As the game progresses, hero Geralt grows as a protagonist.
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How The Witcher 3 created and perfected hardboiled detective fantasy

This game is a masterpiece, and yet it still could have been so much better.

So after many delays The Witcher 3 finally appeared. Some people complained about some parts of it and some people lamented the fact that it’d take them every hour of their spare time from now until forever to get to the end and some people mysteriously vanished from society altogether, to surface days later, blinking in the sunlight, with enormous smiles on their faces. I fell into that third group, the lucky group, the group that saw the future.

This is the thing about The Witcher 3: it is the future, or at least it is the new standard. It represents the point where decades of incremental improvements in videogame storytelling and structuring finally embraced the grand production values that have become commercially viable with this generation of gaming hardware. The net result is a game with the geographic scale and freedom to wander that you’d usually get from something like Skyrim, coupled to the close-up focus on characters and storytelling that typically only occurs in games with a tighter focus like Dragon Age: Origins. Such a level of detail over so vast a game has never been done, indeed it has not even really been attempted until now.

That is not to say that The Witcher 3 is a perfect game, but it is a stunningly, heartbreakingly, mind-blowingly good one. I could find faults with it all day, indeed given that the game takes around a hundred hours to play through, and much more past that if you really want to see through every quest, I experienced its problems first hand for literally an entire day give or take, but this is not a game aiming to be neat, focussed and perfect. This is a vast sprawling saga, an epic work of complex interwoven stories. The potency of the stories is such that their sheer number and quality is staggering. This is not a game that wastes time or pads itself out with filler content.

This does not feel like a simple case of a game just being really good either. Sometimes a game just gets everything right, goes by the numbers and delivers a tour de force. This feels more fundamental than that, like The Witcher 3 just invented a jet engine while the rest of the genre is finding increasingly desperate ways to get more power from propellers.

Where does this feeling come from? Simply that The Witcher 3 is a game that clearly, as great as it is, could have been better. Indeed there are elements of the game that are almost ordinary, the combat for example is a very big part of the game and rarely does it feel more than adequate. The controls also manage to be at times clumsy and simultaneously fiddly, particularly when swimming. The crafting system seems to have promise but combined with the perfunctory combat system can feel like little more than a boondoggle. The Witcher 3 carries all these problems like splatted bugs on the windscreen of a juggernaut. In spite of them all it still, comfortably, can claim to be the best roleplaying game ever made.

At the heart of this epic lies the hero, Geralt of Rivia. He is a witcher, a mutant of superhuman reflexes and constitution, trained from childhood to hunt and kill monsters. This sounds like standard fantasy hero fare, have sword will travel while slaying stuff for fun and profit. However it soon becomes apparent that Geralt is not a typical fantasy hero at all. He isn’t the chosen one or looking to avenge a past wrong nor is he some fresh faced neophyte starting out in a world of adventure.

In many ways Geralt is more like a hardboiled private detective, the sort normally seen traipsing mournfully around Los Angeles in Dashiell Hammett novels. He is an older man, already wise, already capable and already widely known. He has old friends, old enemies, old scars and old scores. Raymond Chandler defined this kind of detective protagonist in his 1950 essay The Simple Art of Murder and the similarities are strong.

…down these mean streets a man must go who is not himself mean, who is neither tarnished nor afraid. The detective in this kind of story must be such a man. He is the hero, he is everything. He must be a complete man and a common man and yet an unusual man. He must be, to use a rather weathered phrase, a man of honour, by instinct, by inevitability, without thought of it, and certainly without saying it. He must be the best man in his world and a good enough man for any world.

He is a relatively poor man, or he would not be a detective at all. He is a common man or he could not go among common people. He has a sense of character, or he would not know his job. He will take no man’s money dishonestly and no man’s insolence without a due and dispassionate revenge.

This genre splicing of high fantasy and hardboiled detective is vital to the success of The Witcher 3 both for its story and tone, but also, and unusually, to the mechanics that define how the player engages with the game.

Geralt, like most fictional detectives, is an outsider, brought in to solve mysteries, disappearances, murders and unexplained phenomena. He is seldom welcomed with open arms. Geralt’s unpopularity with the characters who hire him stems not just from him being a mutant but from the connotations of his trade, of being a man who learns uncomfortable truths, a man associated with hard times and problems. As such even the characters who seek Geralt’s help will be uncomfortable with his presence, maybe even deceiving him. This again taps into the hardboiled detective genre, even the people who hire you might be spinning you a line.

The heart of the work you have Geralt do is the monster hunting. Usually there will be a notice in a town offering a reward for whoever can help solve a problem. Maybe somebody went missing in the woods. Maybe there’s a ghost. Maybe something has been twisting the heads off bears. You collect the notice and speak to the person who posted it, you discuss a fee and you ask them for further information, witnesses, locations, possible clues. Then you go out and dig around. The process is involved and engrossing. Behind every monster lies a story, why it is there, why it is attacking, who its victims were. Usually you piece together an idea about what the target is and can prepare accordingly to neutralise it. When the contract is fulfilled one way or the other there will be consequences.

The main plot follows a much longer arc, but it is still recognisably a mystery story. Geralt, in true hardboiled detective style, is summoned to meet the powerful man whose daughter has vanished, and is charged with finding her. The scene where this takes place is the stuff of classic film noir, the palace with its snooty servant, Yeneffer giving off femme fatale vibes like a pulp fiction Disney Queen, the Emperor commanding you to find his daughter with such authority and detachment you’d think he was giving instructions for how to prune his orchids. The scene could be straight out of The Big Sleep, which seems deliberate, as a later scene features an emotionally bruising homage to Casablanca.

A typical fantasy game will throw bigger and meaner monsters at you all day because that is what fantasy games do. Skyrim for example managed to make its dragon attacks go from terrifying to a being mere nuisance through sheer overuse. This constant escalation goes with the territory and seems often to be done without question, but this is notable by its absence The Witcher 3. While The Witcher 3 is no stranger to the odd avoidable ambient fight, a pack of roving wolves or a group of bandits might be found out in the wilds, this is a game that takes meticulous care in how it deploys its larger threats so that they never become routine encounters. The game does not scale according to your level, so the deadliest creatures are very few in number but present from the start.

As such nearly every monster Geralt hunts, and he will hunt many, will have something about it that sets it apart, maybe it will be one of a kind or have a story behind it. We are as far beyond the classic “Go here and kill ten of this” quest plotline as an airliner is beyond a kite. It is impressive that, while it could be argued that The Witcher 3 has a fairly limited pool of different creatures to draw from, the developers resist the temptation to keep flinging in the best of them. You’ll see a lot of ghouls, nekkers and drowners, you might even grow bored of them, but the game is willing to let you get bored of them, rather than lessen the impact carried by its A-List bogeymen.

Geralt himself is a fantastic character and vast improvement over the usual gravelly voiced, closed off, emotionless goons that make up the heroes of other video games. That is not to say he doesn’t at first come across as being just such a goon but where many such characters are completely stunted Geralt has great depth. While some players might be put off by his detached manner this is actually a great strength of the writing, because by downplaying Geralt’s emotional reactions to things there is less of a sense that we as players are being told what to feel. This helps in the continuity of scenes, keeping Geralt’s tone consistent, which would be extremely hard to do convincingly if he was more of an extrovert. If we want him to be angry, he can be angry, if we want him to be friendly, he can be friendly, but until we decide one way or the other he remains inscrutable.

In many ways the way Geralt presents himself feels more believable than the whooping, cheering cadaver-junkies that little most other games. Geralt takes no pleasure in combat or killing, he is detached, workmanlike. In a game that paints its characters so vividly this is really the only way that he could fit into it without seeming to be a monster himself. Indeed for a game ostensibly about a man who kills things for a living the game takes a dim view of violence in general.

As the game progresses Geralt grows as a protagonist. His stoicism in his day to day dealings serves to add weight to those later moments when he lets his guard down. The subtle changes to his demeanour as he deals with different people make him an incredibly likeable character too. He is good with children, sympathetic to those in pain and undaunted by the rich and powerful. There’s a genuine sense that Geralt is a hero of the downtrodden, unless of course you take a conscious effort to bypass most of the game by telling everybody who needs your help to sod off.

In a medium awash with feeble characters from the stab-happy Muppet of Middle Earth in Shadow of Mordor to Aiden Pearce’s insufferable crappiness in Watch_Dogs and any number of nameless military chumps in whichever first person shooter came off the production line this week Geralt stands out as an incredible creation. It is unfortunate that he should only hit his stride in what seems to be his final adventure, although we are talking about a final adventure that is, in terms of hours to play through versus reading time, approximately twice the size of the Harry Potter series.

One element for which the game has faced criticism is its unapologetically male gaze. You’ll see a lot more female flesh than male over the course of the story, and that’s even considering there’s a fight in a bath house at one point. The game world is also littered with a curiously high ratio of attractive female characters, while by contrast the men are generally lumpy and brutish. If you’re comfortable with the idea of The Witcher 3 as a manly man’s adventure about being a heterosexual man and can enjoy it on those terms you will have a lot of fun with it but your mileage may vary if you find that sort of thing grating. Though you do get to play as Geralt’s ward Ciri it is not for very long out of the total length of the game, although these parts are something of a highlight.

It is notable that for a game that is generally speaking to a traditional male audience in familiar terms it does have a strong contingent of female characters. By which I mean the contingent itself is strong, not that it features the archetypal strong female character. There are women present throughout the game, from swamp crones to court sorceresses, from peasants to debutantes and because of the nature of the story, with Geralt more a solver of other people’s problems rather than a man with his own agenda, the game gives the stories of these characters more weight and attention. They are not stepping stones on the path to Geralt’s final victory, or ornaments along the way, rather they have their own paths and contact with Geralt may help or hinder their journeys.

This shouldn’t have to be pointed out as a remarkable accomplishment in this day and age, but sadly this kind of representation still sort of is. The representation of people of colour is however one area where the game drops the ball, featuring a grand total of no non-white human characters. Arguments have been made back and forth on this issue and I won’t dwell on them here, suffice to say I don’t think it would have harmed the artistic vision of the game one iota to have a few people of colour in there, given that the city of Novigrad is a major port and some people have the means to magically teleport.

 It is ironic that despite having a monochrome cast, one of the main story themes deals with racism and prejudice and how these are exploited by those in power. The fact that almost everybody in The Witcher 3 is what we would term as being ethnically white makes the way that the story deals with racism interesting in that it sets aside our own frames of reference. We are outsiders to it all and we can see from this distance that the hatred is artificial, created for political ends and seized upon by vicious and manipulative elements. There’s a lesson in there somewhere and it is perhaps a more effective one than would be taught by simply having all the different peoples of the world unite behind a hero to stab baddies in a big showdown, as is the traditional way for games and films to show us racism is bad. But still, representation is important.

It is easy to criticise The Witcher 3 because it is so incredibly huge and for the most part incredibly well made that its failings are that much more disappointing. However it is equally important to recognise it for the feat of writing, design and software engineering that it represents. Nobody, but nobody, has made a game of this detail on this scale before and that the quality of its production, from those first seconds to that final end sequence, is so high would have been almost unimaginable until somebody trundled along and actually made it happen. This game is a masterpiece and the small army of people who made it happen should feel ridiculously proud of themselves, although given the rate at which patches are being released I doubt they’ve had a day off yet.

Phil Hartup is a freelance journalist with an interest in video gaming and culture

LINDA BROWNLEE / CONTOUR BY GETTY IMAGES
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“Trump is a great opportunity for us writers": Zadie Smith on fighting back

The author of Swing Time on Michael Jackson, female friendships and how writers can bring down Donald Trump.

In a packed college lecture hall at the Cambridge Literary Festival on 22 November, Zadie Smith joined me on stage to talk about her fifth novel. Swing Time is the story of an unnamed narrator and her childhood friend – “two brown girls” – which begins at a church hall dance class and never quite lets them go, throughout their divergent lives. Despite being a little jet-lagged from her flight from New York – where she lives with her husband, the poet and novelist Nick Laird, and their two children – Smith spoke with the cool, lucid intelligence familiar from her essays and criticism as well as her fiction. “You’re so quiet compared to American audiences,” she said to the crowd. “American audiences say thing like, ‘Uh huh! Yeah!’ just randomly in the middle of things.” Met with reverential silence, she was free to navigate fluidly between racial identity, female friendship, Barack Obama’s legacy and her love of Mad Men.

New Statesman Swing Time is about many things, but it is dance that gives the story its rhythm and arc. What’s your own relationship with dance?

Zadie Smith For me, it’s a joy. I’m a 41-year-old woman; I don’t dance that much any more. My children don’t enjoy me dancing in any context, but I love to watch it, and I found out writing this book that I love to think about it.

 

NS As a child, the narrator is absorbed by classic musicals and through them she discovers a handful of black dancers – the Nicholas Brothers, the young Jeni LeGon – who take on huge significance for her. Did these figures have that kind of impact on you?

ZS No, Jeni LeGon is someone I only found out about writing this book, so I had to construct what it would have been like to know about her aged five or eight; it’s like a fake memoir. But I loved that kind of early dance, and I recognise the instinct a lot of black and Asian children of my generation might have: the sense of counting the brown faces wherever we saw them, in a slightly desperate way. I definitely did that, in my everyday life, switching on the BBC and hoping to see Daley Thompson, or whoever – this kind of search for a reflection.

 

NS There were major black stars in the 1980s: the narrator’s friend Tracey idolises Michael Jackson and Prince.

ZS Michael Jackson’s a really interesting example, because he’s such a traumatising figure for a whole generation of kids! You were offered him as this wonder – this incredible black dancer – who then you had to watch throughout your childhood become un-black. You had to have this magical thinking and believe that he had a mysterious skin disease that does not manifest in that way in any other human on Earth, and that all this surgery also had nothing to do with it. It required a great deal of denial, and I think it did something very odd to a generation of children. He certainly loomed large in my mind as a figure of such penetrating self-hatred and self-disgust. Perhaps I have a suspicion of role models exactly for that reason, that you’re offered something – a model of behaviour or thought – but it can only ever be narrow. And then, when it goes traumatically wrong, as it did in poor Michael’s case, you’re left slightly rudderless.

 

NS You wrote that the Nicholas Brothers remind you of a line that a mother tells her daughter, that she needs to be twice as good as the other kids. This sentiment crops up in NW and in Swing Time, too.

ZS When I meet black British kids of my generation, that’s what all their mothers said to them. But with the Nicholas Brothers, I was also thinking about talent, because the novel is about different relations of power: in friendships, in families, between countries.

One of the things power is based on is the feeling that someone has a natural right to a certain amount of things. If you’re born into a situation, what accrues to you because of that? If you’re born into an unfortunate situation, what do you deserve in replacement for that? Politics lies along those lines. But talent is interesting because people on both sides of the political divide tend to think of it as a natural bounty not to be interfered with. The Nicholas Brothers are so extraordinarily talented that it’s a kind of offence to our most democratic thoughts. Why do these boys dance like that? How is it possible to have those kinds of gifts in the world, and what should you get because of them?

 

NS Did the Nicholas Brothers get the recognition that their talent deserved?

ZS Well, it was complicated, because they would do these extraordinary routines, but the studio always ensured they weren’t integral to the plot, so that when the films went south of the Mason-Dixon line, you could just cut the offending scene. So that was their experience – a very painful one, I think. But they were extraordinary professionals and Astaire spoke so well of them.

When I was a kid, what preoccupied me even more than the movies themselves was the idea of what was going on behind the scenes, between these black actors and the directors, the producers, the other actors. Because even though someone like Fred Astaire was a supporter of these artists, he didn’t actually actively help them on set. There’s a moment in Easter Parade when a maid comes in with a pug in her arms, and that maid is Jeni LeGon. Astaire knew who she was and how talented a dancer she was and yet he allowed her to appear for 35 seconds in a movie, passing him a dog.

 

NS In Swing Time, the narrator goes on to work for a pop star who is busily incorporating African imagery and clothing into her routines. What’s your take on this idea of cultural appropriation?

ZS Aimee, the pop star, says something that I don’t disagree with, which is that art involves an act of love, and of imitation. I would maybe use the word “voyeurism”. I think of myself explicitly as a voyeur, somebody who wants to be inside other people’s lives. To write On Beauty, I wanted to know: what’s it like to be a middle-aged, white male academic? Or in The Autograph Man, what’s it like to be a young, Chinese-Jewish guy who collects autographs? I guess sometimes the reader thinks it’s not appropriation when I’m writing about an older, black American woman – but I’m not an older, black American woman. It’s all voy­eurism on my part. But the way it’s argued a lot of the time, on both sides, is so vulgar.

Also, I feel that the identity facts of your life are so profoundly contingent – where your parents happened to be on the day you were born – that I can only take identity ­seriously as an act of commitment and love. I don’t think it runs through your blood. It is a compulsion. You have chosen to become, for example, British, even if you were born British and your great-grandfather was British. Being British is a kind of engagement; you have to commit to the idea of a culture.

 

NS In terms of identity, the narrator defines herself by the light other people cast on her. She’s almost a negative space.

ZS I felt that I wanted an “I” who was like a void, partly from my own sensibility – I recognise myself as a person of some passivity – but also in response to the performance of a certain kind of persona, particularly among young people. My students have a very firm sense of their “I”, or say they do, and they take that “I” on to the various social platforms and into their lives. It’s a type of presentation. But the kind of person that I was thinking about is asking, “What did I do here, there and then? What does it mean?” She’s working out, “Who am I?” but it comes from action, not from a series of staged performances. I knew it would be a slightly unnerving experience, because we’ve got so used to opening a book or reading a blog or watching Instagram and being presented with this full technicolour person with all these qualities. I felt that maybe in my novel, I could try something else.

 

NS When asked about the target audience for their book, writers usually say that they don’t write for an audience, or they write for themselves. But you have said that Swing Time was written explicitly for black girls.

ZS That’s how I felt when I was writing it. I did have somebody I was trying to speak to, and that might be no different to writing the kind of book – as writers often say – that you might have hoped to read when you were young. I was aware of an explicit imagined reader. I can’t deny that was in my mind. These are not normal times, and I think even writers as domestic or comic as I generally am find themselves in a more political place than they would in peaceful times. Being in America the past few years, I felt I had a lot of things that I had to get on paper, to get off my chest.

 

NS One of the most interesting aspects of the book is the relationship between the two girls. Do you think there’s something particularly fraught and complex about female friendships?

ZS I feel that perhaps in the past – because so much was written by men, because the women were with the children – relations between women have been depicted with very simple concepts like envy, or the idea of the bitch fight. And now that women are writing so much more frequently and the men in their lives are helping with the children, I think you’re getting for the first time in a very long time a different depiction of intimate female relations.

One of the things that strike me is that the much-vaunted envy between women is also a kind of radical imagination, in that women are always in each other’s business; they can imagine each other’s lives with great intensity. When I was writing this book, I was with my daughter at a children’s party, parting from another girl who wanted to know every little thing about where we were going next. I compared that with my son, who, if he’s saying goodbye to a friend, is just like, “See ya!” and doesn’t even remember they exist until the next morning.

That ability of girls to project their imagination into somebody else’s life can have toxic elements, but also seems to me an extraordinary fictional instinct, and might explain the domination of women in the novel historically, when so many other art forms were practically blocked for them. The novel, to me, is a woman’s art. I don’t say men don’t have enormous achievements in it, of course, but it has a strong female element, exactly because of that projection, which can be called empathy, I suppose, but is also a deep curiosity and voyeurism.

 

NS We tend to associate male relationships with power struggles, but aren’t female friendships equally involved in exchanges of power and power games?

ZS Right. I think it can be sometimes invisible to men, because the form of the power game can be so inverted. There is a very funny Amy Schumer sketch of four women meeting in a park in New York and competitively downgrading themselves: “You look nice!” “No, I look like something pulled out of the trash.” On it goes until they explode. All women will recognise that, and it’s a compulsive English habit. I do it all the time. Someone says to me, “You look nice.” I say, “Oh, Topshop, 15 quid.” That habit maybe doesn’t look like power from the outside, but all women know exactly what they’re doing when they’re doing these things.

 

NS In your fiction, mother-daughter relationships seem equally fraught.

ZS Even though I know a lot of women have difficult relationships with their mothers, what’s amusing, and kind of moving, too, is the amnesia. When they have children, women cannot imagine the idea that maybe this lovely two-year-old will one day do ­anything to avoid calling you between Sunday and Sunday – they can’t conceive of it, even as they’re doing it to their own mothers. I guess I never had that illusion about motherhood. I always thought, “This is going to be terrible,” so anything that’s good is a kind of bonus. I was very surprised when my kids started saying the normal things that kids say, that they love you.

Then there are the sweet delusions of what you want and what the child wants. I can’t tell you how many times people in New York have said to me things like, “I’m going to go and get a massage, because if I’m happy, the child’s happy.” You want to believe that you want the same things at the same time, but exactly the opposite is true. The child wants everything, and it’s the mother’s decision how much she’s going to give. I find that battle kind of comic and sweet and interesting, and certainly having children has reanimated it in my fiction.

 

NS What was your involvement in the recent BBC television adaptation of NW?

ZS When they started, I was pregnant and I just couldn’t engage with it at all. So I just said, “Do whatever you like.” I saw it only two weeks ago on my laptop – very anxious, with my husband, Nick, late at night – and I was just so happy and amazed at that scriptwriter [Rachel Bennette] and all the things she cut so effectively. I’m not in the habit of being moved by my own material, but the power of it struck me, particularly the section with Felix. You see so many people stabbed, all the time, in movies and on TV, and you never really understand the weight of the life being lost – and the actor playing Felix managed to die.

I’m going to try to adapt Swing Time for TV, probably with Nick, because he’s much more of a plot guy. I’m excited. I love telly.
I don’t have original taste – I love all the usual suspects. I think Mad Men is stunning.
I felt like it was a dream life that I was in, and when it was gone I felt really depleted, like I couldn’t have that dream every night, with all those beautiful men and women in it.

 

NS You’ve long been associated with the idea of “multicultural London”, but what comes out strongly in your recent work is a sense of division. Do you feel more pessimistic about London as a mixed community?

ZS Particularly in America, I’ll be asked, “Are you a supporter of this thing multiculturalism, and now can you admit that it’s failed?” What’s being said is that the conditions of your childhood were a kind of experiment, and it turns out it hasn’t gone well, so we’re going to revoke that – it’s over now. I find it kind of unnerving, because millions of people around the world are still living with each other in mixed situations, and I also don’t accept the premise that a homogeneous society is by its nature more peaceful and more likely to succeed. The Romans, the Greeks, the Northern Irish, England for 400 years . . . There’s no reason to believe that. I never felt that a heterogeneous society was perfect. But I think there are promising things in my community, and I don’t accept the idea of an experiment shut down, finished: these are people’s lives.

But what certainly is the case, I feel, is that you cannot, on the left or on the right, assume that a historical situation will remain in perpetuity. If you value things in that ­society, you have to restate them, reimagine them, and the kind of housing crisis we have in London now makes various conditions I grew up in impossible. There will always be rich and poor but, as [Thomas] Piketty makes the case, the gap is so extraordinary now. To have allowed it to get to this almost feudal situation, I don’t see how it can’t create deep cracks within civilised life. The ­division in London is a financial one. It feels extreme and it has extreme consequences.

 

NS In 2008, you wrote an essay full of cautious hope that Obama’s mode of speaking might be the thing required to pull the country together. How do you feel looking back at that moment now?

ZS On the morning of this election, I heard a young black girl on the subway ­speaking very loudly about why she’d voted for Trump. One of her reasons – a kind of “Face­book fact” – was that Obama created fewer jobs than Bush, which I believe had been going round the right-wing sites. In some of the big car towns, Obama saved so many jobs – but it’s hard to sell the counterfactual idea that there would be 800,000 fewer jobs here had this not happened.

But I think another counterfactual will be in his favour soon, and that is all the ways in which Obama is calm. Recently in New York, we had a small terrorist attack in Chelsea. Try to imagine Donald’s response to that. And so I think that over the next four years, all the ways in which Obama has not done many things that would have led us into terrible situations will become very clear, very quickly. It’s a painful way to secure your legacy, but that’s the way I see it.

 

NS As a New Yorker, what has your experience been over the past few weeks?

ZS I left the morning after it happened, because I had to go to Europe. When we turned up at my son’s daycare, the teachers were crying. My friend told me that the pizza delivery guy came that evening and burst into tears at the door. It was traumatic.

My gut feeling is that the job of American journalists and writers is going to be to somehow defy the normalisation of what’s happening. I think there are positive signs. It blows my mind that a man who is meant to be preparing to be leader of the free world watched Saturday Night Live [in which Alec Baldwin played Trump] and tweeted three times about it. So, in one sense, it’s a great opportunity for all of us artists, comedians, writers, because he’s so easily wound up! It gives the press an opportunity to be a real fourth estate and do something significant. Which could perhaps lead to impeachment. It’s promising, from our point of view.

“Swing Time” by Zadie Smith is published by Hamish Hamilton

Tom Gatti is Culture Editor of the New Statesman. He previously edited the Saturday Review section of the Times, and can be found on Twitter as @tom_gatti.

 

This article first appeared in the 01 December 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Age of outrage