Books in brief: Ben Chu, Daljit Nagra and Philip Ball

Three new books you might have missed.

Chinese Whispers: Why Everything You’ve Heard About China Is Wrong
Ben Chu

Ben Chu, the economics editor of the Independent, thinks we’ve been getting it wrong about China for years. Bertrand Russell once wrote, “The spectacle of suffering does not . . . rouse any sympathetic pain in the average Chinaman.” For others, notably Voltaire, the Chinese empire was “the best the world has ever seen”. From the orientalist fantasies of the 18th century to the “tiger moms” of today, China has always been a mirror for European fantasies and fears. Chu’s smart, iconoclastic portrait dismantles seven misconceptions – or “whispers” – to let in light on a heterogeneous nation about which it is impossible to generalise.
Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 288pp, £16.99

Ramayana: a Retelling
Daljit Nagra

The Ramayana is the story of Rama and his quest to recover his wife, Sita, from Raavana, the lord of the underworld. It is an important story in numerous religions and cultures across Asia. “The Ramayana I present now is not the one I was told as a child,” writes the poet Daljit Nagra. “Instead it is the product of a globalised, westernised writer who lives among many faiths and cultures who seeks to represent voices from as many villages as possible.” Recounted with energy, wit and bold imagination, this version is a joy.
Faber & Faber, 352pp, £18.99

Serving the Reich: the Struggle for the Soul of Physics under Hitler
Philip Ball

In his preface, Philip Ball writes with clear misgivings about the view of science as “disembodied, pure knowledge”. After the Second World War, most scientists who had worked under German rule maintained that they had been apolitical. Peter Debye fled to the US to warn the world about Germany’s nuclear potential, while Werner Heisenberg and others argued that they delayed the bomb. Was it so simple? Ball’s book shows what can happen to morality when cleverness and discovery are valued above all else.
Bodley Head, 303pp, £20

Painter Matthias Bier works on the historic Rokoko hall of the Anna Amalia library in Weimar, eastern Germany. Photograph: Jens Ulrich-Koch/Getty Images.

Philip Maughan is a freelance writer in Berlin and a former Assistant Editor at the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 11 October 2013 issue of the New Statesman, Iran vs Israel

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Women on the edge: new films Jackie and Christine are character studies of haunted women

With their claustrophobic close-ups and desolate wide shots, both films are stunning portraits of life on the brink.

Jacqueline Kennedy and Christine Chubbuck may not have had much in common in real life – the former briefly the US first lady, the latter a put-upon television news reporter in the early 1970s in Sarasota, Florida – but two new films named after them are cut resolutely from the same cloth. Jackie and Christine are character studies of haunted women in which the claustrophobic close-up and the desolate wide shot are the predominant forms of address.

Both films hinge on fatal gunshots to the head and both seek to express cinematically a state of mind that is internal: grief and loss in Jackie, which is set mainly in the hours and days after the assassination of President John F Kennedy; depression and paranoia in Christine. In this area, they rely heavily not only on hypnotically controlled performances from their lead actors but on music that describes the psychological contours of distress.

Even before we see anything in Jackie, we hear plunging chords like a string section falling down a lift shaft. This is the unmistakable work of the abrasive art rocker Mica Levi. Her score in Jackie closes in on the ears just as the tight compositions by the cinematographer Stéphane Fontaine exclude the majority of the outside world. The Chilean director Pablo Larraín knows a thing or two about sustaining intensity, as viewers of his earlier work, including his Pinochet-era trilogy (Tony Manero, Post Mortem and No), will attest. Though this is his first English-language film, there is no hint of any softening. The picture will frustrate anyone hoping for a panoramic historical drama, with Larraín and the screenwriter Noah Oppenheim irising intently in on Jackie, played with brittle calm by Natalie Portman, and finding the nation’s woes reflected in her face.

Bit-players come and go as the film jumbles up the past and present, the personal and political. A journalist (Billy Crudup), nameless but based on Theodore White, arrives to interview the widow. Her social secretary, Nancy Tuckerman (Greta Gerwig), urges her on with cheerleading smiles during the shooting of a stiff promotional film intended to present her warmly to the public. Her brother-in-law Bobby (Peter Sarsgaard) hovers anxiously nearby as she negotiates the chasm between private grief and public composure. For all the bustle around her, the film insists on Jackie’s aloneness and Portman gives a performance in which there is as much tantalisingly concealed as fearlessly exposed.

A different sort of unravelling occurs in Christine. Antonio Campos’s film begins by showing Christine Chubbuck (Rebecca Hall) seated next to a large box marked “fragile” as she interviews on camera an empty chair in which she imagines Richard Nixon to be sitting. She asks of the invisible president: “Is it paranoia if everyone is indeed coming after you?” It’s a good question and one that she doesn’t have the self-awareness to ask herself. Pressured by her editor to chase juicy stories, she goes to sleep each night with a police scanner blaring in her ears. She pleads with a local cop for stories about the darker side of Sarasota, scarcely comprehending that the real darkness lies primarily within her.

For all the shots of TV monitors displaying multiple images of Christine in this beige 1970s hell, the film doesn’t blame the sensationalist nature of the media for her fractured state. Nor does it attribute her downfall entirely to the era’s sexism. Yet both of those things exacerbated problems that Chubbuck already had. She is rigid and off-putting, all severe straight lines, from her haircut and eyebrows to the crossed arms and tight, unsmiling lips that make it difficult for anyone to get close to her. That the film does break through is down to Hall, who illuminates the pain that Christine can’t express, and to the score by Danny Bensi and Saunder Jurriaans. It’s perky enough on the surface but there are cellos sawing away sadly underneath. If you listen hard enough, they’re crying: “Help.” 

Ryan Gilbey is the New Statesman's film critic. He is also the author of It Don't Worry Me (Faber), about 1970s US cinema, and a study of Groundhog Day in the "Modern Classics" series (BFI Publishing). He was named reviewer of the year in the 2007 Press Gazette awards.

This article first appeared in the 19 January 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The Trump era