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No place like home: a meditation on the meaning of hotels

Hotel by Joanna Walsh is deft and imaginative, tripping between references to Katherine Mansfield, Mae West, the Marx Brothers and Karl Marx.

“There was a time in my life when I lived in hotels,” writes Joanna Walsh at the start of Hotel – while haunting “a marriage I was soon to leave”. She took up reviewing hotels for a start-up website, half-thinking that by residing in them she would get a foretaste of what it might be like to live elsewhere. An unhappy woman, on the move, looking for somewhere to land, Walsh discovers that hotels are not the home from home they pretend to be but “the opposite of home”. It’s an insight that gives this slyly humorous and clever little book its internal propulsion.

In spite of their myriad comforts and round-the-clock service, the elevation (or is that inflation?) that hotels offer their clients belongs to the realm of fantasy. In truth, observes Walsh, you are neither your ideal self nor your best self when you inhabit a hotel. You are flattened into a being who ceases to have desires, since hotels exist solely to meet and thus neuter them all. You are not so much a guest as a ghost – a “paying ghost”.

Hotel ghosts go through the motions of being at home but are frustrated at every turn. Their rooms are invaded by staff, who primp and clean and leave melting chocolates on the pillow. Anything broken, or eaten, must be paid for. Signs politely remind you that you do not own (and therefore should not run away with) the towelling robes, ashtrays or slippers – although you are explicitly told how to leg it in the event of fire.

Even the minibar is a con – just like the other “gadgets, which resemble, but are unlike, those I have at home . . . I could put my own champagne in the fridge, but it wouldn’t fit,” writes Walsh. It is another reminder that: “The hotel is not on my side, not really.” All this carpet-pulling makes hotels “uncanny” – a term, Walsh reminds us, that Sigmund Freud relished for capturing what one felt when the familiar was defamiliarised.

Hotel is part of Bloomsbury’s Object Lessons series. Before it came volumes on remote controls, golf balls and drones, while still in the publishing pipeline are those on dust, doorknobs and hair. Though short, at roughly 25,000 words apiece, these books are anything but slight. As the publishers explain, “Each book starts from a specific prompt: an anthropological query, archaeological discovery, historical event, literary passage, personal narrative, philosophical speculation, technological innovation – and from that starting point develops an investigation or inquiry around the object of the title.” In the case of Hotel, Walsh’s provocation is this idea of haunted space, while in one form or another the ideas that shape her subsequent interrogation take flight from Freud: “My suitcase stands in the corner of my hotel room, small and black, square-shouldered as a visiting psychoanalyst.”

Walsh couldn’t have chosen a more appropriate dancing partner, since no one better understood how things are emphatically not what they seem. Words, objects, actions, dreams: everything stands in for something else – something that cannot be articulated directly. Hotels stand in for an unease with home.

Walsh’s prose style is also indebted to Freud. It is elliptical and associative, moving like quicksilver from one thing to the next, as ideas take shape only to dissolve again. This is bold, risky writing but Walsh is deft with fluidity – perhaps because it mirrors the dissolving boundaries that she was grappling with in her life at the time.

An example of her productive sleight of hand is the way in which she moves from writing about Freud’s patient Dora, who was “sick” in a hotel, to the idea that hotels hold out the promise of a cure (like spas and sanitoriums do – symbolic analogues of the hotel and also the hospital), to the notion that checking in to a hotel is already an admission that there is something wrong with you (you can’t live at home). One reason for such restlessness – an avidity to escape home – is that home is work, especially for women, whereas in a hotel you are served, even if your leisure is bought at the cost of someone else’s industry. And so it goes, with Walsh tripping effortlessly and imaginatively from one thing to the next, referencing Katherine Mansfield, Mae West, the Marx Brothers and Karl Marx, but with utter conviction at each step.

I loved Hotel and would read it again for the pleasure of its playful linguistic slips (not all of them Freudian) and jokes. Walsh claims that she wrote it in a matter of months but had lived with it for years. Her long residency (another haunting?) was clearly fruitful. It has bequeathed this small book a big heart.

Hotel by Joanna Walsh is published by Bloomsbury Academic (176pp, £9.99)

The Middlepause by Marina Benjamin will be published next spring by Scribe

This article first appeared in the 10 December 2015 issue of the New Statesman, The clash of empires

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Would the BBC's Nazi drama SS-GB have felt half so resonant a year ago?

This alternate history is freighted with meaning now we're facing the wurst-case scenario. 

Would SS-GB have felt half so resonant a year ago? Though the clever-after-the-fact Nostradamus types out there might disagree, I can’t believe that it would. When it comes to the Second World War, after all, the present has helpfully stepped in where memory is just beginning to leave off. The EU, in the process of fragmenting, is now more than ever powerless to act in the matter of rogue states, even among its own membership. In case you hadn’t noticed, Hungary, for instance, is already operating as a kind of proto-fascist state, led by Viktor Orbán, a man whom Jean-Claude Juncker, the president of the European Commission, jokingly likes to call “the dictator” – and where it goes, doubtless others will soon follow.

The series (Sundays, 9pm), adapted from Len Deighton’s novel, is set in 1941 in a Britain under Nazi occupation; Winston Churchill has been executed and the resistance is struggling to hold on to its last strongholds in the countryside. Sam Riley plays Douglas Archer, a detective at Scotland Yard, now under the control of the SS, and a character who appears in almost every scene. Riley has, for an actor, a somewhat unexpressive face, beautiful but unreadable. Here, however, his downturned mouth and impassive cheekbones are perfect: Archer, after all, operates (by which I mean, barely operates) in a world in which no one wants to give their true feelings away, whether to their landlady, their lover, or their boss, newly arrived from Himmler’s office and as Protestant as all hell (he hasn’t used the word “degenerate” yet, but he will, he will).

Archer is, of course, an ambiguous figure, neither (at present) a member of the resistance nor (we gather) a fully committed collaborator. He is – or so he tells himself – merely doing his job, biding his time until those braver or more foolhardy do something to restore the old order. Widowed, he has a small boy to bring up. Yet how long he can inhabit this dubious middle ground remains to be seen. Oskar Huth (Lars Eidinger), the new boss, is keen to finish off the resistance; the resistance, in turn, is determined to persuade Archer to join its cause.

It’s hard to find fault with the series; for the next month, I am going to look forward to Sunday nights mightily. I would, I suppose, have hoped for a slightly more charismatic actress than Kate Bosworth to play Barbara Barga, the American journalist who may or may not be involved with the British resistance. But everything else seems pretty perfect to me. London looks suitably dirty and its inhabitants’ meals suitably exiguous. Happiness is an extra egg for tea, smoking is practically a profession, and
the likes of Archer wear thick, white vests.

Swastikas adorn everything from the Palace of Westminster to Trafalgar Square, Buckingham Palace is half ruined, a memorial to what the Germans regard as Churchill’s folly, and the CGI is good enough for the sight of all these things to induce your heart to ache briefly. Nazi brutality is depicted here as almost quotidian – and doubtless it once was to some. Huth’s determination to have four new telephone lines installed in his office within the hour is at one end of this horrible ordinariness. At the other is the box in which Archer’s mutinous secretary Sylvia (Maeve Dermody) furiously stubs out her fag, full to the brim with yellow stars.

When I first heard about The Kettering Incident (Tuesdays, 12.20am; repeated Wednesdays, 10pm) I thought someone must have found out about that thing that happened one time I was driving north on the M1 with a more-than-usually terrible hangover. Turns out it’s a new Australian drama, which comes to us on Sky Atlantic. Anna (Elizabeth Debicki), a doctor working in London, pitches up back in Tasmania many years after her teenage friend Gillian disappeared into its Kettering forest, having seen a load of mysterious bright lights. Was Gillian abducted by aliens or was she, as some local people believe, murdered by Anna? To be honest, she could be working as a roadie for Kylie, for all I care. This ponderous, derivative show is what happens when a writer sacrifices character on the altar of plot. The more the plot thickens, the more jaw-achingly tedious it becomes.

Rachel Cooke trained as a reporter on The Sunday Times. She is now a writer at The Observer. In the 2006 British Press Awards, she was named Interviewer of the Year.

This article first appeared in the 24 February 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The world after Brexit