A Thousand Pardons by Jonathan Dee: After frothiness comes leadenness

Dee has followed his celebrated topical satire The Privileges with a double portrait that's tighter in focus and smaller in scale.

A Thousand Pardons
Jonathan Dee
Corsair, 288pp, £14.99

The American writer Jonathan Dee has followed his celebrated topical satire The Privileges, about a heartless New York couple, with a double portrait that’s tighter in focus and smaller in scale; a swift-moving, incident-rich comedy that opens with an 18-year marriage being demolished by a verbal blow. The scene of the crime is a marriage counsellor’s office – a room that Adam Morey, the husband in the last novel, refused on principle to enter. “In the world of finance,” he told himself, “the most highly evolved people were the ones for whom even yesterday did not exist.” But Ben Armstead is in a more accountable, backwards-looking world – the law – and in a novel more concerned with the collection of regrets and foibles that Adam dismissed as “baggage”.

Written with colloquial fluency, in a third person that leaps between points of view, A Thousand Pardons is about what happens when a husband turns to his wife and says, “I would like to wake up tomorrow next to someone who has no idea who I am,” adding by way of caution, “If anybody uses the phrase ‘midlife crisis’ right now I swear to God I am back here with a gun and shooting this place up like Columbine,” before stating a preference for “existential crisis”. One immediate effect of this outburst – and the lawbreaking, civil-suit-bringing behaviour that follows – is the uncertainty into which it plunges not Ben’s future, the prospect of which he claimed to loathe, but that of his comparably well-adjusted wife Helen, whose days as a popular housewife are “shot to hell” (“less by scandal than the toxicity of pity”).

At this point, the novel, its opening moves apparently influenced by Sidney Lumet’s cold satire Network (a man who’s had enough says so), mutates into the literary counterpart of a film almost opposite in outlook. Helen is 43 years old when, newly single, newly in need of an income, she takes the commuter train to Manhattan in search of employment – she’s a little younger than Jane Fonda in the soft-centred, pop-feminist screwball comedy 9 to 5, but her fate of selfrealisation through professional achievement is much the same. Having been a medium-sized fish in a medium-sized pond (“She’d even written some stories for the local weekly”), Helen finds herself a fish out of water, her misconceptions about life on dry land receiving “the exaggerated patience usually reserved for dealing with the very old”. But it isn’t long before she finds a job at a shabby but charming company, Harvey Aaron Public Relations, and not much longer before she turns it around. You can almost hear the strings when Helen’s new boss thanks her for bringing “new life” to “the whole enterprise” and Helen replies, “You’ve revitalised my enterprise, too.”

There’s more than a dash of the wish-fulfilment fantasy to Helen’s siege of New York, corresponding to a laziness of invention on the part of her creator. In Barnet Kellman’s comedy Straight Talk, a descendant of 9 to 5, it was plausible that the Southern cornball wisdom spouted by Dolly Parton’s character would make her an ideal host of a radio phone-in show. The idea that troubles with Ben have equipped Helen ideally for PR, that her essential naivety brings something distinctive to a cynical game, though similar in shape, is poorly worked out in its detail.

Helen’s emergence as an innovator in “crisis management” depends on a one-size-fits-all strategy, urging her clients to apologise, on the strength of which a multinational, Malloy Worldwide, hires her when it might just have copied her. Dee anticipates a resistance to these developments but by having Helen reflect that she does not “completely” understand why a particular instance of her “apology wrangling” had worked and having the big shot Teddy Malloy inform her, “Not many people . . . can do what you do. Nor can they be taught to do it,” he is likely to win round only the sort of reader who didn’t smell anything fishy to begin with.

If the novel lacks the technical rigour of pop-feminist screwball, it hopes to complicate its ethical picture by adjusting its lopsided view of gender relations. Raised as a Catholic, Helen is described in terms of holy traces (one character claims to get a “nun hit” off her). But she doesn’t appear interested in whether her husband, after a series of all too human mistakes (telling the truth, harassing an intern, drunkenly crashing his car), deserves a second chance, even though their adopted daughter, Sara, isn’t exactly thriving in a single-parent household and appears unambiguous in her preference for flawed father over “capital-H Humble” mother.

It’s even implied that Helen’s “talent for inducing apology” is a merely “lucrative” one, predicated on the insight, canny rather than pure-hearted, that human beings only condemn when denied the opportunity to forgive. Neither Helen’s conscience nor her success seems to be affected by the sincerity or otherwise of her clients’ confessions. Despite the emphasis on the illusory and stagemanaged, Dee is also concerned with the idea of genuine forgiveness, in particular the forgiveness Helen withholds from Ben.

The book’s title draws on the double meaning of “pardon”, as something granted as well as proffered, and there’s a tautness both to the book’s vocabulary and its whole thematic arrangement, which gives a crisp clarity to the early pages but which becomes naggy and claustrophic once connections – between PR and Catholicism, say – begin to pile up. After frothiness comes leadenness. If A Thousand Pardons still manages to be engaging and even winning, it is a testament to a set of comic gifts – mordant wit, control of tone – that are powerful enough to defeat its author’s self-destructive urges and his habit of drawing on established forms (featherweight comedy, moral parable) without adequately warding off their dangers.

Leo Robson is the New Statesman’s lead fiction critic 

Aspirations: a shop window in Manhattan, 2008. Photograph: Erin Toland "Longing".

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

This article first appeared in the 08 July 2013 issue of the New Statesman, The world takes sides

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Celluloid Dreams: are film scores the next area of serious musical scholarship?

John Wilson has little time for people who don't see the genius at work in so-called "light music".

When John Wilson walks out on to the stage at the Royal Albert Hall in London, there is a roar from the audience that would be more fitting in a football stadium. Before he even steps on to the conductor’s podium, people whistle and cheer, thumping and clapping. The members of his orchestra grin as he turns to acknowledge the applause. Many soloists reaching the end of a triumphant concerto performance receive less ecstatic praise. Even if you had never heard of Wilson before, the rock-star reception would tip you off that you were about to hear something special.

There is a moment of silence as Wilson holds the whole hall, audience and orchestra alike, in stasis, his baton raised expectantly. Then it slices down and the orchestra bursts into a tightly controlled mass of sound, complete with swirling strings and blowsy brass. You are instantly transported: this is the music to which Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers danced, the music of George Gershwin, Cole Porter, Irving Berlin, which reverberated around the cauldron of creativity that was Hollywood of the early 20th century, when composers were as sought after as film directors.

Wilson’s shows are tremendously popular. Since he presented the MGM musicals programme at the Proms in 2009, which was watched by 3.5 million people on TV and is still selling on DVD, his concerts have been among the first to sell out in every Proms season. There are international tours and popular CDs, too. But a great deal of behind-the-scenes work goes into bringing this music – much of which had been lost to history – back to life. There are familiar tunes among the complex arrangements that he and his orchestra play, to be sure, but the music sounds fresher and sharper than it ever does on old records or in movies. Whether you’re a film fan or not, you will find something about the irrepressible energy of these tunes that lifts the spirits.

Sitting in an armchair in the conductor’s room beneath the Henry Wood Hall in south London, Wilson looks anything but energetic. “Excuse my yawning, but I’ve been up since three o’clock this morning,” he says. This is a short break in a hectic rehearsal schedule, as he puts his orchestra through its paces in the lead-up to its appearance at the 2016 Proms. Watching him at work before we sat down to talk, I saw a conductor who was far from sluggish. Bobbing on the balls of his feet, he pushed his players to consider every detail of their sound, often stopping the musicians to adjust the tone of a single note or phrase. At times, his whole body was tense with the effort of communicating the tone he required.

The programme that Wilson and his orchestra are obsessing over at the moment is a celebration of George and Ira Gershwin, the American songwriting partnership that produced such immortal songs as “I Got Rhythm”, “’S Wonderful” and “Funny Face”, as well as the 1934 opera Porgy and Bess. Though it might all sound effortless when everyone finally appears in white tie, huge amounts of preparation go into a John Wilson concert and they start long before the orchestra begins to rehearse.

“Coming up with the idea is the first step,” he says. “Then you put a programme together, which takes a great deal of time and thought and revision. You can go through 40 drafts until you get it right. I was still fiddling with the running order two weeks ago. It’s like a three-dimensional game of chess – one thing changes and the whole lot comes down.”

Wilson, 44, who also conducts the more conventional classical repertoire, says that his interest in so-called light music came early on. “When you’re a kid, you don’t know that you shouldn’t like the Beatles, or you shouldn’t like Fred Astaire, or whatever,” he says. “You just like anything that’s good. So I grew up loving Beethoven and Brahms and Ravel and Frank Sinatra and the Beatles.” At home in Gateshead – he still has the Geordie accent – the only music in the house was “what was on the radio and telly”, and the young boy acquired his taste from what he encountered playing with local brass bands and amateur orchestras.

He had the opposite of the hothoused, pressured childhood that we often associate with professional musicians. “Mine were just nice, lovely, normal parents! As long as I wore clean underwear and finished my tea, then they were happy,” he recalls. “I was never forced into doing music. My parents used to have to sometimes say, ‘Look, you’ve played the piano enough today; go out and get some fresh air’ – things like that.” Indeed, he received barely any formal musical education until he went to the Royal College of Music at the age of 18, after doing his A-levels at Newcastle College.

The title of the concert he conducted at this year’s Proms was “George and Ira Gershwin Rediscovered”, which hints at the full scale of Wilson’s work. Not only does he select his music from the surviving repertoire of 20th-century Hollywood: in many cases, he unearths scores that weren’t considered worth keeping at the time and resurrects the music into a playable state. At times, there is no written trace at all and he must reconstruct a score by ear from a ­recording or the soundtrack of a film.

For most other musicians, even experts, it would be an impossible task. Wilson smiles ruefully when I ask how he goes about it. “There are 18 pieces in this concert. Only six of them exist in full scores. So you track down whatever materials survive, whether they be piano or conductors’ scores or recordings, and then my colleagues and I – there are four of us – sit down with the scores.” There is no hard and fast rule for how to do this kind of reconstruction, he says, as it depends entirely on what there is left to work with. “It’s like putting together a jigsaw, or a kind of archaeology. You find whatever bits you can get your hands on. But the recording is always the final word: that’s the ur-text. That is what you aim to replicate, because that represents the composer’s and lyricist’s final thoughts.” There is a purpose to all this effort that goes beyond putting on a great show, though that is a big part of why Wilson does it. “I just want everyone to leave with the thrill of having experienced the sound of a live orchestra,” he says earnestly. “I tell the orchestra, ‘Never lose sight of the fact that people have bought tickets, left the house, got on the bus/Tube, come to the concert. Give them their money’s worth. Play every last quaver with your lifeblood.’”

Besides holding to a commitment to entertain, Wilson believes there is an academic justification for the music. “These composers were working with expert ­arrangers, players and singers . . . It’s a wonderful period of music. I think it’s the next major area of serious musical scholarship.”

These compositions sit in a strange, in-between place. Classical purists deride them as “light” and thus not worthy of attention, while jazz diehards find the catchy syncopations tame and conventional. But he has little time for anyone who doesn’t recognise the genius at work here. “They’re art songs, is what they are. The songs of Gershwin and Porter and [Jerome] Kern are as important to their period as the songs of Schubert . . . People who are sniffy about this material don’t really know it, as far as I’m concerned, because I’ve never met a musician of any worth who’s sniffy about this.

Selecting the right performers is another way in which Wilson ensures that his rediscovered scores will get the best possible presentation. He formed the John Wilson Orchestra in 1994, while he was still studying at the Royal College of Music, with the intention of imitating the old Hollywood studio orchestras that originally performed this repertoire. Many of the players he works with are stars of other European orchestras – in a sense, it is a supergroup. The ensemble looks a bit like a symphony orchestra with a big band nestled in the middle – saxophones next to French horns and a drum kit in the centre. The right string sound, in particular, is essential.

At the rehearsal for the Gershwin programme, I heard Wilson describing to the first violins exactly what he wanted: “Give me the hottest sound you’ve made since your first concerto at college.” Rather than the blended tone that much of the classical repertoire calls for, this music demands throbbing, emotive, swooping strings. Or, as Wilson put it: “Use so much vibrato that people’s family photos will shuffle across the top of their TVs and fall off.”

His conducting work spans much more than his Hollywood musical reconstruction projects. Wilson is a principal conductor with the Royal Northern Sinfonia and has performed or recorded with most of the major ensembles in Britain. And his great passion is for English music: the romanticism of Elgar, Vaughan Williams and Delius needs advocates, too, he says. He insists that these two strands of his career are of equivalent importance. “I make no separation between my activities conducting classical music and [film scores]. They’re just all different rooms in the same house.” 

The John Wilson Orchestra’s “Gershwin in Hollywood” (Warner Classics) is out now

Caroline Crampton is assistant editor of the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 25 August 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Cameron: the legacy of a loser