In the Critics this week

Simon Kuper on Raymond Domenech, Chris Mullin on Simon Hoggart, Val McDermid interviewed and Kate Mossman on Scott Walker.

In the Critics section of this week’s New Statesman, Simon Kuper, author most recently of The Football Men, reviews Tout seul, the memoir of former French coach Raymond Domenech. This is, Kuper writes, “a story of modern France and modern football” – as well as a “business book in reverse: a study in how not to manage people”. In his account of his years at the helm of the French team (2004-2010), Domenech “constantly breaks footballing taboos by revealing intimate moments behind closed doors”. None of the stars of the French game – Zinedine Zidane, Nicolas Anelka, Samir Nasri and Franck Ribéry, to name only four – emerge unscathed. As for Domenech, he appears not to have understood the young men in his charge. “Domenech seems to have regarded many of his players with contempt,” Kuper notes. What’s more, “Tout seul never mentions the issue of ethnicity but these players overwhelmingly grew up in black and brown ghettos far from the French mainstream.”

Also in Books: David Herman reviews In Two Minds, Kate Bassett’s biography of Jonathan Miller (“one of the great figures of British culture over the past 50 years”); Lesley Chamberlain on Benoit Peeters’s biography of Jacques Derrida (“He buried philosophy and left a unique philosophical example in his wake”); Leo Robson reviews Both Flesh and Not, a posthumous collection of essays by David Foster Wallace (“It is … a shame that there now exists in book form evidence of Wallace as a practitioner of modest journalistic undertakings"); Chris Mullin on Simon Hoggart’s collection of parliamentary sketches, House of Fun (“Simon Hoggart is a very wicked man”); and Amanda Craig recommends children’s books for Christmas.

In the Books Interview, Philip Maughan talks to crime writer Val McDermid, who tells him that “crime is a good vehicle for looking at society in general, because the nature of the crime novel means that you draw on a wide group of social possibilities”.

Elsewhere in the Critics: architect Amanda Levete writes the second in a series of pieces charting the progress of her firm AL_A’s scheme for a new gallery at the Victoria and Albert Museum in London; Rachel Cooke reviews the BBC2 documentary Inside Claridge’s; Dannie Abse offers a poem for the run-up to Christmas, “Pre-Xmas at L’Artista”; the NS’s pop critic Kate Mossman wonders how Scott Walker’s reputation has survived so long; Ryan Gilbey finds much to admire in Peter Jackson’s The Hobbit: an Unexpected Journey; and Antonia Quirke enjoys a Radio 4 series on Grimm’s fairy tales. PLUS: Will Self’s Madness of Crowds.

Raymond Domenech despairs at his team during the 2010 World Cup (Photo: Getty Images)
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As the falcon flew towards us, its face looked alarmingly like Hannibal Lecter’s muzzle

In your faces, twitchers!

The BBC2 programme Springwatch may have made the RSPB’s reserve at Minsmere in Suffolk the Mecca of popular birdwatching, but Cley on the north Norfolk coast is still its Alexandria, a haven for wanderers of all species and a repository of ancient and arcane knowledge. I learned what little I know about birding there in the early 1970s, sitting at the feet of the bird artist Richard Richardson as he gave his sea-wall seminars on the intricacies of behaviour and identification. Richard could put a name to any bird, but he never believed that this process rigidly defined it.

The reserve at Cley has been gentrified recently, with smart boardwalks and a solar-powered visitors’ centre, but something of its old, feral spirit remains. On a trip early this winter, we were greeted by birders with the news: “Saker! Middle hide.” Sakers are big, largely Middle Eastern falcons, favourites with rich desert falconers. No convincingly wild individual has ever been seen in Norfolk, so it was likely that this bird had escaped from captivity, which reduced its cred a mite.

The middle hide proved to be full of earnest and recondite debate. The consensus now was that the bird was not a saker but a tundra peregrine – the form known as calidus that breeds inside the Arctic Circle from Lapland eastwards. We had missed the first act of the drama, in which the bird had ambushed a marsh harrier twice its size and forced it to abandon its prey. It was now earthbound, mantled over its dinner on the far side of a lagoon. It was bigger than a standard peregrine, and in the low sun its back looked almost charcoal, flaring into unusually high white cheeks behind its moustachial stripes.

Then it took off. It swung in a low arc around the perimeter of the lagoon and straight towards our hide. It flew so fast that I couldn’t keep it focused in my binoculars, and for a moment its face looked alarmingly like Hannibal Lecter’s muzzle. At the last minute, when it seemed as if it would crash through the window, it did a roll-turn and showed off the full detail of its tessellated under-plumage. In your faces, twitchers!

It was a thrilling display, but that didn’t entirely quieten the identity anxieties in the hide. One or two dissenters wondered if it might be a hybrid bird, or just a large but eccentrically marked common peregrine. The majority stuck with the tundra option. This form migrates in the autumn to sub-equatorial Africa, and days of north-easterlies may have blown it off-course, along with other bizarre vagrants: an albatross had passed offshore the day before.

Calidus means “spirited” in Latin. The Arctic firebird treated us to ten minutes of pure mischief. It winnowed low over flocks of lapwing, scythed through the screaming gulls, not seeming to be seriously hunting, but taunting a blizzard of panicky birds skywards. At one point, it hovered above a hapless tufted duck that dived repeatedly, only to resurface with the quivering scimitar still above it. Then it took another strafing run at the hide.

Does it matter whether the peregrine was a rare variety, or just an odd individual? Naturalists often categorise themselves as either “lumpers”, happy with the great unlabelled commonwealth of life, or “splitters”, rejoicing in the minutiae of diversity. I swing from one to the other, but, in the end, I can’t see them as contradictory positions.

The bird from the tundra was a hot-tempered peregrine to the core. But its strange facial markings – however much their interpretation panders to the vanity of human watchers – are the outward signs of a unique and self-perpetuating strain, adapted to extreme conditions and yet making a 6,000-mile migration that might take in a visit to a Norfolk village. Lives intersect, hybridise, diverge, in the counterpoint between what Coleridge called “uniformity” and “omniformity”.

Next week: Felicity Cloake on food

This article first appeared in the 01 December 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Age of outrage