In the Critics this week

Jonathan Lethem on Philip Roth and Steven Poole on David Hendy's latest book.

In the Critics section of this week’s New Statesman, American novelist Jonathan Lethem pays tribute to Philip Roth, who turns 80 this month. Reading Roth as a young man, Lethem writes, illuminated “something aggravated and torrential in my voice” – something specifically Jewish. “As Roth points out, the books aren’t Jewish because they have Jews in them. The books are Jewish in how they won’t shut up or cease contradicting themselves, they’re Jewish in the way they’re sprung both from harangue and from defence against harangue, they’re Jewishly ruminative and provocative.”

In Books, Steven Poole reviews David Hendy’s Noise: a Human History of Sound and Listening. “Hendy’s emphasis is on championing noise as a vehicle of sociality,” writes Poole. Hendy devotes a chapter to the noise of stadium crowds but, Poole notes, “does not mention the most notorious instrument of sporting mob dictatorship. I mean the vuvuzela, the plastic horn whose aggregated cacophonous buzz-farting ruined the auditory atmosphere of the 2010 World Cup”.

Also in Books: Alwyn W Turner reviews Mod: a Very British Style by Richard Weight (“Born in the affluence of Harold Macmillan’s Britain, mod was a cross-class coalition of youth, bringing together the art school and the assembly line …”); Lucy Wadham reviews Marcela Iacub’s novelised “memoir” of her affair with Dominique Strauss-Kahn (“There are moments when I feel that as long as I live … France will remain forever a mystery to me. Reading Marcela Iacub’s books Belle et bête … was one such moment”); Sarah Churchwell reviews O My America! Second Acts in a New World by Sara Wheeler (“Wheeler wants to claim more significance for these women than perhaps they merit”).

Elsewhere in the Critics: Ryan Gilbey reviews Danny Boyle’s Trance and Ken Loach’s The Spirit of ’45 (“That The Spirit of ’45 survives its simplifications is due to the sincerity and urgency of Loach’s argument. And, regrettably, to its pertinence”); Antonia Quirke listens to the first episode of David Hendy’s 30-part history of noise on Radio 4 (“this sounds like the most sub-avant-garde and brilliant new programme on BBC radio”); Rachel Cooke is disappointed by the BBC’s adaptation of The Lady Vanishes, though she concedes that the performances are “universally lovely”; Ollie Brock visits an exhibition of the archive of the writer Roberto Bolano in Barcelona (“For true Bolanistas … the most interesting items will be glimpses of … the ‘possible books’ to come, the unpublished manuscripts …”); Kate Mossman reviews What About Now, the new album by Bon Jovi (“Hair metal … has had a bit of a reassessment in the past few years …”.)

PLUS: “King Vulture”, a poem by Joe Dunthorne, and Will Self’s Madness of Crowds.

 

Philip Roth photographed by Eric Thayer. (Photo: © Eric Thayer)
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How a dramatized account of Mark Duggan's death found a prime-time audience

I usually have an aversion to actors pretending to be police officers in this kind of scenario, but Lawful Killing: Mark Duggan was done with surprising care and nuance.

The BBC grows ever more lily-livered in the matter of current affairs. It would, you feel, rather devote an hour to yet another historian in a silly costume than to a piece of investigative journalism – the problem being that while the latter often has serious consequences, the wives of Henry VIII, being dead, cannot be libelled, and thus shows about them are consequence-free.

But what’s this? When I saw it, I had to rub my eyes. Lawful Killing: Mark Duggan, a 90-minute film at 8.30pm on BBC1 (5 December) about the shooting of the 29-year-old Londoner by the police in 2011? Who commissioned this extravaganza of inquiry, and by what strange magic did they secure for it such a whopping great slot in the pre-Christmas schedule? I would love to know. If you have the answers, do please drop me a postcard.

What made it even more amazing was that this documentary contained no hint of a scoop. It was revelatory, but its disclosures were achieved cumulatively, through the careful pulling together of every possible version of the events of that August day: wildly conflicting stories that its director, Jaimie D’Cruz, told through a combination of interviews and reconstructions.

I usually have an aversion to actors pretending to be police officers in this kind of scenario; they often come over like The Sweeney gone wrong. But the dramatisations in Lawful Killing had a terrible veracity, being based almost entirely on transcripts of the real thing (inquest accounts, witnesses’ interviews, and so on). Every voice seemed to reveal something, however unwittingly. In these accounts, the attentive viewer heard uncertainty and exaggeration, ambivalence and self-aggrandisement, misunderstanding and back-covering – all those human things that make the so-called truth so elusive and so damnably difficult to pin to the page.

A lot of the supposed intelligence that caused the police to follow Duggan that day remains secret, and I can’t see this changing any time soon. For this reason, I am not qualified, even after seeing the film, to say whether or not he was holding a gun as he emerged from a minicab on that warm afternoon. (The inquest jury decided that Duggan threw a weapon on to a nearby patch of grass before he was – lawfully – shot by an armed officer, while the Independent Police Complaints Commission, which had access to the secret intelligence, decided he was killed while holding one.) However, other things do seem to me to be crystal clear, and chief among them is the strange, cowardly and stupidly inept behaviour of the police immediately after his death.

In those hours, rumours swirled. At Duggan’s mother’s house, the family gathered, expecting a knock on the door at any time. How, they wondered, can a person be dead when the police have not yet informed their closest relatives? But no one came. The next day, the extended clan went to Tottenham Police Station where, again, they waited, for several hours. “Someone will be with you shortly,” they were told. Still, no one came. It was, incidentally, as they finally made their way back home that Duggan’s sister Kay Harrison saw a burning car. It was the first sign of the nationwide riots that – speaking of consequences – ultimately resulted in the deaths of five people.

Meanwhile on Channel 4 is a show for people for whom the Netflix Gilmore Girls reboot isn’t sugary enough (I can’t imagine who they are, these addicts with rotting black stumps for teeth). I was secretly hopeful that This Is Us (Tuesdays, 9pm), which is made by NBC, would be a bit like Thirtysomething, the touchy-feely series about a bunch of baby-boomer friends that I watched obsessively as a sixth former.

But, no. This is the kind of show in which a guy finds his long-lost parent, only to discover that the noble, adorable daddy is – boo hoo – dying of cancer. Its principal characters, three siblings, don’t talk to each other, or to anyone else. Rather, they make speeches, most of which come in two basic formats: mushy and super-mushy. This is schmaltz on toast with a mighty vat of syrup on the side.

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 08 December 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Brexit to Trump