In the Critics this week

Sarah Churchwell on Donald Spoto, Helen Lewis on Grace Coddington and Claire Lowdon on Nancy Huston.

In the Critics section of this week’s New Statesman, Sarah Churchwell reviews The Redgraves: a Family Epic by Donald Spoto. Although the book is billed as a biography of a theatrical dynasty, it is in fact focused almost exclusively on the pater familias, Michael Redgrave. “As seems to have been the case in life,” Churchwell writes, “[Michael Redgrave] is the centre, the rest of the family the orbiting moons.” Spoto pays particular attention to Redgrave’s bisexuality. “Spoto strongly implies that Redgrave’s primary erotic energies were directed toward men.” Though, Churchwell points out, “he also had several long-term sexual relationships with women.” There is a more serious problem with Spoto’s book, however. “By the end,” Churchwell notes, “his generally admiring tone has become positively hagiographic … [I]t is time for celebrity biographies to begin to aspire to something more commensurate with the power of their subjects.”

Also in Books: Helen Lewis reviews Grace: a Memoir by the creative director of US Vogue, Grace Coddington (“Coddington’s crashing lack of interest in anything non-fashion-related begins to grate”); Claire Lowdon reviews Infrared by Nancy Huston, the novel that this week won Literary Review’s Bad Sex in Fiction award (“The sex – there is a lot of sex – is truly terrible, worse than DH Lawrence on a bad day”); Michael Sayeau reviews Travels in China by Roland Barthes (“Barthes took [his trip to China in 1974] as an opportunity to experience a real-life manifestation of the politics that he, at a safe distance, had espoused”); Bryan Appleyard reviews Inside the Centre, Ray Monk’s biography of the father of the atomic bomb, J Robert Oppenheimer (“Oppenheimer’s [career can be seen] as a failure to grasp the way his inner world would be seen by the outside”); and Peter Popham pays tribute to Sir Geoffrey Hill at 80, Britain’s best living poet.

Elsewhere in the Critics: “The Coup”, a short story by Tom Rachman; Ryan Gilbey on Seven Psychopaths, directed by Martin McDonagh; Alexandra Coghlan on English National Opera’s Carmen; Rachel Cooke on Christmas television adverts; Antonia Quirke on a Radio 4 interview with Vladimir Ashkenazy.

Michael Redgrave with his three children Vanessa, Lynn and Corin. Photograph: Evening Standard/Getty Images
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How that deleted lesbian scene in Love Actually should have gone

If the film was made in a more utopian 2003, this is what it would have looked like.

Here are some things that “haven’t” made me cry in recent days: “She’s The One” by Robbie Williams coming on the radio in a 3am Uber; my cat farting on my boob; the deleted lesbian storyline in Love Actually. No, the recently unearthed segment of the schmaltziest film of an entire decade in which the resplendent Frances de la Tour plays the terminally ill partner of a “stern headmistress” with a marshmallow interior (Anne Reid) most definitely did not make me sob like someone’s recently divorced uncle spending Christmas Day in a Wetherspoons.

The posh older lesbian archetype, it turns out, is something I find quite affecting. Reid and de la Tour play one of those couples who have (probably…) overcome so many obstacles in order to be lesbians together. Poshness. Being at an all-girls boarding school in which lesbianism was simultaneously everywhere and nowhere. More poshness. Section 28. Gazing longingly at each other while one tinkles Chopin’s Nocturnes on a dilapidated piano, in a crumbling stately home, and the other sips brandy from a chipped crystal tumbler; both daring not taste the forbidden fruit of the poetess Sappho, etc, etc. Radclyffe Hall. Horses. Poor hygiene.

Unfortunately, seeing as Love Actually was released in 2003 – roughly a decade before people began pretending to care about lesbians – Richard Curtis was forced to cut the one genuinely moving plotline (which actually contains none of the above, but I think heavily implies it) from his cinematic ode to bollocks. But perhaps, had the only non-hetero, non-fucking annoying couple been less of an afterthought and more, say, utterly crucial to the narrative, things could’ve been different. Here’s how, in a more utopian 2003, that might have been achieved:

Maggie Smith and Judi Dench (seriously, how did these women get away with not being in Love Actually in the first place?) are militant communists. Judi Dench is a sculptor who used to drink schnapps with Ulrike Meinhof. In the 1980s, she moved to Cuba and became a professional recluse. Maggie Smith, on the other hand, is someone’s spinster great aunt. It doesn’t really matter whose but, for the sake of argument, let’s say that ginger guy who used to be in My Family and those BT ads. (Just a reminder, his actual character in Love Actually is the one whose entire personality is being a bit of a sexist virgin and having an English accent which eventually gets him laid by several American women.)

Anyway, Maggie Smith’s character, let’s call her Edith, has spent her whole life being both a secret lesbian and a secret communist. On holiday in Cuba, she bumps into Judi Dench’s character, let’s call her Annie, and they hook up. Graphically and repeatedly. And, before I’m accused of deus ex machina laziness, please be reminded that this is Love freaking Actually.

Edith and Annie decide that because they’re quite old and don’t care any more, they’re going to go back to London and assassinate the terrible Hugh Grant prime minister. Through yet more hilarious deus ex machina, they manage to sneak into No 10 late at night, with handguns. Hugh Grant is all, “Blimey, who are you.” Edith is all, “your worst nightmare, bitch”. Bear in mind the audience is now shitting itself laughing because an old posh lady just talked all gangster. Then Annie pistol whips him and he passes out in the most Hugh Grant way possible ie he says, “oh dear,” then hits the floor like an untalented, floppy haired douche. When he comes to, he’s tied to a chair in his office. At this point he remembers that he was supposed to turn up at Tiffany from EastEnders’s house and declare his love for her. He begs Annie and Edith to let him phone her. “As it’s Christmas”, they decide to let the fucker do one last really corny thing before he dies. There are no bodyguards or anything, by the way. Remember, this is a film in which – post-9/11 – a child (albeit a white one) runs through airport security and isn’t shot 17 times in the head.

So, the PM phones up Tiffany from EastEnders and says, “Look. I… there’s something I wanted to tell you. And I was planning on doing it in person but …gosh this is all so terribly inconvenient… I’m being held hostage by lesbian communists. I do hope you can forgive me.”

After some more “frightfully English” bumbling crap, Edith puts her gun to Hugh Grant’s head and pulls the trigger. Her and Annie then make out for like seven minutes. Eventually, a cockney policeman played by Timothy Spall shows up and decides to let the two women off, again, “as it’s Christmas.” Also, he mentions, “No one liked that tosser anyway.”

“She’s the One” by Robbie Willams begins to play.

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