Reviews Round-Up

The critics' verdicts on J. K. Rowling, Edna O'Brien and David Byrne.

The Casual Vacancy by J. K. Rowling

After praising her attempt to overcome the Potter legacy and tackle something new, the New York Times’s notoriously sharp-tongued critic Mitchiko Kakutani gives J. K. Rowling’s new book a signature dressing down: “Unfortunately, the real-life world she has limned in these pages is so willfully banal, so depressingly clichéd that The Casual Vacancy is not only disappointing – it’s dull.” Kakutani sees the characters as underdeveloped and the “circumscribed lives” of Pagford’s inhabitants technically weak by comparison to the world of Harry Potter where “identity is as much a product of deliberate choice as it is of fate.” A bit more like America then? If the novel’s grim reality disappointed Kakutani, it positively enraged Jan Moir, who saw it as “nothing more than 500 pages of relentless socialist manifesto masquerading as literature crammed down your throat.”

However, Boyd Tonkin sees something liberating in J. K. Rowling’s writing about young people, now it is no longer constrained by the censorship required of literature for children: “Rowling’s writing, which can be long-winded and laborious in the clunkily satirical set-pieces, picks up passion, verve and even magic with Krystal and the other adolescents. Indeed, the teens of Winterdown belong in a bolder, richer book than some of the parental caricatures.” George Eliot is a name being floated (The New Yorker dubbed the book “Mugglemarch”) by way of comparison – a woman with keen moral instincts and sharp insights into small-town life, something which Theo Tait in the Guardian sees as the book’s central achievement. “It’s a book that wrestles honourably and intelligently with big moral and political questions, but does so in a slightly clunky and convention-bound way,” he writes. “If you’re irritated by important episodes being telegraphed with phrases such as ‘But then came the hour that everything changed,’ then this is probably not the novel for you. But equally, it offers something more stylish, highbrow fiction often doesn’t or won’t: a chance to lose yourself in a dense, richly peopled world.” Read Margaret Drabble's review in the New Statesman later this week.

Country Girl by Edna O’Brien

Mary Robinson, former President of Ireland and UN Commissioner for Human Rights, remembers as a teenager “reading, hidden under a false cover, a dog-eared copy of The Country Girls,” Edna O’Brien’s controversial breakthrough novel of aspiration and female sexuality, “that one of my schoolfriends had managed to get a hold of and passed around among us, and being astonished that she would write these things, and somehow grateful for the insights and revelations the books held.” Mary Kenny sums up the O’Brien “enchantments” which glisten through the book in the Irish Times: “The lushness about nature; the delicate balance of rapture and rupture in recapturing the experience of love; the feminine eye for clothes; the true ear for a story; the sharpness of specific recollections.” Both note the stars with whom O’Brien spent her time in London, entertaining at her home in Carlyle Square – Robinson finding the name-dropping cloying, Kenny the opposite. Rachel Cooke wrote in yesterday’s Observer that “The book falls away as O’Brien grows older; there are repetitions and the writing becomes gluey, more opaque.” Though she quickly counters, “But this hardly matters. The first half is so wonderful, crystalline and true, it seems churlish to complain.”

How Music Works by David Byrne

In Peter Aspden’s FT review of the former Talking Heads frontman and latter day polymath’s new book How Music Works, emphasis is placed on the pie charts, numbers and fiscal reassessment of an illustrious career in music. “The chapter on the economics of music should be required reading for all 16-year-olds tinkering with their GarageBand software and dreaming of dollar signs,” Aspden writes, “while the section on ‘How to Make a Scene’ is nothing less than a manual for urban regeneration through pop culture.” A sometimes memoir sometimes essay collection, what the book appears to lack in autobiographical insight is supplanted with an unflinchingly anatomisation of the musician’s life: the author as data. “It’s a big undertaking, which Byrne approaches with encyclopoedic zeal, drawing on testimony from historians, neuroscientists, philosophers and, in looking at the industry, managers and executives,” writes Fiona Sturges in The Independent. She praises the book in particular for its focus on the reality of a life spent making music without the domineering pop personalities and rock star posturing, a fascinating hodgepodge of authoritative opinion and fact. “[Byrne’s] book offers a meticulously researched and hugely absorbing history of music, focusing on the practices rather than the personalities that have led it to where it is today.”

Margaret Drabble and Edna O'Brien in 1966.
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Shami Chakrabarti’s fall from grace: how a liberal hero lost her reputation

Once, it was trendy to say you liked the former director of Liberty. No longer.

It might be hard to remember now, but there was a time when it was trendy to like Shami Chakrabarti. In the mid-2000s, amid the Iraq War backlash and the furore over identity cards, speaking well of the barrister and head of the human rights campaign group Liberty was a handy way of displaying liberal credentials. She was everywhere: Question Time, Desert Island Discs, Have I Got News For You. A young indie band from Worcester called the Dastards was so keen on her that it even wrote a song about her. It included the lyric: “I turn on my TV/The only one I want to see/Is Shami Chakrabarti.”

The daughter of Bengali immigrants, Chakrabarti was born and brought up in the outer-London borough of Harrow, where she attended a comprehensive school before studying law at the London School of Economics. Her background was a great strength of her campaigning, and during the most authoritarian years of New Labour government she burnished her reputation.

Fast-forward to 13 September 2016, when Chakrabarti made her House of Lords debut as a Labour peer. Baroness Chakrabarti of Kennington wore a sombre expression and a rope of pearls looped round her throat beneath her ermine robe. It was hard to recognise the civil liberties campaigner who was once called “an anarchist in a barrister’s wig” by Loaded magazine.

Yet Chakrabarti has also been cast in another role that is far less desirable than a seat in the Lords: that of a hypocrite. On 29 April this year, Jeremy Corbyn announced that Chakrabarti would chair an independent inquiry into anti-Semitism and other forms of racism in the Labour Party. The inquiry was prompted by the suspensions of Naz Shah, the MP for Bradford West, and Ken Livingstone, for making offensive remarks that were condemned as anti-Semitic. On 16 May Chakrabarti announced that she was joining Labour to gain members’ “trust and confidence”. She said that she would still run the inquiry “without fear or favour”.

The Chakrabarti inquiry delivered its findings on 30 June at a press conference in Westminster. The atmosphere was febrile – there were verbal clashes between the activists and journalists present, and the Jewish Labour MP Ruth Smeeth was reduced to tears. The report stated that Labour “is not overrun by anti-Semitism, Islamophobia or other forms of racism” but that there was an “occasionally toxic atmosphere”. It listed examples of “hateful language” and called on party members to “resist the use of Hitler, Nazi and Holocaust metaphors, distortions and comparisons”. Many Labour supporters were surprised that the report’s 20 recommendations did not include lifetime bans for members found to have shown anti-Semitic behaviour.

Then, on 4 August, it was revealed that Chakrabarti was the sole Labour appointment to the House of Lords in David Cameron’s resignation honours. Both Chakrabarti and Corbyn have denied that the peerage was discussed during the anti-Semitism inquiry. But critics suggested that her acceptance undermined the report and its independence.

In particular, it attracted criticism from members of the UK’s Jewish community. Marie van der Zyl, vice-president of the Board of Deputies of British Jews, said: “This ‘whitewash for peerages’ is a scandal that surely raises serious questions about the integrity of Ms Chakrabarti, her inquiry and the Labour leadership.” A home affairs select committee report into anti-Semitism in the UK has since found that there were grave failings in the report for Labour.

Two further incidents contributed to the decline in Chakrabarti’s reputation: her arrival on Corbyn’s front bench as shadow attorney general and the revelation that her son attends the selective Dulwich College, which costs almost £19,000 a year in fees for day pupils (£39,000 for full boarders). She said that she “absolutely” supports Labour’s opposition to grammar schools but defended her choice to pay for selective education.

Chakrabarti told ITV’s Peston on Sunday: “I live in a nice big house and eat nice food, and my neighbours are homeless and go to food banks. Does that make me a hypocrite, or does it make me someone who is trying to do best, not just for my own family, but for other people’s families, too?”

This was the end for many of those who had respected Chakrabarti – the whisper of hypocrisy became a roar. As the Times columnist Carol Midgley wrote: “You can’t with a straight face champion equality while choosing privilege for yourself.”

Hypocrisy is a charge that has dogged the left for decades (both Diane Abbott and Harriet Harman have fallen foul of the selective school problem). The trouble with having principles, it is said, is that you have to live up to them. Unlike the right, the left prizes purity in its politicians, as Jeremy Corbyn’s squeaky-clean political image shows. Shami Chakrabarti started the year with a campaigning reputation to rival that of the Labour leader, but her poor decisions have all but destroyed her. It’s difficult to recall a time when a liberal icon has fallen so far, so fast. 

Caroline Crampton is assistant editor of the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 20 October 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Brothers in blood