Go Set a Watchman on sale at Books and Books in Florida. Photo: Joe Raedle/Getty Images
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Harper Lee's fraught return to Maycomb County casts a stark light on both the past and present

How do we talk about Go Set a Watchman? Does its existence diminish To Kill a Mockingbird? How does it stand in relation to that text?

We always knew that Scout would speak her mind. We just never expected she would say these words. “You’re a coward as well as a snob and a tyrant, Atticus,” she rails at him. “You’re a nice, sweet, old gentleman, and I’ll never believe a word you say to me again. I despise you and everything you stand for.”

Even if you have read every word printed about the contentious publication of Go Set a Watchman, it is still stunning to come across these exchanges in a novel that is either a long-lost novel by Harper Lee or a very early draft of To Kill a Mockingbird, depending on whom you listen to. But no wonder Atticus Finch’s daughter is angry: she is just as shocked as we are. Scout – that scrappy tomboy in overalls who stands with her fellow youngsters Huck Finn and Holden Caulfield as an icon of American literature – is now Jean Louise, a sophisticated 26-year-old woman.

As Go Set a Watchman begins (its title is taken from the Book of Isaiah) Jean Louise is coming back to Maycomb County from her somewhat mysterious life in New York. At the station to meet her off the train is not Atticus, who is 72 and suffering badly from arthritis, but Hank Clinton, her father’s junior partner. Hank and Jean Louise have known each other since childhood, but now Hank is very much in love with her and wants to marry her. He calls her “honey” and a “child”, but she resists his unappealing blend of declared love and financial ­prudence (“I have now reached an economic status that can provide for the support of two”). And so begins Jean Louise’s challenging, unhappy return to Maycomb, the place that she, and so many readers, once happily called home.

I can’t recall when a book was so eagerly awaited as Go Set a Watchman. There were the Harry Potter Years, certainly, those midnight bookshop openings and eager kids dressed as wizards staying up all night. But we watched Harry Potter rise to classic status before our eyes (whether that status is deserved is another story altogether): Mockingbird has been firmly in the pantheon since it was first published in the summer of 1960. It is a book that is not only a staple of classroom teaching but also genuinely beloved. Oprah Winfrey, writing at the time of its 50th anniversary in 2010, called Mockingbird America’s “national novel”. The 1962 film adaptation won three Academy Awards; and an upright, stalwart Gregory Peck became enshrined in the collective imagination as the embodiment of Atticus Finch.

Yet part of the wider fascination with Mockingbird always lay in it being Lee’s only novel. Nelle Harper Lee, who will be 90 next year, is often lazily described as a “recluse”. What this seems to mean, in 21st-century parlance is “someone who doesn’t give interviews”. Like Neil Armstrong, another figure whose staggering fame was an early harbinger of the growth of celebrity culture, she wisely decided early on that she had little to gain by talking to the press. That didn’t stop the folks in Monroe­ville, Alabama – her native town, on which Maycomb is based – from capitalising on her success; head to Radley’s Fountain Grille on South Alabama Avenue and order up a plate of buffalo wings and “loaded cheese fries” in homage to Lee, why don’t you? To Kill a Mockingbird was a fascinating singularity; the novel was all the more adored because it stood alone.

But then, late in 2014, Go Set a ­Watchman was discovered among Lee’s papers. Or so we were told. The story of Watchman’s publication is a gripping tale in its own right. Tonja Carter, Harper Lee’s lawyer – who took over after Lee’s sister and gatekeeper Alice died, aged 103, in November 2014 – attests with certainty that she came across the manuscript in a safe-deposit box that year. But a rare books expert from Sotheby’s, Justin Caldwell, has said that he encountered the manuscript as early as 2011 when he went to Alabama with Lee’s literary agent in order to appraise her papers. And then, for a while, there was the mystery surrounding the decision to publish the manuscript, whenever it had been found. Why hadn’t it been published before? When publication was announced, in February this year, Lee – who had a stroke in 2007 and now resides at an assisted-living facility in her home town – was reported to have said, “I’m alive and kicking and happy as hell with the reactions to Watchman.” But others were not so sure; so much so, that following “an unspecified complaint”, Alabama State’s human resources department was concerned that Lee might be the victim of elder abuse. The case was closed after officials spoke to Lee.

Harper Lee on the porch in Monroeville, Alabama. Photo: Donald Urhbock/The Life images collection / Getty

Publication was slated for the very same day that the New Horizons spacecraft would swing close to Pluto, that most distant object in our solar system, its journey of nine years and three billion miles a parallel wonder to the release of Watchman. But then came more mystery, more fuss, as embargoes on publication were broken and news leaked that Atticus was not the man we thought he was. Twenty years on from the time of Mockingbird, the lawyer who defended a black man, Tom Robinson, when he was unjustly accused of rape by a white woman, saying that the case was “something that goes to the essence of a man’s conscience – Scout, I couldn’t go to church and worship God if I didn’t try to help that man” has changed his tune. With the grown-up Jean Louise standing before him, he speaks plainly in the language of Jim Crow: “Do you want Negroes by the carload in our schools and churches and theaters? Do you want them in our world?”

So how do we talk about Go Set a Watchman? Does its existence diminish To Kill a Mockingbird? How does it stand in relation to that text?

In the first place it seems to me wiser to read Watchman as a very early draft of Mockingbird, rather than an independent work. It seems clear that Watchman was the text submitted by Lee to the publisher Lippincott in the 1950s; Tay Hohoff, a forceful editor there, worked closely with Lee on draft after draft, through argument after argument, to coax out To Kill a Mockingbird.

Watchman is written in the third person, Mockingbird in the first. Watchman is best described as picaresque, a loosely linked series of events with no clear narrative through-line; Mockingbird is driven forward by the trial of Tom Robinson. One of the pleasures of reading Watchman is to admire the genius of an editor who saw what was hiding inside this strange, discursive book. Robinson’s trial is mentioned in a paragraph or two here: the character is never named, and furthermore Atticus gets him acquitted. It’s a worthwhile exercise to compare the opening two paragraphs of Mockingbird with Watchman’s: the former make you want – need – to read on; the latter, quite simply, do not. Watchman comes alive when Jean Louise’s recollections of her childhood with Dill and Jem and Cal, those characters we know and love so well, intrude into the present-day plot. (Jem’s ­appearance in flashback in this book is positively ghostly because we learn, brusquely, in the opening pages, that he dropped dead of a heart attack two years before this tale begins.)

The story of Watchman, when it finally gets going towards the second half of the book, is of Jean Louise’s horrifying discovery that not only is Atticus reading pamphlets with titles such as The Black Plague, he is also on the board of directors of the local citizens’ council. Citizens’ councils were white supremacist groups in the Southern states largely organised after Brown v Board of Education, the 1954 Supreme Court case that decreed segregation in public schools unconstitutional. Now, when Atticus decides he will take on the case of a black man, it is simply to fend off the “buzzards”: the NAACP lawyers “who demand Negroes on the juries in such cases”.

How is it possible that the Atticus of To Kill a Mockingbird has turned into (or had his origins in) this terrible man – a man against whom Scout stands firm, at great cost to herself, and her sense of what home is? For all the flaws in this novel, however, Atticus’s transformation is wholly believable; and I wonder if Harper Lee thought, once again, to teach us a lesson. For the lawyer’s attitude in Mockingbird surely can be seen as conservative and paternalistic; and Maycomb society, in both books, is strictly hierarchical, even within its white community. For all that this novel was written before – was transformed into – Mockingbird, it is possible to see how Lee would go back in time to imagine her character’s ideals before those ideals had been taken too far by “Negroes” who disagreed with Atticus’s statement of what he sees as simple fact: “white is white and black’s black”.

Shocking? Perhaps not when, 150 years after the end of the American civil war, it is just this month that the Confederate battle flag has been removed from its place above South Carolina State House; it took the murders of nine men and women in a church to force its removal. Though the motivation for publishing this novel can be debated (it will certainly earn a windfall for all concerned), it is hard to regret its appearance. It casts a stark light not only on the past, but on the present, too. “Leave the slaves out of it for a while,” says Atticus’s brother, Jack, debating with Jean Louise. Harper Lee, in Go Set a Watchman, reminds us that we can’t.

The watchman said, The morning cometh, and also the night; if ye will inquire, inquire ye; return, come. 

Erica Wagner is a contributing writer for the New Statesman. She is working on a biography of Washington Roebling, the man who built the Brooklyn Bridge

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Now listen to Erica discussing Go Set a Watchman on SRSLY, the New Statesman's pop culture podcast:

Erica Wagner is a New Statesman contributing writer and a judge of the 2014 Man Booker Prize. A former literary editor of the Times, her books include Ariel's Gift: Ted Hughes, Sylvia Plath and the Story of “Birthday Letters” and Seizure.

This article first appeared in the 16 July 2015 issue of the New Statesman, The Motherhood Trap

Charlie Forgham-Bailey for New Statesman
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From Harry Potter to Jimmy Savile: Jack Thorne on the darkness that defines his dramas

The writer who brought Harry Potter to the stage talks about a difficult childhood, his hopes for Labour, and his new production of Woyzeck.

At 9am each day, most days of the year, Jack Thorne climbs the stairs of his house in Barnsbury, north London, and sits at his computer to write. He has a one-year-old son, so he finds the odd excuse to sneak down and play, but after bathtime and bedtime he returns faithfully to his desk and stays there until 8pm or beyond. He aims to write for at least ten hours a day, but if he has a deadline he does more.

When I suggest that this seems pretty full-on, Thorne looks genuinely surprised: time was when he wrote for 16 hours a day, seven days a week. “I really do love working,” he explains, sounding apologetic about the insufficiency of the excuse. “There’s no day where I don’t want to write.”

Sometimes his wife, the comedy agent Rachel Mason, kicks him upstairs for his own good. “It’s when she thinks I’m not in a mood to deal with other people. If I get some writing done, I can come back down and she’s like, ‘Ah, you’re back with us.’”

Whatever a psychologist would say about all this – my hunch is rather a lot – it’s proof that inspiration counts for little unless it’s combined with industrial quantities of perspiration. At 38, Thorne is one of the most intimidatingly successful writers in Britain. Many will know him from his work for television, where he came of age writing Skins and helped transform Shane Meadows’s film This Is England into a miniseries that worked on a Shakespearean scale. He has since turned his hand to everything from supernatural thrillers (The Fades, for the BBC) to murder drama (Glue on E4), and in the past month he won a Bafta for National Treasure, his clear-eyed and chilling take on Operation Yewtree, broadcast last year.

His stage output is equally prodigious – 14 dramas in print, plus a handful for radio, though Thorne reckons there were “about 22 more” before that, most of which he would rather never see again. His most recent play is Harry Potter and the Cursed Child. Mounted only 11 years after his first professionally produced script, it is well on its way to becoming the most commercially successful stage work of recent times.

The first time we meet, in an aseptic office somewhere in the rafters of the Old Vic theatre in London, it’s not quite 48 hours since the Oliviers, at which The Cursed Child won a record-breaking nine awards, among them Best New Play. Though no stranger to prizes, he still seems faintly bamboozled. “I stuck around until 2am, which I almost never do, because I wanted to talk to everyone. It was ridiculously bonding, that show. Generally I’m out of there as soon as I can. I find small talk exhausting, and I don’t like myself when I’m around people.”

He seems worried about how that sounds, and clarifies: “It’s not that I don’t like other people – I do. I just don’t like me.”

Despite incessant protestations that he’s an idiot at expressing himself when it’s not on the page, Thorne is extremely good company – fizzy, funny, so gabby it’s sometimes hard to keep up, but charm and solicitude incarnate. Wearing a livid green hoodie, his long limbs coiled awkwardly into a chair, he scrambles to answer my questions before they’re halfway out of my mouth, and his gaze barely leaves mine for the entire time we talk. Perhaps it’s those limbs, but there is something of the Labrador about him: a wide-eyed eagerness never to disappoint.

We’ve arranged to meet at the theatre while he is on a lunch break here from yet another new project – an adaptation of Georg Büchner’s Woyzeck, with John Boyega (Star Wars: the Force Awakens) in the title role. Based on the pulverising true story of a barber-turned-squaddie who lost his wits and murdered the woman he loved, the play was left unfinished at the ­author’s death in 1837 and not performed until 1914. It has since inspired countless reworkings, among them Alban Berg’s 1920s opera, Werner Herzog’s 1979 film and, more recently, theatre productions by David Harrower and Neil LaBute.

Thorne’s version takes a different tack, locking Woyzeck into the suffocating atmosphere of a British garrison in early-1980s Berlin. It isn’t only the hero who seems to be losing it: the army has long since forgotten why it’s there. As one character blandly observes, “Your occupation mostly consists of you guarding another country’s nuclear weapons.” That some of the platoon, Colonel Woyzeck included, are fresh from the nightmare of Northern Ireland only tightens the screws.

The idea to revive the play came from the director Joe Murphy, but Thorne latched on to its portrayal of a hero grappling to find his place in the world. “I wanted to do something about someone going mad. I thought a lot about the kids I went to school with who were in the army: they were often the kids who were a bit bullied, and that’s how they got control. That’s what he’s struggling with.”

John Boyega as Woyzeck in Jack Thorne's new production. Photo Credit: Manuel Harlan

Adaptations have become something of a speciality, from Harry Potter to a 2013 stage version of the Swedish horror novel and film Let the Right One In. With Woyzeck, though, the sheer quantity of previous reimaginings must have felt overwhelming. “Not really. I tried to read every translation I could.” He shrugs. “I’m going to feel intimidated whatever: that’s just my natural state. So I may as well embrace intimidation.”

His involvement in Potter came through Let the Right One In’s director, John Tiffany, and the producer Sonia Friedman, who recommended Thorne to J K Rowling. Tiffany and Thorne trooped off to see Rowling and find what new material they could develop for Thorne to script. They came up with the idea of a sequel tracking the adventures of Harry’s son Albus and his best friend, Scorpius Malfoy.

On working with JK Rowling: “You go, ‘OK, I can make some choices. If they’re the wrong ones, she’ll say.’ And she did. I’m pretty sure I could have been fired at any time.”

Thorne had long been a Potter addict and his anxiety about treading on such hallowed ground was assuaged by Rowling’s involvement. “I had a big advantage – my first reader was John, and my second was Jo. If you’ve got the person out of whose head these characters came, then you go, ‘OK, I can make some choices. If they’re the wrong ones, she’ll say.’ And she did. I’m pretty sure I could have been fired at any time.”

The offstage adaptations continue: in 2015 he signed up to make a multi-part adaptation of Philip Pullman’s His Dark Materials for BBC1. He is scripting this at the moment and hopes it will begin filming next year. Concurrently, he is writing an episode for Bryan Cranston’s ten-part Amazon series of Philip K Dick shorts; his script is based on Dick’s 1953 story “The Commuter”.

He finds it difficult to say no, he admits: “When His Dark Materials came up I was in the middle of Potter, a bit exhausted by it and wanting to do my own stuff – but how often do you get the chance? You can’t not do that. It’s too exciting!”

I do eventually winkle out of him that there is a downside to this ceaseless productivity: he still hasn’t written the ambitious, large-scale play he feels he would like to. TV is more straightforward, somehow. “When you see your contemporaries writing [Duncan Macmillan’s] People, Places and Things and [Lucy Kirkwood’s] Chimerica and that stuff, you do go, ‘Why haven’t I done that? What have I not got in me?’”

Isn’t it more that he’s barely given himself a spare moment? He frowns, “No no no, I don’t think it’s that. It’s not like I haven’t been trying to write it. I haven’t been sitting at home doing nothing. There are a load of attempts. But no one will ever see them, ­because they’re just not very good.”

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Thorne grew up in Bristol, one of four children. His father, Mike, was a town planner and his mother, Maggie, was a carer for adults with learning difficulties. Both are now retired. As well as doing voluntary work, his parents were involved in amateur theatre; Thorne took the interest with him from comprehensive school to Cambridge University where, despite struggling to fit in (he has written that he felt like “a failure”) and having to take a year out to treat a medical condition, he wrote plays at a furious pace. By the time he left, he’d done ten, and somehow also got a degree.

The playwright Laura Wade met Thorne at the Royal Court Young Writers’ group a few years later, in 2003, and has since become a friend. Despite his shyness, she remembers him being surprisingly robust when it came to his work: “Oh, always. I was impressed by his ability to tear something up and start again. He’d get notes, listen to them, not get defensive, and try again in a different form. It seemed to pour out of him. That’s unusual.”

Thorne once wanted to be an actor, “but I knew I wasn’t good enough”. His best role was Edgar in King Lear – “the one who pretends to be mad”. He has notched up only one performing credit since: in the TV versions of This Is England, in which he played a dorky and unappealingly named loner, Carrot Bum.

“They were auditioning, and Shane said he couldn’t find anyone lonely or weird enough, so I’d have to do it.” He fiddles absent-mindedly with his wedding ring. “It was when I was living in Luton on my own, and I was a bit Carrot Bum, it’s true.”

There is a bleakness to Thorne’s work that sits oddly with his personality, which seems almost self-destructively eager to please. He reckons they are part of the same thing. “When you’re extremely shy and ­insecure and you struggle to get your words out, there is a sense of slight . . . rage at the world. I’m happier now than I’ve ever been. But there’s darkness in there.”

Few writers are able to evoke with such ease the offhand brutality of teenagers, or conjure the pain of that most mundane and cruellest of human experiences, not quite fitting in. His first professionally acted play, When You Cure Me (2005), focuses on a teenage girl, called Rachel, who has been subjected to a vicious sexual attack and left immobile. The monologue Stacy, written concurrently but first performed a few years later, is spoken by a young man whose best friends appear to be his slide projector and some alarmingly intimate sexual imaginings. There has barely been a script of his that hasn’t touched in some way on the subject of isolation, mental or physical.

Thorne reflects that some of this relates to his medical condition, cholinergic urticaria, in which his body reacts allergically to its own temperature, creating a kind of chronic prickly heat. It left him bedbound for extended periods in his early twenties, and in pain for long afterwards.

“I know everyone feels they’re not very good at childhood, but I was spectacularly bad.”

But the sense of dislocation goes back much further. “My family is wonderful, but I had a pretty terrible time as a kid. I know everyone feels they’re not very good at childhood, but I was spectacularly bad. People weren’t particularly unkind; they just didn’t know what to do with me. A lot of my stuff is about wanting a best friend. I didn’t find a best friend until I was 32.” He brightens. “And then I married her.”

One thing childhood did give him was an abiding interest in fantasy. A voracious reader of teen novels by Susan Cooper (“Oh yeah, I was the lonely, weird kid”), Thorne has mined the seam deeply, uncovering the painful realities that lie beneath other-worldly stories. His version of Let the Right One In brought sensitivity to the relationship between a vampire and a gawky teenage boy. And for all its high-wire, gee whiz, magical theatrics, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child finds pathos in the travails of Albus as he attempts to grow up in the shadow of a too-famous father.

“There’s a line in the play: ‘People say parenting is the hardest job in the world; they’re wrong – growing up is.’” He laughs. “Noma [Dumezweni] and Poppy [Miller] cornered me the other day and asked if I still believe that, now I have a kid. I conceded they had more of a point than I thought originally.”

Did his own anxieties about fatherhood filter into the writing? He clutches his head in mock horror. “Oh yeah, all the stuff I wrote around that time was like, ‘Argh, I’m going to be a dad, I don’t think I’m going to be a good dad’ – all that.”

Compounding the complexity, the process of getting pregnant was anything but straightforward: he and his wife ended up going through seven rounds of IVF. Thorne poured some of these experiences into his 2015 play, The Solid Life of Sugar Water, which focuses on a couple struggling to deal with a miscarriage. Rachel reads all his work. “There are times she goes, ‘Ouch, are you sure you want to say that?’ but mostly she doesn’t. And she always said that the IVF cost so much, I’d have to find a way of writing about it.”

***

Thorne’s darkest work so far is National Treasure, a four-part series that ran on Channel 4 last autumn, and the first broadcast TV drama inspired by the ongoing police investigation into accusations of historic sexual abuse by Jimmy Savile and others. It relates the story of Paul Finchley (Robbie Coltrane), a fading comedian whose career collapses abruptly under a deluge of allegations, followed by the breakdown of his marriage to Marie (played by Julie Walters). Although the drama leaves open the question of exactly what Finchley has done, there are enough creepy-crawlies under this particular rock to hint at what viewers might find if it is lifted any further.

He spent months doing research, talking to victims as well as legal experts, trying to weave a storyline that cleaved to real-life cases without being defined by them.

“When you talk to people who have been victims of those crimes, you go, ‘How the hell do I do justice to you and also find an angle that works?’” 

“The big thing was responsibility,” he says, when we meet again a few weeks later at a café around the corner from his house. “When you talk to people who have been victims of those crimes, you go, ‘How the hell do I do justice to you and also find an angle that works?’ You could tick all the right boxes, make something very earnest, but you have to challenge the audience. The more time I spent, the more complicated the issue became, particularly in terms of how many resources are available to powerful people, private investigators and the rest. It’s so easy to destroy people.”

I wonder if he’s talked to anyone who has been accused. No, he says. “I felt like I had enough insight into that. I’ve spent enough time in the celeb world to know how something like that might operate – the power and manipulation.”

One thing that has remained constant over the years is Thorne’s commitment to politics, and to the Labour Party. His parents remain activists; he has been a member since the age of 16 and was the Young Labour officer for Newbury in 1997, becoming the secretary of his local branch when he moved to Luton. This, too, has provided fodder for work in drama, notably his 2014 play Hope, about cuts to local government, which drew closely on his experiences on the political front line.

Thorne was dissatisfied with Hope (“I felt like I didn’t quite make it; it was two drafts away from being OK”) and seems itchy to return to the subject somehow. You sense that if that big play emerges, politics will be its bedrock.

One clue might lie in his early script 2nd May 1997, which dwells on the sun-struck day 20 years ago when finally Tony Blair had secured a landslide and British left-wing politics looked as if it might have a future. Written in three parts and describing three pairs of people dealing with the aftermath of the election (a Tory and his wife, a Lib Dem and his intended one-night stand, and two sixth-form Labourites), it beautifully combines the intimate and the epic, the historic and the human. “It’s ‘we’,” one of the sixth-formers says in disbelief on seeing the overnight results. “It’s ‘us’.”

On the wall in Thorne’s home there is a poster of Blair, pictured with his hands in his pockets, beside the slogan “Because Britain deserves better”.

“No one has broken my heart more than Blair.”

“No one has broken my heart more,” Thorne says. “I keep it because he was literally the biggest hero I had, and so it tells a story – not necessarily about false idols, more just about trust, I think. Rach hates it.” He is disenchanted with Jeremy Corbyn, though he voted for him in the 2015 leadership election, and is positively depressed about the effect of Momentum.

“But I don’t know, the party has done all right so far. It’s been a better campaign than I was anticipating, so it’s not a total . . .” He trails off into silence. “It annoying that we live in a country where the press can propagate May’s narrative.” He lives in Emily Thornberry’s constituency but will be out canvassing elsewhere.

Politics aside, he seems remarkably well. Marriage is largely responsible for this, as is fatherhood. His son is “the only thing that’s been a proper distraction from work. I’ve got to stop worrying about what he’ll be like when he’s 15.”

Thorne returns repeatedly to the subject of happiness. He often seems to have been trying to write himself out of sadness and frustration, I suggest. Does he worry that he’ll run out of fuel? No, he says. “I do what I do, and hopefully that’ll change and then it’ll be a different story, a different paranoia – or
maybe, um, no paranoia. That’d be lovely.”

A few days after our final meeting, I email him to check a few things – dates, facts, minor details. It’s a bank holiday, so I apologise for disturbing him. The reply arrives almost instantly: no worries, you’re interrupting nothing, he writes. “I’m working like an idiot.” 

“Woyzeck” is at the Old Vic, London SE1, until 24 June

This article first appeared in the 25 May 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Why Islamic State targets Britain

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