Culture Vulture: reviews round-up

The critics' verdict on Naomi Alderman, Mick Jackson and Bert Trautmann.

The Lessons by Naomi Alderman

For Alice Fisher in the Guardian, the second novel from Naomi Alderman is "sturdily plotted and hooks you in: it's a good read if not unique". Its plot is reminiscent of Brideshead Revisited, The Line of Beauty or The Secret History, while "if you've read all three you'll find it impossible to read The Lessons without attributing each story development to one of these predecessors". However, "Alderman evokes the shock of the fresh start at university well", and "she's particularly good at describing the arcana and intensity of Oxford life." Amanda Craig in the Independent argues that "Nothing could be more different, superficially, from Alderman's prize-winning debut, Disobedience", and warns that "at times the novel becomes brittle to the point of self-parody, and The Lessons will certainly annoy many who are automatically hostile to Oxbridge and elitism". However, "Alderman's sharpness of observation punctures the parties, sex, drugs, eccentrics and conversation while never quite descending into satire", and she concludes that "this is a second novel from a young writer of huge talent, ambition and energy and, despite falling into an over-familiar genre, it is a pleasure to read." Damian Barr in the Independent on Sunday looks beyond Waugh's influence: "Alderman's book goes far beyond the Brideshead she carefully evokes. For a start, her Mark is ferally and unashamedly gay - lustily cruising fellow students and fusty academics", and "Whereas Brideshead is basically the story of Charles and Sebastian, The Lessons deals with the complex web of relationships spun between all the people under Mark's influence." But "Oxford is the biggest character in The Lessons, and the city, so inextricably bound with the university, is the harshest teacher."

The Lessons will be reviewed in the next issue of the New Statesman.

 

The Widow's Tale by Mick Jackson

Mick Jackson's third novel is "is tightly packed with explosive emotion", writes Hilary Mantel in theGuardian; however, she finds the central character to be "a stereotype", which is unfortunate because "the book's success as a novel stands or falls by whether the widow convinces us, whether we are motivated to stick close and see her through ... All her opinions are weekend-supplement truisms, and her voice itself is uneven". Mantel's concludes that "Jackson has thought deeply about bereavement, and it seems shabby to dispraise a book so acutely observed", but "you need to pay your dues to fiction's form as well as its content." Of the eponymous widow Lucy Daniel in the Telegraph writes that "her droll monologue plays over a background of muddled grief", though "after a while the book seems to consist of nothing but asides." She feels ultimately that "in keeping with our widow's interest in the ascetic life, the book itself has an ascetic discipline." For Helen Rumbelow in the Times, The Widow's Tale is "spare, short, utterly contemporary", and "very funny". Like the other reviews, Adrian Turpin's recognises that the story is a "pilgrimage", though for him it is a "a writer's commonplace book moonlighting as a novel. For all its aphoristic tartness - which is reminiscent in places of Simon Gray's diaries - it never entirely convinces as fiction."

 

Trautmann's Journey by Catrine Clay

Simon Hattenstone in the Observer asks: "why did Trautmann agree to collaborate with this book? To ease his conscience, get the truth out there, or did he simply feel he had nothing to hide?" Catrine Clay's account of the Manchester City goalkeeper with Nazi origins is "a fascinating if dispiriting read", Hattenstone decides, summing it up thus: "Clay's book is not a conventional biography and it's certainly not a sport book. Rather than using the times to tell the story of Trautmann, she uses Trautmann to tell the story of Nazi Germany. In a way, he becomes an everyman, soaked in the blood and horror of the Holocaust." Miranda Seymour in the Telegraph writes that "much of the poignancy of Trautmann's story derives from the skill with which Clay develops our sense of the discrepancy between his experiences and what was actually going on", and, more sympathetically: "Trautmann's participation in Clay's book fits with his admirable commitment to the promotion, through sport, of Anglo-German relations". She sums it up by saying: "a thoughtful biographer has given depth and substance to the plainly told story of an uncommon life." Roger Moorhouse in the Independent writes that "Trautmann's Journey is a remarkable story, well told", and is keen to stress that "Though it is not short of affection for its subject, this is no hagiography. Trautmann emerges as an often equivocal character; a sport-obsessed curmudgeon with a quick temper and an apparent inability to accept authority."

 

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There are only two rules for an evening drink: it must be bitter, and it must be cold

A Negroni is the aperitif of choice in bars everywhere from London to Palermo - and no wonder.

The aperitif has the odd distinction of being the only alcohol that can always rely on a sober audience: it is the opener, the stimulant, a spur to the appetite for good food and good conversation. This preparatory beverage is considered the height of sophistication, and certainly nobody labouring in field or factory ever required a pep to their evening appetite. Still, to take a drink before one starts drinking is hardly clever behaviour. So why do it?

One reason is surely the wish to separate the working day from the evening’s leisure, an increasingly pressing matter as we lose the ability to switch off. This may change the nature of the aperitif, which was generally supposed to be light, in alcohol and character. Once, one was expected to quaff a pre-dinner drink and go in to dine with faculties and taste buds intact; now, it might be more important for those who want an uninterrupted meal to get preprandially plastered. That way, your colleagues may contact you but they won’t get much sense out of you, and pretty soon they’ll give up and bother someone else.

The nicest thing about the aperitif, and the most dangerous, is that it doesn’t follow rules. It’s meant to be low in alcohol, but nobody ever accused a gin and tonic or a Negroni (Campari, gin and vermouth in equal portions) of that failing; and sherry, which is a fabulous aperitif (not least because you can keep drinking it until the meal or the bottle ends), has more degrees of alcohol than most wines. An aperitif should not be heavily perfumed or flavoured, for fear of spoiling your palate, yet some people love pastis, the French aniseed drink that goes cloudy in water, and that you can practically smell across the Channel. They say the scent actually enhances appetite.

Really only two rules apply. An aperitif should be bitter – or, at any rate, it shouldn’t be sweet, whatever the fans of red vermouth may tell you. And it must be cold. Warm drinks such as Cognac and port are for after dinner. Not for nothing did Édith Piaf warble, in “Mon apéro”, about drowning her amorous disappointments in aperitifs: fail to cool your passions before sharing a table, and you belong with the barbarians.

On the other hand, conversing with your nearest over a small snack and an appropriate beverage, beyond the office and before the courtesies and complications of the dinner table, is the essence of cultured behaviour. If, as is sometimes thought, civilisation has a pinnacle, surely it has a chilled apéro carefully balanced on top.

The received wisdom is that the French and Italians, with their apéritifs and aperitivos, are the experts in these kinds of drinks. Certainly the latter are partial to their Aperol spritzes, and the former to such horrid, wine-based tipples as Lillet and Dubonnet. But the English are good at gin and the Americans invented the Martini. As for Spain, tapas were originally snacks atop a covering that kept the flies out of one’s pre-dinner drink: tapa means lid.

Everywhere, it seems, as evening approaches, people crave a drink that in turn will make them salivate: bitterness, the experts tell us, prepares the mouth to welcome food. The word “bitter” may come from “bite”, in which case the aperitif’s place before dinner is assured.

I like to think that a good one enables the drinker to drown all sour feelings, and go in to dinner cleansed and purified. Fanciful, perhaps. But what better lure to fancy than a beverage that exists only to bring on the evening’s pleasures?

Nina Caplan is the Louis Roederer Pio Cesare Food and Wine Writer of the Year

Nina Caplan is the 2014 Fortnum & Mason Drink Writer of the Year and 2014 Louis Roederer International Wine Columnist of the Year for her columns on drink in the New Statesman. She tweets as @NinaCaplan.

This article first appeared in the 22 September 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The New Times