To infinity and beyond

<strong>The Stone Gods</strong>

Jeanette Winterson <em>Hamish Hamilton, 224pp, £16.99 </em>

Jeanette Winterson's recent novels have been attempts to reinvent the form for a modern age, strange and beautiful parables that dispense with straightforward narratives; cutting and pasting and following Christina Rosetti's injunction to "tell the truth, but tell it slant". (In Lighthousekeeping, her narrator lives in a sloping house, so that she literally "came at life at an angle".) Into these experiments with language and story she mixes what she calls "cover versions" - fragments of other books, other histories, setting up echoes between past, present and future.

The Stone Gods begins deceptively, as what looks like a comic-book futuristic dystopia - recognisably our world with its flaws writ large. All the tropes are present and correct: robots, hover-bikes, interactive wall screens, commonplace space travel, plastic surgery so ubiquitous that everyone looks like a film star (even the robots). On this futuristic planet, Orbus, are three major powers: the Central Power, whose president wields military and economic supremacy; the communist Sino-Moscow Pact; and the Eastern Caliphate, retarded by clinging to religion.

But Orbus is dying, its natural resources wasted, its atmosphere rapidly becoming hostile to life. Billie, a scientist, is sent on a pioneering mission with a highly advanced Robo sapiens, Spike (designed to look like a perfect woman, but incapable of emotion), to set up a base on a newly discovered world. Planet Blue is a pristine globe to which the wealthier citizens of Orbus plan to relocate (once they have eliminated the pesky dinosaurs by redirecting an asteroid into the planet's path).

Just as it becomes clear that Orbus is not our future but our past - the origin of a species condemned to repeat its mistakes - and you begin to think this is all an amusing but rather obvious satire, the narrative jack-knifes and begins again, with another Billie, one of Captain Cook's ship's hands stranded on the shore of Easter Island in the late 18th century. Here, a people stands on the brink of extinction because they have plundered their island's resources to build their monstrous idols, only to destroy them in tribal rivalries as the island withers. As a microcosm, it's perfect; in any setting, it seems, humans (read: men) are doomed to rape the planet and destroy one another.

And then we jolt back, to another Billie and another Spike, in another apparently futuristic world. Billie finds a manuscript on the Tube, entitled The Stone Gods (it later turns out she is its author). But this Billie's world really is our own, in the very near future, in the aftermath of the unthinkable - nuclear strikes on the cities of the west by the eastern powers we failed to contain. "Post-3 War", as the inevitable soundbite has it, London has been rebuilt as Tech City by a global corporation called MORE, which owns everything and employs everyone. Currency is obsolete; MORE pays its workers in light, food, shelter. Beyond the perimeter of MORE's domain is Wreck City, a lawless zone where freedom of thought still survives. Beyond this is the Dead Forest, home of all those crippled and mutated in the nuclear attacks, a colony of half-humans scratching an existence. Tech City pretends they do not exist. Food parcels are dropped by helicopter. "No one looked down and no one looked up." Capitalist society, counterculture and untouchables, neatly geographically segregated.

The Stone Gods is a Borgesian parable about history and repetition and a liberal's cri de coeur about what we have done and go on doing to ourselves. Towards the end, the carefully lacquered, drily mocking surface of the story breaks open and the passionate lament that drives the book erupts: "And my tears are for the planet because I love it and because we're killing it, and my tears are for these wars and all this loss, and for the children who have no childhood, and for my childhood . . ."

But it is more than this; it is also a parable about love. A recurring image is the signal sent out into the vast darkness by those lost or abandoned, forlorn but hopeful - believing in the possibility that someone similar enough to ourselves might hear and understand, and come through the universe to find us. The Billies fall in love with the Spikes, and a robot engineered to make decisions founded on available data, unclouded by emotion, develops the capacity to love in defiance of its programming. Both the female Billies remain frustratingly shadowy as characters, so that their reflections on love and longing seem generalised, as if they were quoting lines of poetry rather than speaking from the heart. But this is a small quibble. The Stone Gods is a dazzling feat of storytelling that travels from the personal to the political and on towards the infinite.

This article first appeared in the 01 October 2007 issue of the New Statesman, Spies and their lies

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Do you have to look like someone to play them in a film?

Physical resemblance between an actor and the real-life figure they are portraying is highly prized, but there’s much more to a successful biopic than the right face under a good wig.

The Program is a film in search of a hero. It never really finds one. On one hand it has the crusading journalist David Walsh, played by Chris O’Dowd, who risks the derision of his colleagues and the scorn of the cycling industry to expose Lance Armstrong as a drugs cheat. On the other, it has Armstrong himself (Ben Foster), propelling himself to multiple Tour de France victories and into the hearts of his countrymen by foul means, not fair. It feels hard to root for Walsh: he’s on the side of truth, but he never comes to life as a character, and the movie hits a slump whenever we’re back in the newsroom with him. Then again, we know we shouldn’t get behind the cyclist. But if the film is conflicted over whose story it’s telling, there is at least one element about which there can be no argument: Ben Foster’s resemblance to Armstrong.

It is not a prerequisite that an actor playing a real figure must be able to swap places with them unnoticed in an identity parade, but Foster could certainly pass that test if it were. Both men have their features crammed into the centre of their faces, lending them a concentrated intensity. And Foster has captured the intentness of Armstrong’s expressions – that taut downward curve in the mouth that looks like an exaggerated frown as drawn by a child.

For the biopic performer, there are several options when it comes to physical accuracy. There is the simple, almost effortless mimicry – a classic example being Ben Kingsley in Richard Attenborough’s Gandhi. (There have been occasions on which newspapers have printed pictures of Kingsley to accompany a story about the real Gandhi. Let’s blame that on the actor’s persuasive ability to inhabit the part, rather than any laziness in the media.)


Where there is no overwhelming natural similarity, this can be helped along by a recognisable accoutrement or physical characteristic. I wouldn’t swear that Robert Downey Jnr was the spit of Charlie Chaplin (in another Attenborough film, Chaplin).


Or that you couldn’t tell Salma Hayek from Frida Kahlo (in Frida) but it certainly helped that the former had that universally familiar toothbrush-moustache to trick our eyes, and the latter sported a convincing unibrow.


Even once the physical side is in the bag, there is the matter of poise and demeanour to consider. Did Helen Mirren look like Elizabeth II in The Queen (another Frears) or on stage in The Audience? Not especially. But then the bit that isn’t covered by hair, make-up, wardrobe and physiognomy is called “acting”. It should, if all goes according to plan, render cosmetic objections irrelevant. Look at Gary Oldman with the black porcupine spikes and milky-white pallor of Sid Vicious in Sid & Nancy. We can see that’s a fancy-dress Sid. But Oldman’s self-belief pushes him, and us, over the line. We buy it. His Joe Orton (Frears yet again: Prick Up Your Ears) is even better, perhaps because he shares with the playwright a natural knowingness that lights them both up from within.

My own favourite sorts of biopic actors are those that succeed through sheer force of will. They don’t look like the people they’re playing, and only the most cursory attempts have been made to convince us they do, but their own internal conviction overrides any complaint. Anthony Hopkins did a fine job of playing the lead in Surviving Picasso but I prefer him in two movies where he had to take more of a running jump: Nixon in Nixon and Hitchcock in Hitchcock. No one ever said about Richard Nixon and Anthony Hopkins: “Isn’t it funny how you never see them in the same room?” But there was something in the slightly delusional casting that made sense in a film about Nixon – never a man, after all, to face the truth when he thought a bald lie would do the job just as well. And by the end of Oliver Stone’s impressively controlled movie, Hopkins had done it. He had strong-armed the audience and bent the whole endeavour to his will. The same was true in Hitchcock: he expanded into a part as though it were an oversized suit he was convinced he could fill. It was a confidence trick. Doesn’t that go for most acting?

It doesn’t always work. Philip Seymour Hoffman as Capote? The physical disparity is so great (compare it to Toby Jones, far better-suited to the role, in Infamous, which opened around the same time) that it seems to make the effort visible. Sean Penn as Harvey Milk in Gus Van Sant’s Milk? Just about. The bubbly enthusiasm of the performance is very winning, just as Milk himself was; it’s a charm offensive, a campaign. Like Hopkins as Nixon, it suits the part. Denzel Washington as Malcolm X in the Spike Lee film of the same name? Yes: he has the looks and the charisma. Josh Brolin as George W Bush in (Stone again) W? Remarkably, yes, even though he’s too bulky. His physicality is reduced magically by the character’s small-mindedness and inexperience. Forest Whitaker as Idi Amin in The Last King of Scotland is good but he’s too actorly and not terrifying enough – unlike Yaphet Kotto in the same role in Raid on Entebbe.

Awards season is upon us, so there will be more games of compare-and-contrast: Johnny Depp as the criminal James “Whitey” Bulger in Black Mass, Michael Fassbender in Steve Jobs. Don’t talk to me about Joseph Gordon-Levitt as Phillipe Petit in The Walk. Good film but why have they tinkered digitally with the actor’s imploring eyes? He looks like a motion-capture version of himself at times. But no one can seize the Complete Lack of Physical Resemblance prize from Benedict Cumberbatch, who seems not to even believe in himself as Julian Assange in The Fifth Estate.

Though with his elfin eyes and silver mane, Cumberbatch is a shoo-in if they ever make Legolas: The Later Years.

“The Program” is released 16 October.

Ryan Gilbey is the New Statesman's film critic. He is also the author of It Don't Worry Me (Faber), about 1970s US cinema, and a study of Groundhog Day in the "Modern Classics" series (BFI Publishing). He was named reviewer of the year in the 2007 Press Gazette awards.