Culture Vulture: reviews round-up

The critics' verdicts on Ian McEwan, Andrew Rawnsley and Hanif Kureishi.

Solar by Ian McEwan

A chorus of praise for McEwan's latest novel: Solar, writes Tibor Fischer in the Telegraph, which "is chiefly a mash-up of the Hampstead adultery novel and a conflation of the Bradbury/Lodge academic satire". Bringing climate change to the fore in its focus on a junketing physicist, the novel had Fischer rapt: "I was reading Solar while waiting for a delayed flight at Gatwick and the power of Beard's misadventures was such that I didn't mind at all."

In the Financial Times, William Sutcliffe notes the book's advance "to comic territory that is new to McEwan: out-and-out farce, complete with penis-stuck-in-zip jokes and moments that come close to slapstick", concluding that "it is a stunningly accomplished work, possibly his best yet". For Peter Kemp at the Sunday Times, "the book opens up another dimension of McEwan's genius as a novelist . . . Right up to its final moment . . . scarcely a page fails to dazzle with some wittily caught perception about contemporary life."

 

The End of the Party by Andrew Rawnsley

"No dispassionate reader of Andrew Rawnsley's thumping 800 pages could doubt that we have lived through a strange and fascinating passage of British history which is still obscure," writes David Hare in the Guardian. He calls Rawnsley's account "the most thorough, the most enjoyable and the most original book yet written about New Labour".

In the Telegraph, Andrew Gimson proves harder to impress: "there are passages where [Rawnsley] appears with some skill to be parodying the style of an airport thriller". Andy McSmith of the Independent continues: "This is politics reinvented as show business"; the book boasts "questionable accuracy".

Writing for the Observer, the former diplomat Chris Patten splits the difference: this "important if depressing book", he predicts, "will be a bestseller. But I doubt whether it will encourage many people to go into politics."

 

Collected Stories by Hanif Kureishi

" 'I've been thinking a lot lately,' he announces, 'about what a waste of time it is.' The 'it' in question is writing." So Kureishi confided to the Independent last month. His reviewers aren't quite in step: according to Adam Mars-Jones in the Observer, this new collection "shows how useful the [short story] form has been to Hanif Kureishi as a way of thinking against himself"; though "if you know Gogol's 'The Nose' then you're unlikely to be impressed by Kureishi's 'The Penis'."

In the Guardian, Christopher Tayler rules that, if the stories "evince a limited range of character types", then "the book's sustained immersion in middle-aged misery is scarily convincing . . . In spite of the sexual charge to many of the stories, Kureishi's past as a greedy celebrant of urban transgression is mostly a rueful memory."

"The End of the Party" will be reviewed by Roy Hattersley in Thursday's New Statesman. Leo Robson will review "Solar" in a forthcoming issue.

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As the falcon flew towards us, its face looked alarmingly like Hannibal Lecter’s muzzle

In your faces, twitchers!

The BBC2 programme Springwatch may have made the RSPB’s reserve at Minsmere in Suffolk the Mecca of popular birdwatching, but Cley on the north Norfolk coast is still its Alexandria, a haven for wanderers of all species and a repository of ancient and arcane knowledge. I learned what little I know about birding there in the early 1970s, sitting at the feet of the bird artist Richard Richardson as he gave his sea-wall seminars on the intricacies of behaviour and identification. Richard could put a name to any bird, but he never believed that this process rigidly defined it.

The reserve at Cley has been gentrified recently, with smart boardwalks and a solar-powered visitors’ centre, but something of its old, feral spirit remains. On a trip early this winter, we were greeted by birders with the news: “Saker! Middle hide.” Sakers are big, largely Middle Eastern falcons, favourites with rich desert falconers. No convincingly wild individual has ever been seen in Norfolk, so it was likely that this bird had escaped from captivity, which reduced its cred a mite.

The middle hide proved to be full of earnest and recondite debate. The consensus now was that the bird was not a saker but a tundra peregrine – the form known as calidus that breeds inside the Arctic Circle from Lapland eastwards. We had missed the first act of the drama, in which the bird had ambushed a marsh harrier twice its size and forced it to abandon its prey. It was now earthbound, mantled over its dinner on the far side of a lagoon. It was bigger than a standard peregrine, and in the low sun its back looked almost charcoal, flaring into unusually high white cheeks behind its moustachial stripes.

Then it took off. It swung in a low arc around the perimeter of the lagoon and straight towards our hide. It flew so fast that I couldn’t keep it focused in my binoculars, and for a moment its face looked alarmingly like Hannibal Lecter’s muzzle. At the last minute, when it seemed as if it would crash through the window, it did a roll-turn and showed off the full detail of its tessellated under-plumage. In your faces, twitchers!

It was a thrilling display, but that didn’t entirely quieten the identity anxieties in the hide. One or two dissenters wondered if it might be a hybrid bird, or just a large but eccentrically marked common peregrine. The majority stuck with the tundra option. This form migrates in the autumn to sub-equatorial Africa, and days of north-easterlies may have blown it off-course, along with other bizarre vagrants: an albatross had passed offshore the day before.

Calidus means “spirited” in Latin. The Arctic firebird treated us to ten minutes of pure mischief. It winnowed low over flocks of lapwing, scythed through the screaming gulls, not seeming to be seriously hunting, but taunting a blizzard of panicky birds skywards. At one point, it hovered above a hapless tufted duck that dived repeatedly, only to resurface with the quivering scimitar still above it. Then it took another strafing run at the hide.

Does it matter whether the peregrine was a rare variety, or just an odd individual? Naturalists often categorise themselves as either “lumpers”, happy with the great unlabelled commonwealth of life, or “splitters”, rejoicing in the minutiae of diversity. I swing from one to the other, but, in the end, I can’t see them as contradictory positions.

The bird from the tundra was a hot-tempered peregrine to the core. But its strange facial markings – however much their interpretation panders to the vanity of human watchers – are the outward signs of a unique and self-perpetuating strain, adapted to extreme conditions and yet making a 6,000-mile migration that might take in a visit to a Norfolk village. Lives intersect, hybridise, diverge, in the counterpoint between what Coleridge called “uniformity” and “omniformity”.

Next week: Felicity Cloake on food

This article first appeared in the 01 December 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Age of outrage