The Friday Arts Diary

Our cultural picks for the week ahead.

Art

George Catlin: American Indian Portraits. National Portrait Gallery, London WC2, 7-23 March

The National Portrait Gallery’s latest exhibition is a collection of over 50 portraits by Pennsylvanian-born artist George Catlin (1796-1872). His portraits were intended to document the Native American peoples and their way of life. They are regarded as an important and evocative record of America’s indigenous peoples. This will be the first time that they have been shown together outside America since they were returned in the 1850s. 

Opera

Written on Skin. Royal Opera House, Covent Garden, London WC2, 8 -22 March

Award-winning director Katie Mitchell brings new light to a tale of deception and guile by author Martin Crimp and composer George Benjamin. Written on Skin draws on a 12th-century Occitan legend about a rich lord, Guillaume de Cabestanh, who commissions a book of  illuminations by an artist. The lord hopes the book will immortalise his political power, as well as documenting a sense of domestic order embodied by his obedient wife Agnes. The process of creating the book is the catalyst for his wife's rebellion. After a first successful attempt at seduction, Agnes uses her new found intimacy with the illuminator to modify the content of the book, forcing the husband, in a final act of provocation, to see her as she really is. Themes of passion, violence and love are given a lick of contemporary paint as the drama unfolds under the gaze of angels who watch over the stage. 

Film

Kinoteka, 11th Polish Film Festival. Various Locations (London, Liverpool, Belfast, Edinburgh) 7- 17 March

This week sees the 11th edition of Polish film festival, Kinoteka taking place in a number of locations in the UK. This year, along with a mix of films by fresh and established directors, Kinoteka will be hosting free film workshops for participants of all ages. These workshops include sessions for writers and directors, and animation workshops for children aged between 10 and 14. A brand new short film competition, held in conjunction with the festival, seeks entries from UK filmmakers inspired by Roman Polanski. 

Theatre

This House. National Theatre, London SE1, until 11 May 

“This country is being kept alive on aspirin, when what it needs is electric bloody shock therapy”

The year is 1974. The location, the House of Commons. The UK faces an economic crisis and a hung parliament. In parliament there reigns a culture hostile to co-operation, where party votes are won or lost by the slenderest margins and fist fights in the Commons bars are a regular occurrence. James Graham’s This House pares down politics to the realities of behind-the-scenes horsetrading.  This House examines some of the main issues facing the Wilson and Callaghan governments up to the vote of no confidence in March 1979. 

Native Americans are the subject of the George Catlin exhibition at the NPG
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In Kid Gloves, Knausgaardian style provides a route through a writer's grief

Adam Mars-Jones has created a clever, stoical and cool account of caring for a dying father.

In bookish circles, it’s pretty commonplace these days to remark on the way in which the spirit of the Norwegian writer Karl Ove Knausgaard hangs over our literary culture – noxious gas or enlivening blast of ­oxygen, depending on your point of view. Nor would I be the first critic to point out the similarities between his prolixity and that of the British novelist Adam Mars-Jones. Reviewing Knausgaard’s My Struggle in the New Yorker, James Wood likened its style – “hundreds of pages of autopsied minutiae” – to that of Mars-Jones’s novels Pilcrow and Cedilla, the first two volumes in a thus far unfinished project in “micro-realism”. But originality be damned: I’m going to say it anyway. As I read Mars-Jones’s new memoir, Kid Gloves: a Voyage Round My Father, it was Knausgaard I thought of repeatedly. Mostly, this was because I simply couldn’t believe I was so fascinated by a book that was at times so very boring.

Mars-Jones is by far the more elegant writer of the two. He is also feline where Knausgaard is only wide-eyed. Nevertheless, they clamber (slowly and with many pauses to consider the view) over comparable territory. What, after all, is Knausgaard’s account of the effect of milk on a bowl of ­cereal compared to Mars-Jones’s disquisition on the subject of orange juice? The Norwegian’s reverie is the longer of the two but it is Mars-Jones who is the more triumphantly banal. “Shopping on a Monday I saw a wide variety of types of orange juice on display in a supermarket and bought large quantities,” he writes early on. I love that “Monday” – it’s so precise. But it also prompts the question: which supermarket, exactly, was he in? Was it the same “large branch of Sainsbury’s” where, three paragraphs later, we find him picking up a carton of buttermilk?

You will think that I am taking the piss. I’m not – or not entirely. For all its pedantic weirdness, Mars-Jones’s memoir, clotted and rich and true, does its job rather well. As the subtitle suggests, at its heart is his tricky relationship with Sir William Mars-Jones, the high court judge who died in 1999. A clever man but also a difficult one (having made a bit of a leap in terms of education and social class, he clung rather ardently to certain comforting reflexes), he is brought to life vividly by his son, who often simply replays their most frustrating conversations. In doing so, Mars-Jones, Jr also tells us something of himself. He comes over as a bit silly and fastidious but also as clever, stoical, kindly and, above all, ever cool in the face of provocation. In this light, his Pooterish digressions are just another symptom of his unnervingly temperate personality, his clinical even-handedness.

His memoir is oddly artless, the stories tumbling out, one after another, like washing pulled from a machine. An account of his father’s better-known cases (he prosecuted in the Moors murders trial) shades into a detour on soup-making; an analysis of Sir William’s retirement – he gravitated, his son writes, towards the state of “inanition” – takes us, almost slyly, to an explanation of why Mars-Jones tenderly associates Badedas with shingles (a friend who had yet to discover he had Aids, of which shingles can be a symptom, bathed in it).

The reader waits, and waits, for the big scene, for the moment when Mars-Jones tells his father, a regular kind of homophobe, that he is gay. But in a strange way (it does arrive eventually) this is beside the point. From the outset, we know that it was Adam, not his brothers, who looked after his widowed father in his last days, sharing his flat in Gray’s Inn Square; so we know already that an accommodation has been reached, however horrifying Pater’s reaction was at the time. (Mars-Jones, Sr suggested that his son could not possibly be gay because, as a boy, he played with himself during a film starring Jacqueline Bisset; more cruelly, he delegated his clerk to research the possibilities of testosterone treatment for his son.) In any case, there is a universality here: for which of us, gay or not, hasn’t trembled on hearing our mother say, down the line from home, the dread phrase “Dad would like a word”?

After his father’s death, Mars-Jones attempts to continue to live in his parents’ home, insisting that the inn will have to evict him if it wants him gone. When it does turf him out, he writes a piece for the Times in which he denounces its members – in ­effect, his parents’ friends and neighbours. Is this just the response of a more than usually broke freelance writer? Or is it that of a man in deep grief?

Perhaps it’s both. Mars-Jones tells us quite a bit about his parlous finances but relatively little of his feelings of abandonment. He was closer to his mother. It is more than 15 years since his father died. And yet, here it is, his book. Those Knausgaardian impulses of his – perhaps they’re just displacement for his loss, word-fill for a void so unfathomably big that it still takes him by surprise, even now. 

Kid Gloves: a Voyage Round My Father is available now from Particular Books (£16.99)

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 27 August 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Isis and the new barbarism