Reviews round-up

The critics' verdicts on Nelson Mandela, Nadine Gordimer and a critique of the modern media.

Conversations with Myself by Nelson Mandela

Peter Godwin gives a highly laudatory account of Conversations with Myself in the Observer, describing it as a self-portrait of "a man devoid of self-pity, who is immune to the temptations of self-aggrandisement". Godwin praises the book for containing "substantive political insights" on the negotiations to end apartheid, but notes that it is also filled with "unexpectedly lighthearted moments".

Graham Boynton, in his Telegraph review, is less glowing in his still fulsome praise, complaining of the "unnecessary foreword by Barack Obama" and the "strange traces of Harvard-speak throughout", the legacy of Mandela's American ghostwriter, Richard Stenghel. Boynton is, however, impressed by the book's ability to jump "from the mundane ... to the historic ... with barely a breath taken" and says it offers a thorough account of the "extraordinarily self-disciplined" Mandela.

Alec Russell, in the Financial Times, concurs, saluting Conversations with Myself as a "splendid finale to the Mandela literature".

The Return of the Public by Dan Hind

Writing in the Guardian, Roy Greenslade describes Hind's critique of the modern media as a "superb analysis of the way in which citizens have lost power in a political and economic system built around the free market".

John Lloyd, in the Financial Times, is more equivocal, pointing out that "Hind wildly overestimates the appetite for information and revelation, as he does the ability of journalism to create the kind of public he wants" but accepting that "there is something large-hearted in the view that the facts will not just set us free, but allow us to be fuller citizens".

In the Independent, Boyd Tonkin is largely positive, semi-ironically praising the "near-theological splendour of his opprobrium", though acknowledging that Hind's schemes to harness "the ultra-involved citizens of tomorrow" sometimes seem "fanciful or utopian".

Life Times: Stories 1952-2007 by Nadine Gordimer

In the Telegraph, Ruth Scurr is impressed that Gordimer's stories are both "deeply embedded in the social, political or historical context that gave rise to them" and yet seem "almost undated in content, style or tone". The first and final stories in this collection "provide a more meaningful frame to Gordimer's work than any stark set of dates".

Penelope Lively, though, writing in the Financial Times, is perplexed as to why the stories are "clumped according to collection but not dated". While, according to Lively, the inclusion of certain stories suggests that "perhaps sometimes she just wrote too much", this collection still illustrates Gordimer's "extraordinary capacity to summon up a time, a place, a people".

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Why so-called lesbian films make me nervous

The upcoming Cate Blanchett vehicle, Carol, is already being feted as a lesbian blockbuster. I should be excited, and yet it just makes me feel sweaty.

An odd thing has started to happen to me in the build-up to new lesbian blockbusters: I sweat. I’m quite sweaty as it is, but I’m probably at my sweatiest when the entire internet – or so it seems, in my panicked state – is going on about Cate Blanchett gaying up for her latest role.

And, no, this isn’t a sex thing. Yes, I have eyes; I realise Blanchett is extremely attractive (and talented, and what have you… yes, feminism). In fact, I don’t necessarily agree with this, but I’ve been told that my “type” is blonde, patrician and spikey (so, the exact opposite of me and everyone I’m related to). I can’t account for Blanchett’s spikiness, although she definitely plays spikey well. I’m also so unsure of whether Australians can be posh, that I just Googled “can Australians be posh?”. But, Antipodean or not, she has that “former captain of the Roedean lacrosse team” thing going on, right? And, yeah, she’s blonde. So, on paper, her playing a lesbian should make me sweaty for sex reasons.

But – here’s where I implore you to suspend your disbelief – that isn’t it. Along with “vigorous cheese grating” and “talking to people”, I’m adding “having to pretend to be excited about a straight woman playing a lesbian” to my list of things that make me sweat. All the hype around Carol, which looks set to be the biggest lesbian film since Fucking Blue Is The Fucking Warmest Colour (actual title) and hits UK cinemas this week, is propelling me into a frenzy of panic the likes of which I haven’t felt since I got this inexplicable pain in my nose and convinced myself it was nose cancer.

Disclaimer: I realise lesbian visibility is important. Any given lesbian can talk about the sorry state of lesbian representation in film and TV for seven solid hours. If you want to see filibustering at its finest, just ask a gay woman what she thought of The Kids Are All Right.

So why the sweat? Yes, straight actors get to put on gayness like a gorilla suit, every time they feel like having an Oscar lobbed at their head. Blanchett did “mental” in Blue Jasmine (very well, actually) and now she’s doing gay. Why panic though? Lesbian blockbusters starring almost entirely straight women are better than nothing. But lesbianism in films is cursed with being a big deal. When’s the last time you saw a film about, say, some bounty hunters who just so happen to be lesbians? (note to self: write that screenplay). No, not “lesbian bounty hunters”, I mean “bounty hunters… who are in a relationship, and both of them are women, I guess… and what’s your point?”

The panic comes from the lesbian aspect of any mainstream film being the driving force behind a hoo-hah of epic proportions. The tremendous fanfare that heralds the lesbian blockbuster is enough to give me palpitations. And this absurd pomp wouldn’t exist if lesbian representation were slightly less concentrated. Years pass without any lesbians at all then, all of a sudden: “CATE BLANCHETT IS GAYING IN A FILM AND IT’S GOING TO BE STUNNING AND BREATHTAKING AND YOU’RE GOING TO CRY SEVENTEEN TIMES AND IF YOU’RE NOT HYPERVENTILATING RIGHT NOW YOU HAVE NO SOUL AND YOU’RE NOT EVEN A PROPER LESBIAN”.

Admittedly, I haven’t seen Carol yet, so I’m going to have to reserve judgement. Perhaps I will cry seventeen times. I have seen the trailer though and, complete with a moody vocal jazz track and a woman gazing mournfully out of a rain-spattered window, it’s already starting to tick “every lesbian film ever” boxes.  

It’s all the hype, accompanied by knowing that I’m going to have to have #opinions about Carol and probably every other lesbian film, until I die, that makes me sweat. That and also knowing that, in order to be aforementioned “proper lesbian”, I’ll have to find someone to take with me to see Carol on a date, except neither of us will really know whether or not it’s a date, and, during the sex bits (of which I’m sure there are… some) we’ll have to look at our shoes and cough, and sweat.

Eleanor Margolis is a freelance journalist, whose "Lez Miserable" column appears weekly on the New Statesman website.