Reviews round-up

The critics' verdicts on Stephen King, Paul Morley and Kristine Barnett.

Joyland by Stephen King

Joyland is a Bildungsroman narrated by Devin Jones, an old man looking back on the summer of 1973 when he worked at an amusement park. Its ‘whodunit’ detective story-like genre appears to be only held together by King’s infamous style; it does not appear to leave a lasting impression, unlike some of his other work.

The Independent’s Laurence Phelan believes that although the plot is “corny”, King “describes being young with the necessary vigour, and the slow agony with which a broken heart heals with the necessary tenderness”, although “there isn't a lot of suspense, detective work, or peril, there are too few suspects”.

Writing for The Telegraph, Tim Martin is of the opinion that “material that might disintegrate in other hands is held together by King’s evident enjoyment of his material and by his consummate skill, rarely surpassed among contemporary writers, at moving a story along”.

Tom Cox of The Express thinks that: “it feels like coasting, pleasantly, on a hang glider, at a height that, while impressive, doesn't quite give you the bigger, more spectacular view that you hanker for”.

The North (And Almost Everything In It) by Paul Morley

The North (And Almost Everything In It) divides critics in terms of the overall success of Paul Morley’s writing. Some wonder whether this arguably overlong book (it is 592 pages in length) drifts away from explaining the north-south divide in England. They all agree to some extent, however, that Morley’s emotional attachment to the north is endearing at times.

Sean O’Brien of The Independent is of the opinion that although the book is “often funny and occasionally inspired”, it is also “overlong, padded out with inserted captions dealing with northern facts and faces”. Additionally, O’Brien suggests that the book is flawed as “Morley is a journalist, strong up to 800 metres but sometimes struggling over longer distances”.

Stephen Armstrong, writing for The Sunday Times, comes to a similar conclusion: “Morley leaps between history, geography, reflections on famous northern figures, a memoir of moving to the north as a child…This ambitious mix struggles to fulfil his subtitle’s promise — the north and almost everything in it — but it is packed with raw emotion and ambivalent passions.”

The Spectator’s Philip Hensher is more damning of Morley’s personal link to the north: “The truth is that this book — which persuades us that everything comes down to the author’s personal experience of a tragedy, and which goes on about how brilliant at comedy northerners are while not being funny at all”. He also believes that “this book is really about working-class culture in Manchester and Liverpool”, rather than the being about what the title suggests.

Look out for our review by Stuart Maconie in Thursday's issue of the New Statesman.

The Spark: A Mother’s Story of Nurturing Genius by Kristine Barnett

The Spectator’s Charlotte Moore is sceptical towards the book. According to her, the book “is misleading, and disheartening. One can never, in any case, be certain of what affects the outcome [of autism]”. She believes that “their story deserves to be told... but it is not a full depiction of autism”.

In contrast Maureen Corrigan. writing for The Washington Post, holds more admiration for Barnett. She is of the belief that “Barnett’s woman-warrior battle…to defy the experts and unearth Jake’s personality and potential is inspiring”.

Tina Moran of The Express is in agreement: “This is a truly inspiring story told in a humble, easy manner that doesn’t encourage pity or sympathy so you root for the family throughout and can only marvel at the unexpected and astonishing turn Jake’s life took.”

Joyland is King's second book for the Hard Case Crime imprint following The Colorado Kid (2005). Photograph: Getty Images.

Book talk from the New Statesman culture desk.

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How Donald Trump is slouching towards the Republican nomination

There was supposed to be a ceiling above which Trump’s popular support could not climb.

In America, you can judge a crowd by its merchandise. Outside the Connecticut Convention Centre in Hartford, frail old men and brawny moms are selling “your Trump 45 football jerseys”, “your hats”, “your campaign buttons”. But the hottest item is a T-shirt bearing the slogan “Hillary sucks . . . but not like Monica!” and, on the back: “Trump that bitch!” Inside, beyond the checkpoint manned by the Transportation Security Administration and the secret service (“Good!” the man next to me says, when he sees the agents), is a family whose three kids, two of them girls, are wearing the Monica shirt.

Other people are content with the shirts they arrived in (“Waterboarding – baptising terrorists with freedom” and “If you don’t BLEED red, white and blue, take your bitch ass home!”). There are 80 chairs penned off for the elderly but everyone else is standing: guys in motorcycle and military gear, their arms folded; aspiring deal-makers, suited, on cellphones; giggling high-school fatsos, dressed fresh from the couch, grabbing M&M’s and Doritos from the movie-theatre-style concession stands. So many baseball hats; deep, bellicose chants of “Build the wall!” and “USA!”. (And, to the same rhythm, “Don-ald J!”)

A grizzled man in camouflage pants and combat boots, whose T-shirt – “Connecticut Militia III%” – confirms him as a member of the “patriot” movement, is talking to a zealous young girl in a short skirt, who came in dancing to “Uptown Girl”.

“Yeah, we were there for Operation American Spring,” he says. “Louis Farrakhan’s rally of hate . . .”

“And you’re a veteran?” she asks. “Thank you so much!”

Three hours will pass. A retired US marine will take the rostrum to growl, “God bless America – hoo-rah!”; “Uptown Girl” will play many more times (much like his speeches, Donald J’s playlist consists of a few items, repeated endlessly), before Trump finally looms in and asks the crowd: “Is this the greatest place on Earth?”

There was supposed to be a ceiling above which Trump’s popular support could not climb. Only a minority within a minority of Americans, it was assumed, could possibly be stupid enough to think a Trump presidency was a good idea. He won New Hampshire and South Carolina with over 30 per cent of the Republican vote, then took almost 46 per cent in Nevada. When he cleaned up on Super Tuesday in March, he was just shy of 50 per cent in Massachusetts; a week later, he took 47 per cent of the votes in Mississippi.

His rivals, who are useless individually, were meant to co-operate with each other and the national party to deny him the nomination. But Trump won four out of the five key states being contested on “Super-Duper Tuesday” on 15 March. Then, as talk turned to persuading and co-opting his delegates behind the scenes, Trump won New York with 60 per cent.

Now, the campaign is trying to present Trump as more “presidential”. According to his new manager, Paul Manafort, this requires him to appear in “more formal settings” – without, of course, diluting “the unique magic of Trump”. But whether or not he can resist denouncing the GOP and the “corrupt” primary system, and alluding to violence if he is baulked at at the convention, the new Trump will be much the same as the old.

Back in Hartford: “The Republicans wanna play cute with us, right? If I don’t make it, you’re gonna have millions of people that don’t vote for a Republican. They’re not gonna vote at all,” says Trump. “Hopefully that’s all, OK? Hopefully that’s all, but they’re very, very angry.”

This anger, which can supposedly be turned on anyone who gets in the way, has mainly been vented, so far, on the protesters who disrupt Trump’s rallies. “We’re not gonna be the dummies that lose all of our jobs now. We’re gonna be the smart ones. Oh, do you have one over there? There’s one of the dummies . . .”

There is a frenzied fluttering of Trump placards, off to his right. “Get ’em out! . . . Don’t hurt ’em – see how nice I am? . . . They really impede freedom of speech and it’s a disgrace. But the good news is, folks, it won’t be long. We’re just not taking it and it won’t be long.”

It is their removal by police, at Trump’s ostentatious behest, that causes the disruption, rather than the scarcely audible protesters. He seems to realise this, suddenly: “We should just let ’em . . . I’ll talk right over them, there’s no problem!” But it’s impossible to leave the protesters where they are, because it would not be safe. His crowd is too vicious.

Exit Trump, after exactly half an hour, inclusive of the many interruptions. His people seem uplifted but, out on the street, they are ambushed by a large counter-demonstration, with a booming drum and warlike banners and standards (“Black Lives Matter”; an image of the Virgin of Guadalupe, holding aloft Trump’s severed head). Here is the rest of the world, the real American world: young people, beautiful people, more female than male, every shade of skin colour. “F*** Donald Trump!” they chant.

After a horrified split-second, the Trump crowd, massively more numerous, rallies with “USA!” and – perplexingly, since one of the main themes of the speech it has just heard was the lack of jobs in Connecticut – “Get a job!” The two sides then mingle, unobstructed by police. Slanging matches break out that seem in every instance to humiliate the Trump supporter. “Go to college!” one demands. “Man, I am in college, I’m doin’ lovely!”

There is no violence, only this: some black boys are dancing, with liquid moves, to the sound of the drum. Four young Trump guys counter by stripping to their waists and jouncing around madly, their skin greenish-yellow under the street lights, screaming about the building of the wall. There was no alcohol inside; they’re drunk on whatever it is – the elixir of fascism, the unique magic of Trump. It’s a hyper but not at all happy drunk.

As with every other moment of the Trump campaign so far, it would have been merely some grade of the cringeworthy – the embarrassing, the revolting, the pitiful – were Trump not slouching closer and closer, with each of these moments, to his nomination. 

This article first appeared in the 28 April 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The new fascism