Woman in the crime mask: J K Rowling, AKA Robert Galbraith
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Mark Lawson: J K Rowling and the chamber of secret names

Cuckoo’s Calling sold just a few hundred copies when thought to be by “Robert Galbraith”, then millions when its true author was revealed. But should the mask have stayed on longer?

Although Agatha Christie and Philip Roth may seem an improbable pairing, both authors dramatised the experience of literary celebrity through an alter ego: Christie’s fictional crime writer Ariadne Oliver and Roth’s invented Jewish-American author Nathan Zuckerman tantalise readers with an apparent dance of self-revelation that may in reality be steps of disguise. Other writers who have suffered serious fame have reacted in a similar way: “Mailer”, the third-person reference somehow more egotistical than “I”, is a frequent protagonist in the books of Norman Mailer, while John Updike had Henry Bech, an American author who wins the Nobel Prize in Literature, in presumably therapeutic compensation for Updike’s own failure to do so.

This literary subgenre seemed threatened by the fact that destabilising stardom is a decreasing risk for authors. But two current writers – Dan Brown and J K Rowling – have achieved a level of renown far beyond Byron’s reported shock at waking up to find himself famous; and this giddy prominence has filtered into their books. Brown’s take on fame is oblique: one of the loudest false chimes in his latest novel, Inferno, is that its hero, Robert Langdon, has a lifestyle (private jets, etc) and public name-recognition that fit a super-selling thriller writer rather better than they do a Harvard academic.

Rowling has responded more directly to the predicament of being a writer so well known that her intervention in the Scottish independence debate (urging a No vote and giving the negative campaign a million quid to encourage others) was more widely publicised than anything said on the subject by Cameron, Salmond or Obama.

The subject matter of The Silkworm, her second crime novel under the pseudonym “Robert Galbraith”, is the hunting of an author. Cormoran Strike – the one-legged private eye first met in The Cuckoo’s Calling, which sold a few hundred copies when thought to be by Robert Galbraith, then millions when its true author was revealed – is hired to find Owen Quine. This British horror-crime writer has vanished with the manuscript of a fiction called Bombyx Mori, an exposé of the literary world that includes defamatory versions of famous writers including Michael Fancourt, whose wife committed suicide after a parody of her writing in a satirical magazine.

Because Rowling’s first published works were a series of fantasies about adolescent necromancers and a sort of lacrosse played on broomsticks, the extent of autobiography and editorialising in her writing only belatedly became apparent. But, across the seven Harry Potters, her adult novel The Casual Vacancy and the two Galbraiths, personal preoccupations increasingly recur: single parenthood, press intrusion, class and racial prejudice.

Phone-hacking and fatherless children get another airing in The Silkworm and so there is an inevitable temptation to suspect that the viperous writers, slippery agents, duplicitous publishers and cruel critics who populate the book also represent heart-felt memories or observations. But Rowling is on record as saying that she had hoped her crime mask would stay in place for longer than it did. And I think it’s clear that The Silkworm was intended to be an even more elaborate tease than it now is.

Internal references (the News of the World still being published, Prince William’s engagement to Catherine Middleton) place the story in late 2010, an unusual time lag for contemporary crime fiction, which may lead some literary sleuths to wonder whether Rowling began it before, or possibly alongside, the first Galbraith novel. Strikingly, a major plot line turns on the true authorship of a novel and, if the pseudonymous ruse had endured, readers wondering whether Quine and Fancourt were caricatures of actual celebrated authors would have been dumbly unaware that the best-known British novelist of the age herself was hiding between the lines.

It’s a shame that the fun was spoiled. Even so, reading a Gal­braith while knowing that it’s a Rowling is still a pleasure. Surely, whatever happens in September’s referendum, her first specifically Scottish novel, under one name or another, cannot be far away.

 

Going it alone

Solo shows are popular with theatre accountants because only one actor has to be paid, and loved by performers because there is zero risk of being upstaged. Two recent productions, though, have confirmed that they can be a perfect form for audiences as well. Kevin Spacey’s portrayal of the American civil rights lawyer in David W Rintels’s Clarence Darrow and Fiona Shaw’s depiction of the mother of Christ in Colm Tóibín’s The Testament of Mary will surely be contenders for this year’s theatre awards. Though working in huge theatres – the Old Vic and the Barbican – Spacey and Shaw made every phrase resonate, conjuring up not just the title character but dozens of others in the narrative. One-person performances can be the speech equivalent of an operatic aria: the ultimate test of vocal dexterity and stage presence. These two actors passed with singular success.

Mark Lawson is a journalist and broadcaster, best known for presenting Front Row on Radio 4 for 16 years. He writes a weekly column in the critics section of the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 18 June 2014 issue of the New Statesman, Islam tears itself apart

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Annie (1982): a bizarre, patriotic portrait of capitalist white America

Featuring bizarre asides about Franklin D Roosevelt’s New Deal, Bolshevism, taxes, the Great Depression, and the commercialisation of radio. 

Thirty-five years ago this summer, the movie Annie was released. Thirty-five years later, it still makes absolutely no fucking sense. It is a bizarre, patriotic portrait of capitalist white America with bizarre asides about Franklin D Roosevelt’s New Deal, Bolshevism, taxes, the Great Depression, and the commercialisation of radio. Are you ready, children? Then we’ll begin.

We open at Hudson St Home for Girls. We know this because there is a sign that says Hudson St Home for Girls.

Annie is leaning out of the window, singing sadly and sweetly about her imaginary parents. Her childish ideas of what adults like – “Bet they collect things like ashtrays and art” – is actually very touching. A strong open for Annie.

We do, however need to urgently talk about her hair – a strange combination of Pippi Longstocking, Bowie’s Starman-era mullet and Tom Jones curls.

Despite this misfortune, Annie seems to have absolutely bags of confidence – first singing loudly about her living parents as the only non-orphan in the home while all the other bereaved children try to peacefully cry themselves to sleep, then threatening another child three times the size of her with tiny, angry fists and cocky walk. Look at her, swanning around like Billiam Big Balls.

Annie gives no fucks. Until Dahlesque villain Miss Hannigan enters with a comedy-sized bottle of gin and a frankly iconic silk robe. She immediately threatens to outright murder all the children, and also does that high-pitched Stop copying me! mimicking voice, so there’s really nowhere more villainous for this character to go. She’s peaked.

Now for the cleaning montage: where every child reveals themselves to be a secret Olympic-level athlete.

This girl is cleaning the staircase with every single limb.

Everywhere in this orphanage is dirty, falling apart and miserable. Seemingly hundreds of girls are under the care of a single, drunk abusive guardian and get all their sustenance from a meal called “mush” (served hot and cold!). You might be thinking, Wow, seems like what this children’s home needs is some good ol’ fashioned taxpayer funding increased state intervention and government regulation! But apparently you’d be wrong!

At the end of their cleaning montage, Annie sneaks out of the home in a laundry thanks to Mr Bundles of Bundles French Style Chinese Hand Laundry. A man so aligned with his small laundry business that he seems to have been predestined for it in a striking incident of nominative determinism. Mr Bundles of Bundles French Style Chinese Hand Laundry is a stand-up guy who protects the orphans by sending them out into New York City, alone.

Annie spies her enemy: men.

But as soon as Annie is out in the world she runs into the ultimate evil: the meddling state. She just manages to escape a stern looking policeman, in order to beat up six scrawny boys with her tiny, powerful fists – a touching feminist scene. Just look at those Why I Oughta fisticuffs!

Don’t mess with the bad bitch.

After she has joyfully hurt the boys, she barely befriends a cheerful dog before the New York City Pound tries to rip it from her warm embrace. Then the stern-looking policeman is back, and Annie is frog-marched back to the home. And she would have got away with it too if it weren’t for you meddling government agents! Just look at these badge-wearing wankers.

But who is this classy broad?

Another meddling state official? The New York Board of Orphans sent her? Miss Hannigan goes into a tizzy – but never fear! The woman, Grace, insists, “I am the private secretary of Oliver Warbucks.” Yep, you heard it here, kids. Johnny Big Dollar! Geoffrey Moneybags! Hilary Capitalism-Is-The-Only-Equaliser! She’s his secretary. And private secretary at that – none of these public secretaries for millionaires.

She wants an orphan, for one week, to make Mr Warbucks look good. Annie persuades Grace to pick her, and Grace persuades Miss Hannigan to let her go. So Grace runs off with Annie to the Warbucks mansion. Oh, boy! It’s beautiful!

Pause for the awkward Inexplicably Magical Ethnic Minority stereotype. His name is “Punjab”. He doesn’t speak, but does often spontaneously dance, and can seemingly make inanimate objects levitate, control animals and fix injured body parts. This is a truly and deeply racist portrayal.

Annie is asked what she wants to do first – and thanks to years of trauma and abuse she assumes they mean which thing she should clean first. The staff chuckle warmly at these symptoms of a horrific and exploited childhood. Then they all sing about how nice this luxury mansion is and how Annie will never have to lift a finger in this house, the most soothing musical number I think I’ve ever heard. This is my safe space. Wait on me, Drake!!!

It’s also in this scene that Annie reveals she used to sleep “in a tomb”, which is pretty fucking dark for a cheerful movie musical.

Daddy Warbucks arrives and Grace runs him through his messages. “President Roosevelt called three times, sir, this morning, he said it was very urgent.” “Everything’s urgent to a Democrat!” he spits back because THIS MAN IS CLEARLY A REPUBLICAN. We get it, Daddy.

This is also the scene in which Annie asks Daddy Warbucks to “hang me in the bathroom”, which is pretty fucking weird for a cheerful movie musical.

Cut to Miss Hannigan drinking water from a vase and making out with a radio, which is pretty fucking weird for a cheerful movie musical. She launches into an amazing, three-and-a-half-minute song about how horny she is. Cool. Normal. Fine.

Her brother Rooster turns up, and maybe I’ve just been watching too much Game of Thrones, but I get extremely strong incest vibes from the pair of them. I’m convinced this film can’t get much stranger.

In the ensuing five minutes, back at the Warbucks mansion Punjab disposes of a bomb, left by a “Bolshevik” singing The Internationale. Warbucks “is living proof that the American system really works,” Grace explains to the audience Annie, “and the Bolsheviks don’t want anybody to know about that!” I love capitalism!!

Next up is a scene taking directly from my subconscious: Annie takes her dog to the movies, gets overexcited, falls asleep & is carried home by a billionaire. Everyone sings about how great it is to go to the movies with your dog and your billionaire. Suck it, La La Land.

Deep depression / What do we care? / Movies are there! The dancers sing, which is also my personal life philosophy.

Anyway, they go to see Camille (1936) which has a MESSAGE about LOVE and MONEY or something. The next morning, Grace suggests Warbucks adopt Annie. “I’m a businessman. I love money, I love power, I love capitalism, I do not now nor never will love children!” “You know, they’re never going to love you back,” says Grace. Warbucks has a sudden awakening and decides, actually, he loves Annie more than he loves money. (But he still really, really loves money.)

In one of the weirder moments of the film, Grace celebrates Annie’s adoption by singing She makes you relax / Like a big tax / Rebate! Did you even see the orphanage, Grace?! Maybe a little less rebates would mean a little more basic provisions for orphaned children!

Warbucks goes to formally adopt Annie and Miss Hannigan sings another three-minute song about how bloody horny she is. Gotta respect that level of horn. It does include lyrics about her “very wet soufflé”, but she doesn’t call him Daddy even once.

We learn Daddy Warbucks was born very poor in Liverpool but “decided” to be rich when his brother died of pneumonia as a child. By 21, he was a millionaire. The American dream works! USA! USA! USA! He says that not having someone to share his life might almost be as bad as being poor. Luckily for him he has bought the affections of a ten-year-old, so one has really led to the other. USA! USA! USA!

Annie says she’d rather find her real parents than be adopted. The hunt begins!

But first, a totally arbitrary diversion to watch the recording of a toothpaste advert. Obviously. It’s cute though.

Once that’s over, it’s obviously time to go to Washington (?!?!) to see the President (?!!). Warbucks and President Roosevelt debate 1930s New Deal Programs to create jobs for the unemployed. The President asks a ten-year-old to help him devise this social welfare programme. She responds by singing a song because, hey, she doesn’t understand the Civilian Conservation Corps, she’s ten!

Everyone sings and thinks about how great and progressive America, and centrism, are around a big oil painting of George Washington.

Meanwhile, Miss Hannigan and her brother are flirting outrageously about concocting a plan to impersonate Annie’s parents (dead, we learn) for the reward money.

Annie’s parents (Rooster and his girlfriend) turn up, collect their reward money, and take her away. Miss Hannigan gets in the car too and Annie catches on. The ragtag bunch of orphans run and tell Daddy Warbucks what’s up. Meanwhile Annie escapes from the car and we’re in that classic movie trope: car chasing orphan on railway drawbridge. Miss Hannigan suddenly seems to care for Annie’s wellbeing when Rooster starts trying to kill her, and Rooster suddenly hits his sister and knocks her out, which is pretty fucking dark for a children’s movie musical. Annie and Rooster climb extraordinarily high on the raised drawbridge.

Deeply uncomfortably, the climax of the action comes when Punjab rescues Annie from a helicopter by unwrapping his turban and using it as a rope to swing down and grab her.

With all that behind them, Annie and Daddy come together to sing about how amazing their rich lives together are. Warbucks has gone on an amazing journey of discovery to learn that money isn’t the most important thing. (The most important thing is actually money AND orphans.) I don’t need anything but you – and the enormous private circus hosted in the garden of my stupendous mansion with Franklin and Eleanor Roosevelt in attendance! I’m rich as a Midas! Warbucks sings happily.

God Bless America!!!!

Anna Leszkiewicz is a pop culture writer at the New Statesman.