Reviewed: The Childhood of Jesus by J M Coetzee and Harvest by Jim Crace

Across the boundary.

The Childhood of Jesus
J M Coetzee
Harvill Secker, 288pp, £18.99

Jim Crace
Picador, 320pp, £16.99

Daniel Defoe managed to get the names of three European cities into the opening sentence of his first novel, creating a context of solid reality in which the reader’s disorientation would feel all the more pronounced. By the third chapter, “Wrecked on a Desert Island”, Robinson Crusoe is stranded in an environment whose name he doesn’t know and whose features he is forced to describe. And so the modern novel, like the Greek and Spanish romances that preceded it, started life as an imaginary travelogue – and continued down that road, as it were, in the work of Swift and Sterne. Now, almost three centuries on, J M Coetzee, the South African Nobel Prize-winner who rewrote Robinson Crusoe from a female perspective in Foe has made a sparsely populated, Spanish-speaking city with enviable welfare provision the setting for his boondoggling and unfestive new novel.

After spending six weeks in a desert camp, Simon, a man with no possessions and no memory, arrives in Novilla with a small boy, David. Simon takes a punishing job as a stevedore and spends his free time pursuing a glum affair (“Quietly, discreetly, they do the business of sex”) and searching for David’s mother. One day, he sees a woman on a tennis court. On Simon’s feeble assurances (“All will become clear to you . . . or so I believe”), she agrees to take the child.

Like the majority of Coetzee’s flinty, poker-faced novels, The Childhood of Jesus is written in the third person and its portrait of Novilla is offered from the outside. Voltaire also used the third person but when Candide and Cacambo arrive in El Dorado, they note its many differences from Westphalia. Simon, by contrast, proves a maddeningly unreliable reader proxy, responding as we would to some things but not to others. In his more impassioned moments, as when he expresses rage that no one drinks or raises their voice and that everyone conducts relations in “beginner’s Spanish”, he seems to be an inhabitant of the reader’s world. But when David identifies a passage of German poetry as “English”, he doesn’t blink.

Now and again, Coetzee seems to be confirming our sense of the novel’s silliness, such as when he uses deadpan precis to put an earlier scene in perspective: “Eugenio seems intent on showing that their disagreement about rats, history, and the organisation of dockside labour has left no hard feelings.” At other points – for example, Simon’s professed desire to find “a new life, a new beginning” – the novel feels earnestly, desperately human.

Such conflicting impulses are evident throughout. When one of Simon’s colleagues says that if he wants meat, he should make a rat trap, Simon reflects: “He can see no sign that he is joking. Or if it is a joke, it is a very deep joke.” The Childhood of Jesus is rarely funny and deep at the same time. Nevertheless, “deep joke” is one of the categories to which it could be said to belong.

“Novel of ideas” is another. It emerges that Novilla has a raging adult-education scene, with courses including: “Philosophy. Elements of Philosophy. Philosophy: Selected Topics. Philosophy of Labour. Philosophy and Everyday Life.” The Novillans favour a kind of philosophy, primarily concerned with the chairness of chairs, which Simon finds sterile. His own taste inclines towards ethics and metaphysics – philosophy that “changes one’s life” – but there doesn’t seem to be much of it about. While Simon’s adult associates are pursuing questions of logic, his five-year-old companion grows increasingly obsessed with the idea that numbers have secret motives and meanings.

Although David’s behaviour and utterances are often Christ-like – the title exists outside the book’s world – his behaviour has more in common with that of three boy-men born in the 1880s – Wittgenstein, Kafka and in particular Srinivasa Ramanujan, the Indian mathematician discussed in Coetzee’s novel Elizabeth Costello. On the one hand, Costello asks: “Was Ramanujan closer to God because his mind . . . was at one . . . with the being of reason?” On the other, she suggests that the “phenomenon” of Ramanujan might be attributable to the ways in which an intellectual tradition based on reason instals the idea of reason at the centre of the universe. The question of whether numbers are an invention or a discovery, whether order is inherent or imposed, is passionately debated in The Childhood of Jesus and at points where most novels might be moving things along or bringing them to a head.

Accepting the Jerusalem Prize in 1987, Coetzee said that he only wished he could join Milan Kundera, a previous winner, in paying tribute to Miguel de Cervantes. But as long as South African novelists of his generation were confined to “a world of pathological attachments and abstract forces, of anger and violence”– to writing “prison” literature – they could only dream of taking up residence “in a world where a living play of feelings and ideas is possible”.

When the time came, with the election of F W de Klerk in 1989, Coetzee expressed his new freedom by returning to the novel’s hybrid roots. Like some care-free citizen of Georgian England or imperial Spain, he has been toying with biography, memoir, the lecture and the essay. Among the works that followed his novel about Dostoevsky (The Master of Petersburg) were a trilogy of exercises in oblique self-reckoning – a kind of Being John Coetzee – and a trilogy of exercises in skewed allegoriself- portraiture, the Elizabeth Costello books. The best-known work from this period, the Booker Prize-winning Disgrace (1999), is also the least characteristic, a social realist novel about a libidinous academic in post-apartheid South Africa. A later book, Diary of a Bad Year, a series of essays interspersed with the events surrounding their composition – was much more consistent with the mood of experimental buoyancy.

Under apartheid, Coetzee felt comfortable emulating writers who deal with anger and violence but not those who trade in games and jokes, however deep. The Childhood of Jesus, Coetzee’s most freewheeling work so far, might be seen as a homage to Beckett, whose characters, in Coetzee’s words, are confined to “a purgatorial treadmill on which they rehearse again and again the great themes of western philosophy” – both Elizabeth Costello and Diary of a Bad Year contain sections about the afterlife – and Borges, whose fiction he described as “a game of chess in which the reader is always a move behind the author”. The only book that Simon and David read is the story of Don Quixote written by Benengeli, the author within Cervantes’s text, and it is tempting to see Novilla not as a reconfigured version of the feudal or industrial or post-industrial city but as an outpost of the republic of letters with its own customs, laws and logic – Novel-land.

The English writer Jim Crace, author of ten previous books, belongs to a tradition that runs parallel to that of Defoe, in which an exotic landscape is described from the inside, by a habituated narrator or a long-time resident. Exoticism becomes mundanity; an atmosphere foreign to the reader is just the air the characters breathe. Among the novelists who have tried the trick are Nabokov, Orwell and Henry Green but none made it the cornerstone of their fictional project, the common – or near-common – thread for a shelf’s worth of books.

Crace’s first story, published in Ian Hamilton’s New Review in 1974, opens with a Defoe-like swarm of place names (Interstate 80, San Francisco, Salt Lake City) but he had mended his ways and mutated into a full-blown Borgesian prankster-imaginer by the time he published his first novel, Continent (1986). The reviews that Crace wrote during the intervening decade reveal interests in that direction: Hugh Fleetwood’s Fictional Lives “poses some teasing allegori cal riddles and creates narrative knots which both stimulate and amuse”; an early novel by Barry Unsworth is “an unashamed fictional concoction which is consistently alerting and stimulating”.

Yet the spirit of play in Crace’s work serves as the cover for a spirit of elegy. Starting from scratch – inventing cultures, fabricating epigraphs – better enables him to communicate his message, usually about transition and impermanence. His novels depict, in prose of sometimes overpowering richness, the encroachment of progress on a stone-age community, the Judean desert (Quarantine – which portrayed 40 days in the adulthood of Jesus) and a post-industrial city. Harvest takes place in a village, nameless rather than unnamed, that is being dragged, kicking and screaming and, as things turn ugly, fistswinging, into the late 18th century, or Crace’s tailored version of it.

Although the period and the setting are never specified, the narrator, Walter Thirsk, builds up a pin-sharp picture of local customs through his accounts of events over a turbulent week – a series of haunting set pieces in which the villagers try to ward off unwelcome visitors, one of whom, the enigmatic landowner Edmund Jordan, is planning to fill the wheat fields with sheep.

Walter started off as a newcomer to “these vicinities” and even though he was never “blond” enough to belong, succeeded in gaining acceptance; his narration is full of details about the village’s ecology and the villagers’ habits and, more decisively, antipathies that testify to a long acquaintance. Walter proves the ideal guide, at once insider and outsider, a specialist in the lore of the land whose imagery pits natural wonder (doves are “white consciences on wing”) against the human macabre (the “grinning white of bone”).

The most seductive and enthralling of Crace’s novels, Harvest is also likely to be his last, as declared in a recent interview. Ending is its theme – or if not ending, then the destructiveness inherent in change. The way of life known to the village (“harvesting and tillage”) is the only one described;Thirsk offers the reader next to no glimpse of life elsewhere and falls silent the moment he leaves. Crace uses the novel’s final flourish to reassert the primacy of place in his tuneful but heartsick fiction. The “village bounds” are the novel’s bounds as well.

J M Coetzee's new novel presents a landscape with its own customs, laws and logic. Image: Riccardo Vecchio

Leo Robson is the lead fiction reviewer for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 04 March 2013 issue of the New Statesman, The fall of Pistorius

Almeida Theatre
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Rupert Goold: “A director always has to be more of a listener”

The artistic director of the Almeida Theatre on working with Patrick Stewart, the inaccessibility of the arts, and directing his wife in Medea.

Eight years ago Rupert Goold’s Macbeth made his name. The critics were unanimous in their praise, with one calling it the “Macbeth of a lifetime”. Goold’s first Olivier Award soon followed (Enron won him a second in 2009, King Charles III nearly won him a third last year). It was a family triumph; Lady Macbeth was played by Goold’s wife, Kate Fleetwood.

Now the pair has finally reunited and Fleetwood is his undisputed lead. She is playing Medea in the Almeida’s latest and final play of its Greek season. Directing your wife is one thing. Directing her in a play about a woman who murders her children because her husband abandons her is another. And it’s been harder than Goold expected.

“You live with someone every day, and they don’t age because the change is so incremental, and then you do something together and you realise how much you’ve changed. It’s like playing tennis with someone after eight years: you’re completely different players.”

As it is, Goold thinks the director-actor relationship is inevitably fraught. “There is an essential slave-master, sadomasochistic, relationship,” he says. “The incredibly complicated thing about being an actor is you’re constantly being told what to do. And one of the most damaging things about being a director – and why most of them are complete arseholes – is because they get off at telling people what to do.”

Goold doesn’t. He’s as amicable in person as the pictures – bountiful hair, loose jacket, wide grin – suggest. And when we meet in the Almedia’s crowded rehearsal rooms, tucked away on Upper Street, 100 yards from the theatre, he’s surprisingly serene given his play is about to open.

He once said that directing a play is like running towards a wall and hoping it becomes a door just before the curtain goes up. Has the door appeared? “It’s always a funny moment [at the end of rehearsal]. Sometimes you do a show and it’s a bit dead and the costumes and set transform it. Then sometimes it’s perfect and the design kills it.”

We meet shortly before last Thursday’s press night, and he can’t tell how good it is. But it “certainly feels quite private. The idea that loads of people are going to come and watch it now feels a bit weird. You bring a lot of your sense of relationships and parenting into it.”

Goold has always argued that the classics wither without intervention. So in this revival of Euripides’ 2,446-year-old play, Medea is a writer and her husband, Jason (of Argonauts fame), is an actor. “But it’s not really about that… it’s more about divorce, about what it means to separate.”

“It’s about the impact of a long-term relationship when it collapses. I don’t know whether there is a rich tradition of drama like that, and yet for most people, those kind of separations are far more profound and complicated and have greater ramifications than first love; and we have millions of plays about first love!”

Every generation discovers their own time in the Greek plays. Goold thinks he and playwright Rachel Cusk were shaped by the aftermath of the 1970s in interpreting Medea; “That’s the period when the idea of the family began to get tainted.” And when critics praised Oresteia, the Almeida’s first Greek play and a surprise West End transfer, they compared it to the Sopranos.

Yet there is something eternal about these plays. Goold says it’s the way they “stare at these problems that are totally perennial, like death,” and then offer answers that aren’t easy. Medea kills the kids and a mother rips her son to shreds in the Bakkhai (the Almeida’s predecessor to Medea). Where’s the moral compass in that?

Except there is a twist in Goold’s Medea, and it’s not one every critic has taken kindly to. It was enough to stop the Telegraph’s Dominic Cavendish, otherwise lavish in his praise, from calling it “a Medea for our times”. Nevertheless, the reviews have been kind, as they often are for Goold; although The Times’ Ann Treneman was vitriolic in her dislike (“Everyone is ghastly. The men are beyond irritating. The women even worse.”).

In theory, Goold welcomes the criticism. “I’d rather our audience hated something and talked about it than was passively pleased,” he tells me ahead of reviews.

Controversial and bracing theatre is what Goold wants to keep directing and producing; as the Almeida’s artistic director he is in charge of more than just his own shows. But how does he do it? I put a question to him: if I had to direct Medea instead of him, what advice would he have given me?

He pauses. “You’ve got to love words,” he begins. “There’s no point doing it unless you have a real delight in language. And you have to have vision. But probably the most important thing is, you’ve got to know how to manage a room.”

“It’s people management. So often I have assistants, or directors I produce, and I think ‘God, they’re just not listening to what that person is trying to say, what they’re trying to give.’ They’re either shutting them down or forcing them into a box.”

“Most people in a creative process have to focus on what they want to say, but a director always has to be more of a listener. People do it different ways. Some people spin one plate incredibly fast and vibrantly in the middle of the room, and hope all the others get sucked in. It’s about thriving off of one person – the director, the lead performer, whomever.”

“I’m more about the lowest common denominator: the person you’re most aware of is the least engaged. You have to keep lifting them up, then you get more creativity coming in.”

It’s not always simple. When actors and directors disagree, the director can only demand so much, especially if the actor is far more famous than them. When Goold directed Macbeth, Patrick Stewart was his lead. Stewart was a movie star and twice his age.

“Patrick’s take on Macbeth… I didn’t think it should be played that way. I’d played him as a student and I had an idea of what he was.”

“But then you think, ‘Ok, you’re never going to be what I want you to be, but actually let me get rid of that, and just focus on what’s good about what you want to be, and get rid of some of the crap.’”

Goold doesn’t think he’s ever really struggled to win an actor’s respect (“touch wood”). The key thing, he says, is that “they just feel you’re trying to make legible their intention”.

And then you must work around your lead. In Macbeth, Stewart was “a big deep river of energy… when normally you get two people frenetically going ‘Uhgh! Is this a dagger I see before me! Uhgh!’ and there’s lots of hysteria.”

“So we threw all sorts of other shit at the production to compensate, to provide all the adrenalin which Patrick was taking away to provide clarity and humanity.”

Many people want to be theatre directors, and yet so few are successful. The writers, actors and playwrights who sell shows can be counted on a few hands. Depressingly, Goold thinks it’s becoming harder to break in. It’s difficult to be discovered. “God, I don’t know, what I worry – wonder – most is: ‘Are there just loads of great directors who don’t make it?’”

 The assisting route is just not a good way to find great new directors. “The kind of people who make good assistants don’t make good directors, it’s almost diametrically opposite.” As for regional directors, newspaper budgets have collapsed, so they can no longer rely on a visit from a handful of national critics, as Goold did when he was based in Salisbury and Northampton. And audiences for touring shows have, by some measures, halved in the past twenty years.

Theatre has also evolved. When Goold was coming through, “There were not a lot of directors who felt they were outside the library, so for me to whack on some techno was radical! Now it’d be more commonplace.” New directors have to find new ways to capture our attention – or at least the critics’.

But the critics have changed too. A nod from a critic can still be vital in the right circles, but the days when critics “made” directors is long over. “I remember Nick de Jongh saying, ‘Oh Rupert Goold, I made him.’ Because he’d put Macbeth on the front page of the Standard. I owed my career to him, and in some ways I did! But it's an absurd idea, that would not happen now.”

“It’s all changed so much in literally the past three years. There was a time, for better or worse, when you had a big group of establishment critics: de Jongh, Michael Billington, Michael Coveney, Charlie Spencer – they were mostly men – Susannah Clapp. And if they all liked your show, you were a hit.” (“They could be horrible,” he adds.)

“Now I get more of a sense of a show by being on Twitter than reading the reviews.” It’s “probably a good thing”, Goold thinks, and it certainly beats New York, where a single review – the New York Times' – makes or breaks plays. But it’s another problem for aspiring directors, who can no longer be so easily plucked from the crowd.

It’s no longer a problem Goold needs to overcome. His star could wane, but he seems likely to be among the leading voices in British theatre for a while yet.

Harry Lambert is a staff writer and editor of May2015, the New Statesman's election website.