Friday Arts Diary

Our cultural picks for the week ahead.

Film

Cambridge Film Festival, 13 – 23 September

The Cambridge Film Festival is, simply put, a celebration of cinema’s past, present and future. Well-regarded enough to attract big names yet still intimate and approachable, you won’t get a better opportunity this year to discover some brilliant new work and then find yourself chatting to the writer or director afterwards at the bar. CFF takes over the Arts Picturehouse in the centre of the city for the duration of the festival, but their real passion is bringing cinema to spaces that would not normally be used for that purpose. The outdoor spaces are always used to maximum effect, so if you fancy seeing some films en plein air at venues such as Grantchester Meadows, the steps of Cambridge University Library or even an open-air swimming pool, now is your chance.  

Theatre

This House, National Theatre, 18 September – 22 December

The only original play to feature in the National Theatre’s autumn season, this political drama by James Graham starring Phil Daniels (Quadrophenia, Eastenders) and Philip Glenister (Life on Mars, Ashes to Ashes), should be big hit. Set in 1974 as the country faces economic crisis, the play opens up the engine rooms of Westminster to reveal the Labour whips behind the scenes and their attempts to coerce a hung parliament.

Dance

God’s Garden, Laban Theatre, London SE8, 19 September

Back by popular demand, award-winning choreographer Arthur Pita’s God’s Garden is a darkly comedic, Madeira-set family drama based on the parable of The Prodigal Son. It includes design by Jean-Marc Puissant as well as live fado music and, incredibly, the ages of the cast range from 23 to 84. An absorbing tale of jilted lovers and revenge, it’s like magical realism in dance form.

Events

The People Speak, The Tabernacle, London W11, 16 September

The People Speak is an international initiative which seeks to tell the events of history through the voices of everyday people – the dissenters, rebels and visionaries of the past 1000 years. This one-off event, which celebrates the publication of a new book, is led by actor Colin Firth and editor Anthony Arnove. It features names such as Rupert Everett, Ian McKellan, Celia Imrie and Emily Blunt, who endeavour to bring to life the forgotten voices included in this book. It sounds like an intriguing project.

Art

Liverpool Biennial, Tate Liverpool, 15 September – 23 November

The 7th edition of the Liverpool Biennial, opening this weekend, will explore the theme of ‘hospitality’ as it invites artists to showcase new interpretations of this concept in our increasingly globalised times. The biennial exhibition, An Unexpected Guest, is comprised of sixty exciting international artists and, in addition to this main exhibition, pieces of artwork (both existing and newly-created) will be installed in public spaces around the city. Highlights include installations by Oded Hirsch and Jorge Macchi, and a concert presented by Rhys Chatham as part of the opening weekend.

Cambridge provides beautiful outdoor spaces in which to enjoy films. Photo: Getty Images
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In Kid Gloves, Knausgaardian style provides a route through a writer's grief

Adam Mars-Jones has created a clever, stoical and cool account of caring for a dying father.

In bookish circles, it’s pretty commonplace these days to remark on the way in which the spirit of the Norwegian writer Karl Ove Knausgaard hangs over our literary culture – noxious gas or enlivening blast of ­oxygen, depending on your point of view. Nor would I be the first critic to point out the similarities between his prolixity and that of the British novelist Adam Mars-Jones. Reviewing Knausgaard’s My Struggle in the New Yorker, James Wood likened its style – “hundreds of pages of autopsied minutiae” – to that of Mars-Jones’s novels Pilcrow and Cedilla, the first two volumes in a thus far unfinished project in “micro-realism”. But originality be damned: I’m going to say it anyway. As I read Mars-Jones’s new memoir, Kid Gloves: a Voyage Round My Father, it was Knausgaard I thought of repeatedly. Mostly, this was because I simply couldn’t believe I was so fascinated by a book that was at times so very boring.

Mars-Jones is by far the more elegant writer of the two. He is also feline where Knausgaard is only wide-eyed. Nevertheless, they clamber (slowly and with many pauses to consider the view) over comparable territory. What, after all, is Knausgaard’s account of the effect of milk on a bowl of ­cereal compared to Mars-Jones’s disquisition on the subject of orange juice? The Norwegian’s reverie is the longer of the two but it is Mars-Jones who is the more triumphantly banal. “Shopping on a Monday I saw a wide variety of types of orange juice on display in a supermarket and bought large quantities,” he writes early on. I love that “Monday” – it’s so precise. But it also prompts the question: which supermarket, exactly, was he in? Was it the same “large branch of Sainsbury’s” where, three paragraphs later, we find him picking up a carton of buttermilk?

You will think that I am taking the piss. I’m not – or not entirely. For all its pedantic weirdness, Mars-Jones’s memoir, clotted and rich and true, does its job rather well. As the subtitle suggests, at its heart is his tricky relationship with Sir William Mars-Jones, the high court judge who died in 1999. A clever man but also a difficult one (having made a bit of a leap in terms of education and social class, he clung rather ardently to certain comforting reflexes), he is brought to life vividly by his son, who often simply replays their most frustrating conversations. In doing so, Mars-Jones, Jr also tells us something of himself. He comes over as a bit silly and fastidious but also as clever, stoical, kindly and, above all, ever cool in the face of provocation. In this light, his Pooterish digressions are just another symptom of his unnervingly temperate personality, his clinical even-handedness.

His memoir is oddly artless, the stories tumbling out, one after another, like washing pulled from a machine. An account of his father’s better-known cases (he prosecuted in the Moors murders trial) shades into a detour on soup-making; an analysis of Sir William’s retirement – he gravitated, his son writes, towards the state of “inanition” – takes us, almost slyly, to an explanation of why Mars-Jones tenderly associates Badedas with shingles (a friend who had yet to discover he had Aids, of which shingles can be a symptom, bathed in it).

The reader waits, and waits, for the big scene, for the moment when Mars-Jones tells his father, a regular kind of homophobe, that he is gay. But in a strange way (it does arrive eventually) this is beside the point. From the outset, we know that it was Adam, not his brothers, who looked after his widowed father in his last days, sharing his flat in Gray’s Inn Square; so we know already that an accommodation has been reached, however horrifying Pater’s reaction was at the time. (Mars-Jones, Sr suggested that his son could not possibly be gay because, as a boy, he played with himself during a film starring Jacqueline Bisset; more cruelly, he delegated his clerk to research the possibilities of testosterone treatment for his son.) In any case, there is a universality here: for which of us, gay or not, hasn’t trembled on hearing our mother say, down the line from home, the dread phrase “Dad would like a word”?

After his father’s death, Mars-Jones attempts to continue to live in his parents’ home, insisting that the inn will have to evict him if it wants him gone. When it does turf him out, he writes a piece for the Times in which he denounces its members – in ­effect, his parents’ friends and neighbours. Is this just the response of a more than usually broke freelance writer? Or is it that of a man in deep grief?

Perhaps it’s both. Mars-Jones tells us quite a bit about his parlous finances but relatively little of his feelings of abandonment. He was closer to his mother. It is more than 15 years since his father died. And yet, here it is, his book. Those Knausgaardian impulses of his – perhaps they’re just displacement for his loss, word-fill for a void so unfathomably big that it still takes him by surprise, even now. 

Kid Gloves: a Voyage Round My Father is available now from Particular Books (£16.99)

Rachel Cooke trained as a reporter on The Sunday Times. She is now a writer at The Observer. In the 2006 British Press Awards, she was named Interviewer of the Year.

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