The Folio Prize announces its initial panel of judges

Pankaj Mishra, Nam Le, Sarah Hall and Michael Chabon were drawn at random from a one-hundred strong academy of writers and critics, who will nominate books for the prize. Lavinia Greenlaw will chair the panel.

The £40,000 book prize formerly known as the Literature Prize has announced its panel of judges. This year’s Folio Prize will be chaired by the poet and critic Lavinia Greenlaw, who has said that she is “honoured and delighted to be chairing the jury,” adding that “fiction is finding new forms and writers are resisting all kinds of borders.”

Greenlaw will be joined by fellow writers and critics Pankaj Mishra, Sarah Hall, Name Le and Michael Chabon, who were drawn at random from the prize’s Oscars-style Academy of one hundred “ideal first readers”. Between them they represent Australia (and Vietnam), India, America and the United Kingdom. The Prize is Anglo-centric by definition, being the only literary competition which seeks out English-language fiction written anywhere in the world.

Nam Le, the Australian short story writer and author of Frank O'Connor longlisted collection The Boat (2008), was overjoyed with his selection in the ballot: “I won the lottery!” he said. “I’m looking forward to it: I like the idea of making space in the award ecology for prizes like the Folio – where writers read, nominate and honour other writers.”

The Folio Prize is the most ambitious literary prize germinating in that ecology right now. It has widened the Booker’s remit, and in terms of numbers alone – its academicians, judges, committees of advisors and managers from across publishing and the arts – it cannot fail to make a noise when the initial shortlist is unveiled in February next year. The prize's sponsor, The Folio Society, is a publisher whose mission is to create firm, illustrated editions of classic works of fiction, biography, science and philosophy. The partnership is in itself a statement of the organisers’ hopes from the prize’s longevity.

All rise for the honourable judge Chabon. Photograph: Getty Images.

Philip Maughan is a freelance writer in Berlin and a former Assistant Editor at the New Statesman.

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Women on the edge: new films Jackie and Christine are character studies of haunted women

With their claustrophobic close-ups and desolate wide shots, both films are stunning portraits of life on the brink.

Jacqueline Kennedy and Christine Chubbuck may not have had much in common in real life – the former briefly the US first lady, the latter a put-upon television news reporter in the early 1970s in Sarasota, Florida – but two new films named after them are cut resolutely from the same cloth. Jackie and Christine are character studies of haunted women in which the claustrophobic close-up and the desolate wide shot are the predominant forms of address.

Both films hinge on fatal gunshots to the head and both seek to express cinematically a state of mind that is internal: grief and loss in Jackie, which is set mainly in the hours and days after the assassination of President John F Kennedy; depression and paranoia in Christine. In this area, they rely heavily not only on hypnotically controlled performances from their lead actors but on music that describes the psychological contours of distress.

Even before we see anything in Jackie, we hear plunging chords like a string section falling down a lift shaft. This is the unmistakable work of the abrasive art rocker Mica Levi. Her score in Jackie closes in on the ears just as the tight compositions by the cinematographer Stéphane Fontaine exclude the majority of the outside world. The Chilean director Pablo Larraín knows a thing or two about sustaining intensity, as viewers of his earlier work, including his Pinochet-era trilogy (Tony Manero, Post Mortem and No), will attest. Though this is his first English-language film, there is no hint of any softening. The picture will frustrate anyone hoping for a panoramic historical drama, with Larraín and the screenwriter Noah Oppenheim irising intently in on Jackie, played with brittle calm by Natalie Portman, and finding the nation’s woes reflected in her face.

Bit-players come and go as the film jumbles up the past and present, the personal and political. A journalist (Billy Crudup), nameless but based on Theodore White, arrives to interview the widow. Her social secretary, Nancy Tuckerman (Greta Gerwig), urges her on with cheerleading smiles during the shooting of a stiff promotional film intended to present her warmly to the public. Her brother-in-law Bobby (Peter Sarsgaard) hovers anxiously nearby as she negotiates the chasm between private grief and public composure. For all the bustle around her, the film insists on Jackie’s aloneness and Portman gives a performance in which there is as much tantalisingly concealed as fearlessly exposed.

A different sort of unravelling occurs in Christine. Antonio Campos’s film begins by showing Christine Chubbuck (Rebecca Hall) seated next to a large box marked “fragile” as she interviews on camera an empty chair in which she imagines Richard Nixon to be sitting. She asks of the invisible president: “Is it paranoia if everyone is indeed coming after you?” It’s a good question and one that she doesn’t have the self-awareness to ask herself. Pressured by her editor to chase juicy stories, she goes to sleep each night with a police scanner blaring in her ears. She pleads with a local cop for stories about the darker side of Sarasota, scarcely comprehending that the real darkness lies primarily within her.

For all the shots of TV monitors displaying multiple images of Christine in this beige 1970s hell, the film doesn’t blame the sensationalist nature of the media for her fractured state. Nor does it attribute her downfall entirely to the era’s sexism. Yet both of those things exacerbated problems that Chubbuck already had. She is rigid and off-putting, all severe straight lines, from her haircut and eyebrows to the crossed arms and tight, unsmiling lips that make it difficult for anyone to get close to her. That the film does break through is down to Hall, who illuminates the pain that Christine can’t express, and to the score by Danny Bensi and Saunder Jurriaans. It’s perky enough on the surface but there are cellos sawing away sadly underneath. If you listen hard enough, they’re crying: “Help.” 

Ryan Gilbey is the New Statesman's film critic. He is also the author of It Don't Worry Me (Faber), about 1970s US cinema, and a study of Groundhog Day in the "Modern Classics" series (BFI Publishing). He was named reviewer of the year in the 2007 Press Gazette awards.

This article first appeared in the 19 January 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The Trump era