Reviews round-up

The critics' verdicts on Richard Weight, Sheryl Sandberg and Rory Carroll.

Mod: A Very British Style by Richard Weight

In Mod: A Very British Style, Richard Weight tells the story of Britain’s first and most influential youth cult, charting its origins in the Soho jazz scene in the 1950s. Writing in the Guardian, John Harris says that reading Mod conjured Proustian flashbacks for him and that as an adolescent growing up in the 1970s, “I was consumed by my first taste of what Mod had left behind, and it changed me forever: the initial rites included a poleaxed listen to the Who's My Generation.” Written by an academic, the book attempts to establish that Mod was not only the first distinctively British youth culture but a popular form of modernism – “an avant garde reaction to mainstream aesthetics, morality and politics.” However, Harris explains that uncertainty clouds Mod’s origins and its legacy: "Perhaps … we are all modernists now". Harris provides a critical analysis of the style: “Weight opts for a scattershot narrative, brimming with second-hand quotations, a bit like an undergraduate dissertation.” The main criticism is that the although the Mod ideal boils down to an emphasis on sharpness and an attention to detail, the book in contrast is rambling and so “it ends up missing its target, by miles.”

In contrast, Walter Ellis writes in the Spectator that Richard Weight has crafted an “elegant and thoughtful compendium” showing that there was more to the youthful revolt than Beatlemania and the Who. Ellis describes Mod as a social movement wrapped up in a fashion statement, and that Weight’s thesis can be summarised as showing that the Mods were a “populist version of the Enlightenment”. He concludes by saying “what matters is that he has done his job well” and is sceptical of what future cultural historians will make of the youth of today.  

Lean In: Women, Work, and the Will to Lead by Sheryl Sandberg

Sheryl Sandberg, chief operating officer of Facebook, gave a motivational Ted talk in 2010 about women in the boardroom, and Zoe Williams writes in the Guardian that her book Lean In is an “elongation” of this speech. Williams explains that this “is not a book about how women can become more equal: this is a book about how women can become more like Sheryl Sandberg”. It is a “goal-driven, ideology-free approach has some fascinating insights into the world of business itself”, and Sandberg’s thought processes leading her to Google and interview process for Facebook are “magnetic.” Sandberg’s approach is “emollient and inoffensive” and brings in relevant experiences of her own, “describing the "damned if you do, doomed if you don't" bind that women find themselves in if they boast about their achievements. Williams points out that despite winning a Henry Ford scholarship for her attainments in her first year at business school, jointly with six men, Sandberg didn't consider telling anyone, and that it is disappointing that a woman in the 1980s didn’t have the “spine to admit she was clever”.

On the other hand, Anne-Marie Slaughter in the New York Times writes that Sandberg is a “feminist champion” and that Lean In is “full of many such gems, slogans that ambitious women would do well to pin up on their wall”. For example, the phrase “It’s a jungle gym, not a ladder” describes the many different paths careers can take, sideways and even downward on their way up. At the same time, she concedes that the advice to young women to be more ambitious “can sound like a finger-wagging admonishment when taken out of context”. Slaughter explains that “Sandberg is not just tough, however. She also comes across as compassionate, funny, honest and likable.” Sandberg’s point in a nutshell is that “notwithstanding the many gender biases that still operate all over the workplace, excuses and justifications won’t get women anywhere. Instead, believe in yourself, give it your all.”

Comandante: Inside Hugo Chavez’s Venezuela by Rory Carroll

The Telegraph’s David Blair humourously writes “To survive in the court of King Chávez, you had to 'mould' your face into a mask and 'arrange features into appropriate expressions when on camera,'" writes [rory] Carroll. 'This,' he adds, 'was tricky when the comandante did something foolish or bizarre.’”

Rory Carroll’s latest book, Comandante has received much praise for the nuanced profile it offers of the “Bolivarian Revolutionary”, Hugo Chavez. Carroll, who has experience in reporting from regions, such as Iraq, with hostile political conditions, spent his next assignment in Venezuela. He reported from 2006-12 from a country where corruption, bureaucracy and crime rates were quotidian fare. Blair praises Carroll’s book as “beautifully written and acutely perceptive book … on the nature of power, in all its corruption and absurdity.” He later adds: “Now that the comandante has passed on, Carroll will have to update his account. When he does, this book will deserve to be the definitive work on Chávez in the English language.” The Financial Times’s Julia Sweig also praises Comandante as “a compellingly written, keenly reported portrait of Venezuela…He writes with tremendous pathos in explaining Chavez’s appeal to the millions of poor Venezuelans who, for decades felt, and largely were, invisible to the ruling elite.” She highlights how the book explains the Venezuelan public’s changing opinion of Chavez; having seen him as the face of change, they came to realise that he differed little from those who came before him.

The Independent’s Oliver Balch adds that the book “excels in showing what happens when a self believing ideologue grasps the reins of government and determines not to let go. It’s military politics, without the guns: outflanking opponents, consolidating power, barking orders, reprimanding ministers.” Balch observes how Carroll’s observations grow increasingly critical and animated towards the end of the book, yet he states this “criticism is built on an earnest attempt to understand a fascinating politician.”

Balch, Blair and Sweig all applaud Carroll’s favourable position to provide an insightful portrait of Chavez; which as Balch rightly observes, reveals “a more intimate image of Chavez than his own propaganda allows”.

A policeman escorts a teenager in 1964 after violence between Mods and Rockers in Margate, Getty Images, photographer Ronald Dumont, Hulton Archive
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The non-fiction novel that takes readers inside the head of Raoul Moat

Andrew Hankinson’s depiction of Moat’s unravelling is being marketed as biography/true crime, but its semi-fictional world is something more complex.

In July 2010, just weeks after becoming Prime Minister, David Cameron expanded upon his vision for the “Big Society” that he had first unveiled at the 2009 party conference. It promised a “big advance for people power”, in which individuals would be responsible for their actions. “To be British is to be sceptical of authority and the powers that be,” he told conference. “There is a ‘we’ in politics, and not just a ‘me’.”

That same month, just two days after being released from HMP Durham for the assault of a child, the self-employed gardener and former doorman Raoul Moat shot and injured his ex-girlfriend Samantha Stobbart and killed her boyfriend Chris Brown, who he wrongly believed to be a policeman. Moat went on the run, shooting a policeman at point-blank range, then fleeing to the rural Northumberland town of Rothbury. For a week, the story of this exotically named, delusional man who left behind a wealth of material, including letters and four-hour-long Dictaphone recordings, was given joint top billing with Cameron’s “Big Society” – soon to be as dead and buried as Moat, who, cornered by police after a seven-day hunt, killed himself.

The journalist Andrew Hankinson’s depiction of Moat’s unravelling is being marketed as biography/true crime, yet really is a non-fiction novel, in which writer and reader squat inside a mind that moves from irrational anger and self-pity to despondency. Moat’s is a solipsistic narration, in which he is the perennial victim – of circumstance, enemies, authoritarian bureaucracy, police harassment and past lovers. There is little room here for the outside world. Like most outlaws, Moat believed that everyone had failed him. “All my life I wanted death,” he laments.

The real-life Moat story, however, was more than that of a lone fugitive. It was also about rolling news coverage and Facebook groups, some of which celebrated Moat as a Ned Kelly-type folk hero – a “#ledge”. When Cameron denounced him in parliament he inadvertently elevated Moat to a clearer anti-authoritarian position: the antithesis of a “Big Society” citizen, in fact. It is also the story of the Northumbria Police force, which did its very best to show that it had everything under control when it really didn’t.

And, bringing an element of farce to a tragedy, it featured the subplot of a thoroughly leathered Paul Gascoigne – the most exciting and idiosyncratic footballer of his generation – tearing through the countryside in a taxi with a fishing rod, a dressing gown and a rotisserie chicken in an attempt to bring a sense of calm to the situation. “All I want to do is shout, ‘Moaty, it’s  Gazza! Where are you?’” he explained en route during a live radio phone-in. “And I guarantee he will shout his name out: ‘I’m here.’” Gascoigne’s pantomime intervention added to the chaos: now another disenfranchised northern male was running amok. The parallels were evident: Gazza’s career had been beset by injury and alcoholism, Moat’s bodybuilder’s physique was no longer in prime condition after weight loss in prison. Both were separated from their families and prone to self-examination. Onlookers knew it could quite easily have been Gazza holed up in those woods.

Other exponents of the non-fiction novel such as Norman Mailer and Gordon Burn would surely have put all this in, yet Hankinson chooses not to cover any of the peripheral subplots, instead using a second-person narrative to burrow deep into Moat’s paranoia, sourcing all his text from real material. This narrative sacrifice in favour of a singular voice gives the book thrust and authenticity of voice, and manages to show the nuances of a man who was articulate and often capable, and had reached out to social services on many occasions for help. None of which excuses Moat’s action – but it does explain his choices. Where the tabloids favoured the simplicity of the textbook “cold-blooded killer”, Hankinson’s portrait lets the reader make his or her own judgement. Clearly Moat was a bully, and yet he was not born that way. Few are. “There’ll be books written about all this, and you’ll be made out to be some crazed fucking maniac,” he says to himself, with both foresight and grim resignation.

Elsewhere the semi-fictional Moat brushes over past transgressions and labours over the tiniest slights in such repetitive, droning detail that the reader’s sympathy soon wanes. The book’s strength lies in the real-life Moat’s keenness to confess – to be heard, finally, beyond death – through these nocturnal monologues, recorded in his tent after yet another meal of charred burgers. From these remnants, Hankinson deftly assembles the man’s inner workings, lending credibility to his portrait while, beyond the myopic commentary, we know, although we don’t see it, that the outside world is closing in. Critics might ask: why give voice to a loser? Perhaps because in the right hands any real-life story is worth telling, and history should never just record the heroes and victors. The losers play their part, too.

Ben Myers’s novel “Beastings” recently won the Portico Prize for Literature

You Could Do Something Amazing With Your Life [You Are Raoul Moat] by Andrew Hankinson is published by Scribe (211pp, £12.99)

Ben Myers’ novels include Pig Iron and Richard, a Sunday Times book of the year. His writing has appeared in The Guardian, NME, Mojo, Time Out, 3:AM Magazine, Caught By The River and many others. www.benmyersmanofletters.blogspot.com

This article first appeared in the 05 February 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Putin's war