Alex Preston Launch: The Revelations; Katie Dale

Preston

Dale

To Daunts! (A battle cry if ever there was one). A bit slow off the mark on this one, though, as it was last week (but things got in the way); it was the exaltation, or lift-off, or launch even, of Alex Preston's new novel, The Revelations. It concerns the lives of a group of people who join the Alpha course; it's already been well-received, and follows on from the acclaim generated by his debut, This Bleeding City. Fellow state-of-the-nation novelist Amanda Craig was in attendance, as were many other literary types. Unfortunately I couldn't hear the speeches as it was quite crowded and I was at the back, but I could hear some appreciative laughter, so I assume that what Mr Preston and his editor said was amusing. I look forward immensely to reading the book. Mr Preston was a few years above me at my alma mater, Lancing College, which also saw the launch this week of another one of its alumni's writing careers: Katie Dale, whose young adult book Someone Else's Life saw the light of day, as well as her series, Twisted Fairytales. There was always a bit of literary blood in the air at Lancing - ever since Evelyn Waugh went there (by accident.) Well done OLs, and for those of you as know, triumphales, o sodales...

Dymock Watson: Nazi Smasher! Review

Six dead Romanians; a night out on the town with a beautiful floozy; a tattoo with a secret in it; a midnight kidnap; a psychopathic Geordie; and Rex Hammer, a man so cool he once managed to sink the Lusitania and bang Rita Hayworth (I think) in the same afternoon - these are just a few of the fantastically loopy yet recognisable features of Humphrey Ker's rocket-fuelled one-man show, Dymock Watson: Nazi Smasher! at the Soho Theatre. It's basically like the Eagle but with swearing and magical swastika jokes (don't ask). And a talking dog.

The setting is the 1940s, and Ker plays the eponymous Watson, a soldier who is rather a likeable cove - both brash and vulnerable - sent by high command to tell the audience how he came to have his SS-smashing sobriquet. There are some well-observed asides, as when he's in a cab ("And I knew it would be quicker to cut up Ladbroke Grove, but I didn't say anything because he's a cabbie and I'm posh.")

There is a plot which drives the show like an amphetamine-crazed Vietnam veteran in a monster truck rally. The son of an architect, Watson's the only Romanian speaker left in England after a spate of mysterious killings. The deaths jettison Watson into a lunatic world of double crosses and derring doers.

It's a gallumphing ride, and Ker's boisterous and best strength is the ability to bring to life the galaxy of characters that Watson meets along the way. There's the aforementioned psychopathic Geordie, who trains Watson in the art of killing: "If someone comes up to you and says 'that's enough', you're doing it right." Or you can slit your victim's throat and whisper in his ear, "real creepy like." There's the marvellous Rex Hammer, who arrives after his weekend long leave still in white tie with a couple of female film stars making out in the back of his limo. "You're all right, homo," he says to Watson.

There's Joanna, the Southern ingenue who might be hiding a terrible secret (who Ker brings to life with just a little skip of his combat-trousered legs.) And there's the dog - Uncle Trevor - who would give the one in The Artist a run for his money.  Best of all (to my mind) were the Nazi fans of a magician that Watson had to impersonate (it's too complicated to explain) - Ker got perfectly the mixture of awe and embarassment, made all the more piquant by the fact that the fans were savage jackbooted soldiers who'd kill at the drop of a hat.

Inventively silly, joyously ridiculous, and yet with a plot line that wouldn't look out of place in an airport thriller, this is beautifully crafted and craftily bonkers, revealing both Ker's obvious love of the genre and his playful twisting of it. And Stephen Fry was in the audience too. You're all right, Ker!

The Tragedy of Arthur by Arthur Phillips: review

King Arthur: a lost play?

What ho: I've reviewed the excellent The Tragedy of Arthur by Arthur Phillips for The Daily Telegraph. Read it here, then go and buy it IMMEDIATELY. A blissful meta-fiction that was one of my books of the year.

 

The Artist: review

The artist. And his owner.

I want to go and live in Silent Movie Land. (Although maybe it wouldn't be entirely practical - remember that scene in Love Actually where Andrew Lincoln declares his love to Keira Knightley via cardboard signs? Imagine the expense on marker pens, not to mention the environmental cost! But it would be fun, don't you think?)

Everything in Silent Movie Land seems to happen more solidly - walking out of a room, off a stage; winking, whistling, weeping; everything has a kind of physical significance that we rarely get in "talkies." "Mugging," as new talkie star Peppy Miller (Bérénice Bejo) dismissively puts it when she's being interviewed in The Artist about the death of silent stars. But then she doesn't mean it, as she later admits. Silent films have their own artistry, depth and power. The metamorphosis that came with The Jazz Singer gave us something - but it also lost us a simple pleasure.

The plot of The Artist is straightforward. Peppy (and boy is that an apt name) is an ingénue seeking fame; her trajectory is onwards and upwards. On the way she meets someone coming in the other direction - George Valentin, a silent film star, and the artist of the title, (played by Jean Dujardin, whose looks make him seem like every matinée idol rolled into a big matinée idol package.) He plays men in masks and top hats; dashing heroes who flee villains in motor cars and biplanes, and always get the girl. And he has a funny dog, too.

When talkies arrive, Valentin refuses to join in, saying they'll never work; his career is ruined faster than you can say (or, rather, mug) "I told you so." Peppy, meanwhile, reaches the dizzy heights of sonic fame. She can talk! And act! America swoons at her slippered feet. There is a very touching moment when Valentin goes to see her latest blockbuster, which has elbowed his own effort into oblivion - it mimics a scene right at the beginning, where Peppy watches her idol, Valentin, and dreams of glory to come. It does cast a slight shadow over the whole film, though - one cannot help but wonder what will happen to Peppy when the next bit of "fresh meat" comes along.

The actors put in sterling performances: both have immensely mobile, expressive faces. Both have sinuous, slinky movements, whether dancing or even just walking. Peppy has two lovely "trademarks" - a whistle and a wink, which render her pretty face at once vulnerable and strong. There are some innovative touches to the cinematography as well - Valentin, drunk and depressed, pours his drink onto his reflection; more weirdly, he hallucinates a tiny version of himself which then proceeds to attack him with a whole load of men wielding spears; and more frighteningly, when he dreams that he's actually in a talkie.

The narrative arc is predictable, but then that doesn't seem to matter, as the charisma of the stars makes up for it. There was, I thought, one slight problem - there is a hint, at the end, as to why Valentin might have been so anti-talkie, in one of the film's few moments of sound. I won't give it away, but it did seem to me marginally unbelievable that an actor as keen on fame as Valentin wouldn't try to get himself into new technologies just because of one attribute. But hey ho. The film more than makes up for that: for instance, there is a priceless scene where Valentin's increasingly estranged wife yells at him (and when I say "Yell", you know what I mean) "We need to talk! Why won't you talk?"

The Artist is a delightful piece of cinematic froth; an intelligent, witty and pleasing rejoinder to  the manic jet-setting and incomprehensibility of such films as Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol. Whether there will be any more silent films remains to be seen; but with its simple tale of love, loss and redemption, it will please the hearts of many. (And don't forget the dog, either.) Now, if you see a man walking down the street holding up cardboard signs and mugging furiously, then it's probably me, unless it's someone on day release. Do feel free to join me in a foxtrot, if you like.

The Liberators - as text book!

Some cheering news in the post to liven this gloomy January week - an extract from The Liberators is being used as the basis for a comprehension question in a CGP "Practise and Learn English" textbook, for children aged 10-11. It's the "Modern Text", sitting opposite L M Montgomery's Anne of Green Gables as the "Classic Text", which makes me rather happy to be in such company. Also I think I can just about do the comprehension questions ... Of course education is an important theme in The Liberators, what with the snivelling tutor Perkins. I look forward to the first, annotated, scholarly edition, with an introduction by Philip Pullman.

Spectator review of Tessa Hadley's Married Love

Hadley: Elegant

Pip pip. I've reviewed Tessa Hadley's short stories for The Spectator. Her novel, The London Train, was one of the best of last year.

Essay on Children's Books for Notting Hill Editions

I've written an essay for Notting Hill Editions about writing for children. It's available online here - you have to register for the site, but it's well worth it. I mention the fabulous Ronald Searle and Geoffrey Willans, whose Molesworth books were a feature of my childhood, and which will be, I hope, a feature of many childhoods to come. This week Searle died; he was a true great. As Molesworth, the goriller of St Custards, would say, chiz chiz chiz.