New digs for the Paris Review and Gary Shteyngart's sexual absence

Book news.

Gary Shteyngart, who recently thrilled his Twitter followers (including our very own Martha Gill) by live tweeting Middlemarch, has announced that he is writing a memoir: Little Failure. The Russian-American author of Absurdistan (2006) and Super Sad True Love Story (2011) had this to say: “I’ve finally written a book that isn’t a ribald satire and because it’s actually based on my life, contains almost no sex whatsoever. I’ve lived this troubled life so others don’t have to. Learn from my failure, please.”

Julian Barnes, Hilary Mantel, Howard Jacobson and Margaret Atwood are among a number of authors who have annotated first editions of their best-known works, to be auctioned at Sotheby’s in aid of English PEN. Writing in the margin of Bridget Jones’s Diary, Helen Fielding wrote: “Am I supposed to be criticising the book saying how much better I’d so it now? Trouble is, I think I peaked.”

F Scott Fitzgerald was paid $2,000 for The Great Gatsby upon initial publication in 1925. He later made $16,666 in film rights. A ledger in which Fitzgerald recorded his publications, income and diary notes has been put online by the University of South Carolina. Elizabeth Sudduth, director of the Ernest F Hollings Library said: “We know he didn’t spell very well,” adding, “his arithmetic wasn’t much better.”

The non-fiction publisher Notting Hill Editions have announced a new £20,000 essay prize. The inaugural William Hazlitt Essay Prize winner will be announced on 26 September this year. Essays will be judged “on the originality of the idea, the quality of the prose and the ability to communicate to a wide audience” and will be judged by Harry Mount, Gaby Wood, Adam Mars-Jones, Lady Antonia Fraser and David Shields.

The Paris Review has moved to a new set of offices in New York’s art district. Editor Lorin Stein told the New York Observer: “ ‘We entertain a lot,’ ... referring to the journal’s famous office parties for writers and the writerly adjacent. The office needs to be part reading room, for the interns going through the slush pile, and part salon for the editors working late into the evening.” Salon indeed.

Paris Review editor Lorin Stein with Irena Alexander. Photograph: Getty Images.

Book talk from the New Statesman culture desk.

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Netflix's Ozark is overstuffed – not to mention tonally weird

Could the channel use a hit? Every time my subscription leaves my bank account, I think again that it could.

The main reason why Ozark, the new Netflix series, feels so underpowered has to do with its star, Jason Bateman (who also directs): a good actor who badly wants for charisma, he simply can’t carry it alone. Watching the first few episodes, I kept thinking of Jon Hamm in Mad Men and (a better example here) Bryan Cranston in Breaking Bad, both of whom played, as does Bateman, characters around which the plots of their respective series turned. When they were on screen, which was often, it was all but impossible to tear your eyes from them; when they were off it, you felt like you were only biding your time until they returned. But when Bateman disappears from view, you hardly notice. In fact, it feels like a plus: at least now you might get to see a bit more of the deft and adorable Laura Linney.

In Ozark, Bateman is Marty, an outwardly square guy whose big secret is that he is a money launderer for the second biggest drugs cartel in Mexico. When the series opens, he and his wife Wendy (Linney) and their two children are living in Chicago, where he nominally works as a financial advisor.

By the end of the first episode, however, they’re on their way to the Lake of the Ozarks in rural Missouri. Marty’s partner, Bruce, has been on the fiddle, and the cartel, having summarily executed him, now wants Marty both to pay back the cash, and to establish a few new businesses in which future income may be cleaned far from the prying eyes of the law enforcement agencies. If this sounds derivative, it is. We’re in the realm of Breaking Bad, only where that show gave us out-of-control Bunsen burners and flesh-eating chemicals, this one is more preoccupied with percentages and margins.

Where’s the friction? Well, not only is the FBI on Marty’s tail, his wife has been cheating on him, with the result that their marriage is now just another of his business arrangements. The locals (think Trump supporters with beards as big as pine trees) have proved thus far to be on the unfriendly side, and having paid off their debts, the only house Marty can afford has a cliché – sorry, crotchety old guy – living in the basement. On paper, admittedly, this all sounds moderately promising. But hilarity does not ensue. As dull as the Lake of the Ozarks when the tourist season is over, not even Linney can make Bill Dubuque’s dialogue come alive. Her character should be traumatised: before they left Chicago, the cartel, for reasons I do not completely understand, pushed her podgy lover – splat! – off his balcony. Instead, she’s fussing about the crotchety old guy’s sexism.

Ozark is overstuffed and tonally weird, so I won’t be binge-watching this one. This completes rather a bad run for me and Netflix; after the lame new series of House of Cards and the egregious Gypsy, this is the third of its shows on the trot to bore me rigid. Could the channel use a hit? Every time my subscription leaves my bank account, I think again that it could.

And now to The Sweet Makers: A Tudor Treat (19 July, 8pm), in which we hear the sound of the “living history” barrel being scraped so loudly, those attending the meeting at which it was commissioned must surely have worn ear defenders. Basically, this is a series in which four confectioners “go back in time” to discover how their forebears used sugar (first, the Tudors; next week, the Georgians).

What it means in practice is lots of Generation Game-style faffing with candied roses and coriander comfits by people in long skirts and silly hats – a hey-nonny-nonny fiesta of pointlessness that is itself a sugar coating for those nasty things called facts (ie a bit of tokenism about slavery and our ancestors’ trouble with their teeth).

Resident expert, food historian Dr Annie Gray, strained to give the proceedings urgency, sternly reminding the confectioners that the sugar house they’d spent hours building did not yet have a roof. But who cared if it didn’t? Destined to be eaten by fake Tudor guests at a fake Tudor banquet, it wasn’t as if anyone was going to lose their head for it – not even, alas, at Broadcasting House. 

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 20 July 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The new world disorder

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