Books in Brief: Catherine Merridale, Matthew Kneale and Chickenshed Theatre

Three new books you may have missed.

Red Fortress: the Secret Heart of Russia’s History
Catherine Merridale

The Kremlin is more than just a place, writes Catherine Merridale: it is an idea. Created in the 12th century as a military fortress (much of the compound was designed by Italian architects), it has been a symbol of absolute power for the best part of 1,000 years. Its roles have included palace, religious centre, military operations hub and very centre of both monarchies and communism. Along the way, it has stored the Russian crown jewels and, in 1941, a cache of radium. In the minds of Russians and the rest of the world alike, the Kremlin is Russia in bricks and mortar.

Allen Lane, 528pp, £30

An Atheist’s History of Belief
Matthew Kneale

Matthew Kneale is an atheist but not a militant one. In this unusual and personal history, he seeks not to disprove belief in its various forms but to discover why we believe and what has shaped those beliefs. He looks at the great faiths and at other, less numinous creeds, such as Marxism. Kneale is a former Man Booker Prizenominated novelist. He structures his book as a collection of stories, lucidly told. He is not interested in institutions but in religion as a fundamental need – it is, he argues, “humankind’s greatest imaginative project”.

Bodley Head, 272pp, £16.99

Chickenshed: an Awfully Big Adventure
Elizabeth Thomson

The Chickenshed Theatre Company was founded in 1974 by Jo Collins, a musician and composer, and Mary Ward, a teacher and director, in the belief that everyone has a talent that can be put to good use. Their inclusive model has attracted support – both financial and moral – from Alan Bennett, Elaine Page and Guy Ritchie (“This is the England I want,” Ritchie has said). Their story is told in this celebratory coffee-table book, with spotlights on individual company members and an affectionate foreword by Judi Dench.

Elliott & Thompson, 248pp, £25

Books on the beach in Sydney, Australia. Photograph: Lisa Maree Williams/Getty Images.

Michael Prodger is an Assistant Editor at the New Statesman. He is an art historian, Senior Research Fellow at the University of Buckingham, and a former literary editor.

This article first appeared in the 23 October 2013 issue of the New Statesman, Russell Brand Guest Edit

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Hillary and the Viking: dramatising life with the Clintons

August radio should be like a corkboard, with a few gems pinned here and there. Heck, Don’t Vote for Him is one.

Now is the season of repeats and stand-in presenters. Nobody minds. August radio ought to be like a corkboard – things seemingly long pinned and faded (an Angela Lansbury doc on Radio 2; an adaptation of Charlotte Brontë’s The Professor on Radio 4 Extra) and then the occasional bright fragment. Like Martha Argerich playing Liszt’s Piano Concerto No 1 at the Albert Hall (Prom 43, 17 August).

But on Radio 4, two new things really stand out. An edition of In the Criminologist’s Chair (16 August, 4pm) in which the former bank robber (and diagnosed psychopath) Noel “Razor” Smith recalls, among other memorable moments, sitting inside a getaway car watching one of his fellows “kissing his bullets” before loading. And three new dramas imagining key episodes in the Clintons’ personal and political lives.

In the first (Heck, Don’t Vote for Him, 6 August, 2.30pm), Hillary battles with all the “long-rumoured allegations of marital infidelity” during the 1992 Democratic primaries. Fenella Woolgar’s (brilliant, unburlesqued) Hillary sounds like a woman very often wearing a fantastically unhappy grin, watching her own political ambitions slip through her fingers. “I deserve something,” she appeals to her husband, insisting on the position of attorney general should he make it to the top – but “the Viking” (his nickname at college, due to his great head of hair) is off, gladhanding the room. You can hear Woolgar’s silent flinch, and picture Hillary’s face as it has been these past, disquieting months, very clearly.

I once saw Bill Clinton speak at a community college in New Jersey during the 2008 Obama campaign. Although disposed not to like him, I found his wattage, without question, staggering. Sweeping through the doors of the canteen, he amusedly removed the microphone from the hands of the MC (a local baseball star), switched it off, and projected for 25 fluent minutes (no notes). Before leaving he turned and considered the smallest member of the audience – a cross-legged child clutching a picture book of presidents. In one gesture, Clinton flipped it out of the boy’s hands, signed the cover – a picture of Lincoln – and was gone.

Antonia Quirke is an author and journalist. She is a presenter on The Film Programme and Pick of the Week (Radio 4) and Film 2015 and The One Show (BBC 1). She writes a column on radio for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 28 July 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Summer Double Issue