which boiled down to: cut all the boring bits out. Too right Mr H. I suggested to as many people as possible that I should be the one to write the next Young Bond books (any Fleming publishing people out there I hope you're listening....) and left buoyed on champagne and foie gras, which is as much as anyone can want from a Wednesday lunchtime. I abseiled back, naturally, and am now wearing a white dinner jacket whilst walking along a beach with Eva Green (also Eva Green if you are listening this could happen...)

Nicola Shulman in Conversation with Alan Jenkins

Wyatt: used bladders

A double rainbow soared over the greying skies of West London; several literary types huddled for comfort and instruction under the aegis of the marvellous bookshop Lutyens and Rubinstein, for a conversation between Nicola Shulman and poet and editor Alan Jenkins (whose Rimbaud translation, Drunken Boats, is out now) about Sir Thomas Wyatt, and Nicky's new biography of the poet, Graven with Diamonds. Nicky spoke about how lines of Wyatt would come to her at significant moments (in particular 'They flee from me that sometime me did seek'), which led her to want to understand what lay behind these seemingly inert poems. We learned that whenever King Henry VIII was rich 'he doesn't make love, he makes war'. We were treated to a reading of a Wyatt poem (to illustrate its potential usage in a courtly game) with appropriate squeaks from a blue heart - Nicky's thesis being that a lot of the poems don't make any sense unless they are referring to an actual physical object such as a heart made from a bladder. When discussing 'they flee from me,' in answering the question 'who', Jenkins said 'Chicks!' An early modern poet was brought to life for us: I'm very glad that he has been sought, and I certainly won't flee from him next time I see him in an anthology. I may even get the collected poems... We repaired afterwards to the home of modern poet Edward Barker, who was himself brandishing the collected works. Outside the sky was blue and red. One thing I wondered, in support of Nicky's argument about hearts, was why playing cards had hearts, spades, diamonds and clubs, if hearts were not also a recognisable object. If anybody knows anything about the origin of these symbols, do let me know.

By the River (Henry) Hudson

This photograph does not do the pictures justice

To the depths of East London last night, near the new Olympic stadium at Bow, for a showing of Henry Hudson's Hogarthian plasticene paintings, which depict the artist in a number of poses from the Rake's Progress. Despite claims of remoteness, I managed to take a bus there without mishap, although I did get a lift for the rest of the way from a nice man in a hat (thank you nice man in a hat).

A red carpet led in to the enormous warehouse, where huge tables laden with glasses were laid out. Behind hung the paintings: the effect was magnificent. Velvet coated guests thronged; I was upset because I didn't wear my velvet jacket (so I wore a brown one today). A pink haired Janet Street-Porter smiled affably in a corner. Also present (amongst legions of others) were artists Vanessa Garwood and William Roper-Curzon and curator Aretha Campbell. I talked to Georgia Byng, the author of the Molly Moon series, about children's writing.

The Olympian setting was fitting, the contrasts between the scuzzy location and the glamour of the guests, the sporting prowess and the artist's decadence illuminated. The debris floating in the river could have been put there by Tracey Emin herself. We ate roast hog, served by girls in white dresses with blue flowers in their hair, and tried (unsuccessfully) not to reenact any of the Hogarth scenes. There was a curtain marked 'DO NOT GO BEHIND THIS CURTAIN'. I went behind it. Hoping to find another world (maybe Narnia), I was disappointed in the result (which I will keep to myself).

Splice: review

Spliced together

Genetic manipulation is a tricky subject. Ought we to meddle with DNA if there is the possibility that certain conditions can be thereby eradicated? Surely we humans have always been manipulating DNA, breeding cows, dogs, fruits for our own benefit... Splice is a film that deals with this question in a fascinating, frightening, and really very disturbing way.

Sarah Polley and Adrien Brody (the King and Queen of Quirk) play a pair of super-cool biochemists who are developing a new creature for a shady pharmaceutical corporation. When the company threatens to shut down their advances into human / animal splicing, they go off piste and inject a piece of human DNA into a mutant egg. Whose DNA it is will become highly significant as the scientists play out their own turbulent inner lives. Polley's character is the agent; Brody stands by and watches aghast.

From the off the creature is troublesome: it almost stabs Polley to death before it's even born. When it first appears it's a little, lizardy type thing, stumbling around like a weird sort of chicken. It eventually grows into a young woman of alien-like appearance. Polley and Brody must keep it - or rather her (and therein lies the rub) hidden. Thus arises the terrible question: is it just an experiment, or is it a person? They call her 'Dren' (NERD backwards)'; she is intelligent and emotional. They keep her in a basement (in a horrible parallel to Polley's character's own childhood; raised by a mad mother and kept in a bare room). They develop emotional attachments to Dren, which eventually cause enormous problems.

When one of the non-human creatures that the scientists created turns into a male, killing its rival in spectacular fashion in front of a whole room of potential investors, it soon seems that Dren may not be all that she seems, turning from lust object and surrogate child into the monster from Jeepers Creepers. The end of the film is a perfectly judged piece of horror. It also raises troubling questions about our prejudices, and our need to keep disabled and deformed people out of sight. Splice is an intelligent, keenly disturbing piece of science fiction which, I hope, will not see its real questions raised in the real world for a good long time yet...

Coincidentally 2

Scriabin: Hard to handle

An update in the World of Coincidences. This morning I was practising a difficult piece of Scriabin that I haven't played for a while. Then when I was on the Central Line back East, a young man got on the tube, and took out of his bag... the same copy of Scriabin that I was using. He'd clearly just bought it. Once more, though, I failed to strike up a conversation. I think one ought to in such cases though, don't you? (Click HERE to see what happened last time.) Scriabin is not the most well known of composers; I wonder how many people in the world have heard of him, and, having heard of him, actually play him? But now I shall never know. Next time something like this happens, I'm definitely bringing it up...