From Nashville to Louis CK, the Americans - and their sitcoms - are coming

At last, Amy Poehler's Parks and Recreation is heading to our screens - one of a host of great US dramas and comedies heading our way next year.

As far back as last summer, there was a buzz of tired happiness: “Finally,” we all screamed inwardly but also inevitably on Twitter, “it looks like BBC4 has acquired Parks and Recreation!” It was confirmed a few months later, and now, finally, the small band of Knope-lovers can sit with bated breath and watch our loved ones fall under the spell of Amy Poehler and her incredibly sincere and immensely funny ensemble cast.

Parks and Recreation is superb: it is one of my favourite American sitcoms of recent years, sitting very comfortably among the – very diverse –greats of the last couple of decades: Cheers, Frasier, Friends, Community, Seinfeld etc. But while it is one of the higher-profile and long-awaited acquisitions coming over to the UK in next year, it is by no means the only one. So what can you expect in the early part of 2013? There are a few gems, some honourable mentions, and a couple of DOAs. Let’s take a look at a few of the more interesting options.

Louis C.K. has engendered the kind of wild affection that only certain comics get after they’ve popped their clogs, so of course everyone is looking forward to his sitcom Louie (he created, writes, directs and edits the show), in which the stand up plays a stand up and is consistently, darkly funny. I caught up with the show after a recommendation from an internet-turned-real-life friend, and I am so excited it is finally crossing over.

If you’re looking for fine insights into the human condition, check it out on FX in January. (Enjoy a little dose of C.K. in the parody sketch of the show he made for Saturday Night Live back in November; Louie become Abraham Lincoln, and it was splendid). 

E4’s bought a couple of big, flashy American comedies, The New Normal and The Mindy Project. They’re both... okay. Much was expected of Mindy (Kaling, the terrifyingly talented former head writer at the American version of The Office), and she more or less delivers. The characters are taking a little time to find their feet, but it has a good gag rate, and a cast that’s easy on the eyes. The second import has the bigger potential in terms of garnering a big audience fast: Normal is a comedy about America’s changing demographics – in this case, a gay couple (Justin Bartha and Andrew Rannells) and their surrogate, a single mother from small town Ohio. Ellen Barkin plays her no holds barred conservative (read ‘offensively unfunny’) grandmother. If you need more convincing/dissuading, it’s from the people who brought you Glee

ITV2 refuses to be left behind and has bought its own series for January broadcast too. Up All Night, starring comedy big hitters Christina Applegate (hopefully reprising her role in newly confirmed Anchorman 2), SNL alumni Maya Rudolph and Arrested Development veteran Will Arnett. It’s basically traditional single camera sitcom, focusing on Applegate’s return to the workplace after taking time off to have a baby. Quick review: it’s solid, but for a show with such pedigree, it oddly lacks zing. You’ll enjoy it, I wager, but you won’t belly laugh, which is a shame.

More successfully made is Fox’s Ben and Kate, starring Dakota Johnson (daughter of Melanie Griffith and Don ‘Miami Vice’ Johnson) and Oscar-winner Nat Faxon (he co-wrote the screenplay for The Descendants) as a brother and sister renegotiating their relationship after he unexpectedly returns to town. There’s a delightful supporting cast, not least the sweetest child actor ever, as well as the siblings’ best friends played by Echo Kellum and the very, very talented and reliable Lucy Punch. I have heard bad things about this show’s ratings, which doesn’t bode well for its longevity but I hope it finds a home because it is an assured, very funny and immediately likeable little show. 

More4 has shown its class in previous years with its acquisitions (The Good Wife, The Big C, and Scandal among others), and it tries to continue its hot streak with Nashville and Boss. An early disclaimer: Boss has just been cancelled after two seasons in the US (with rumours of a film to tie up all remaining loose ends), but it stars an on form Kelsey Grammer as a Chicago politician dealing with his city’s needs – alongside a new diagnosis of dementia. Now that’s a premise. Precious few traces of Dr Frasier Crane are to be found here, and it’s not a bad thing because he’s a compelling dramatic actor.

Nashville is unsurprisingly, about country music, but only in the way that Friday Night Lights was about football. That was a (tenuous) link to reveal that it stars Connie Britton, formerly of FNL’s Dillon, Texas, and owner of the prettiest hair on television, who plays a fading country and western star usurped by young blonde upstart Hayden Panetierre. It’s not going to blow you away, but it is mostly well-observed light drama. The promo also featured the quiet, resigned zinger: “thank God for autotune,” which earns it at least an hour of grumpy watching. 

Other good news:  E4’s superior comedies Happy Endings and New Girl (which just keeps on getting better) are coming back, as is Archer and then later in the year, Justified (5USA). Less happy news is that no one’s picked up Parenthood, which has been one of my favourite series of recent years. You could argue that this is a reminder that we can’t have everything we want (which is just the right kind of lesson an episode of Parenthood would deliver, over a swelling indie soundtrack). Roll on 2013!

Nashville

Bim Adewunmi writes about race, feminism and popular culture. Her blog is  yorubagirldancing.com and you can find her on Twitter as @bimadew.

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Mathias Énard is the most brazen French writer since Houellebecq

Énard's latest novel, Street of Thieves, has ideas and charisma to burn.

This book, though no kind of failure, may seem a little pinched and bashful to readers of Mathias Énard’s novel Zone, a 500-page, single-sentence rumination on European cruelty that was published last summer to giddy applause. A back-cover blurb by the writer Patrick McGuinness, who also teaches French at Oxford, claims that Street of Thieves is “what the great contemporary French novel should be”, but this is a description better deserved by its predecessor – and possibly its successor, Boussole (“compass”), a grand-scale effort published in French this month by Actes Sud, which promises the reader “staggering erudition” and “heartbreaking lucidity”. Street of Thieves never calls for adjectives of that order (“involving” would be closer to the mark) though it still confirms Énard as the most brazenly lapel-grabbing French writer since Michel Houellebecq. Even on a quiet day, he has ideas and charisma to burn.

In a doomy, plague-ridden future, Lakhdar recalls a late adolescence torn between his duties as a Moroccan-born Muslim and the temptations extended by the north, an alternate universe situated just across the Strait of Gibraltar. In one scale sit “prayers, the Quran and God, who was a little like a second father, minus the kicks in the rear”. In the other sit miniskirted female tourists and the pleasures portrayed in the French detective novels that Lakhdar consumes “by the dozen”: “sex . . . blondes, cars, whisky”. When he is thrown out by his family for having an affair with his cousin, it looks as if fate is tipping the balance. But it doesn’t work out that way. Poverty keeps him tethered to his homeland, and he takes a job working as a bookseller for Sheikh Nureddin, the local imam.

Meanwhile, Lakhdar’s best friend, Bassam, is playing out the same conflict in more volatile ways. Though no less lustful and weed-smoking, he is devoted to Nureddin, for whom, it soon emerges, the Propagation of Quranic Thought is an activity broadly defined, accommodating sticks and stones – and knives and bombs – as well as the pamphlets peddled by Lakhdar.

For much of the first half, the novel is an odd mixture of picaresque and parable. Lakhdar is sometimes an object or victim of fate, sometimes a plaything of his author’s purposes, and the gear changes required can be jerky. One moment, Lakhdar will tell the reader, “And that’s how I entered the service of Marcelo Cruz, funeral services,” in a fish-out-of-water, “isn’t life funny?” sort of way. The next moment, he coolly notes the thematic overlap of his work for Cruz with a previous position that involved digitising the records of an Algerian infantry regiment in the First World War. “The idea of sending real stiffs back to Morocco after having imported dead soldiers to it virtually was rather amusing, I thought.”

Énard’s parable-making instincts frequently take control of the plot, with results that verge on tiresome. When Lakhdar sets sail on a boat named after one of his heroes, the 14th-century traveller Ibn Batuta, the vessel equals Freedom. But lack of an exit visa confines him to the port of Algeciras, then a dispute with the Spanish government keeps the boat there, too. So the Ibn Batuta becomes a symbol for the way that life dashes our best hopes – or upends them. Dreams of freedom produce a nightmare reality. An ideal of escape leads to more stasis.

Yet it feels churlish to grumble about the novel’s design when it enables so much potent writing. Sending Lakhdar from Tangier to Barcelona is a contrivance that you wouldn’t want undone. As well as furnishing different possibilities in terms of scene-setting and atmosphere, it turns the novel into a comparative portrait of two societies through their common factor circa 2011: a period of civic unrest and popular anger that failed to produce a revolution. Morocco is the country that the Arab spring forgot, while in Barcelona the deepening despair is only punctuated, never alleviated, by the occasional protest.

In the Barcelona section, richer by far than those set in Tangier and Algeciras, Énard uses Lakhdar’s outsider perspective to lay bare the shallowness of the type of dissent you find in a democracy. He notes that a general strike is claimed as a victory both by the organisers, because “they reach such-and-such a percentage of strikers”, and by the government, which didn’t have to make any changes. To Lakhdar, Spain appears “a land beyond politics”, where the nationalist government “no longer gave a shit about anyone” and industrial action has become an end in itself.

The workings of orientalism – or whatever cross-cultural logic shapes European responses to North Africa – are exposed with clarity, even flair. A feeling for paradox crowds out the platitude, derived from ­Edward Said, whereby representatives of the developed west are only ever blundering and stupid. It’s true that Judit, a student of Arabic literature at Barcelona University, so narrowly associates Tangier with sexual licence and foreign visitors (Burroughs, Paul Bowles) that Lakhdar, as a Muslim from the suburbs, feels that “we were discussing a different city”. But Énard – who teaches Arabic literature in Barcelona – is careful not to present Lakhdar’s Tangier as the “true” version and Judit’s as a romantic Other-laden mirage. Despite her overemphases, Judit never comes across as a dabbler, and it is Lakhdar’s mistiness about Barcelona that receives the harsher humbling. (The “street of thieves” lies not in Tangier, but in the Raval district of Barcelona.)

So, it is a shame, given this balancing of myopic perspectives, that Énard also feels the need to grant the older, reminiscing Lakhdar, smug in his 20/20 hindsight, a prominent place in the telling. But then Street of Thieves gives the consistent impression of a writer who, not unlike Houellebecq, views formal choices as not just secondary, but irritating. The unpunctuated first-person rant, as used in Zone, is surely Énard’s ideal device. It turns crude technique into an engine. The more intricate demands of the novel – the niceties of plotting and narrative point-of-view – merely serve to slow him down. Lakhdar is most convincing when neither a picaro nor a symbolic type, neither totally himself nor entirely representative, but a balance better suited to Énard’s analytic needs: specific enough to be vivid, while clearly standing in for the migrant who, drawn by fantasies of easy passage to streets paved with gold and teeming with blondes, finds instead an obstacle course from one site of crisis to another. 

Street of Thieves is available now from Fitzcarraldo Editions (£12.99)

Leo Robson is the lead fiction reviewer for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 27 August 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Isis and the new barbarism