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Review: Sweet Revenge - the Intimate Life of Simon Cowell

Sweet Revenge: the Intimate Life of Simon Cowell

Tom Bower

Faber & Faber, 432pp, £18.99

The mental image of Simon Cowell in a singlet isn’t easily dispelled. Tom Bower’s biography has been titillating journalists for weeks with news of Cowell’s affair with Dannii Minogue and partiality to lap dancers. But it is the details – the singlets – that illuminate the book: Cowell being injected with vitamins; Cowell eating “nursery food”; Cowell declaring that the best tomato sauce he’d ever had was on a Pizzaland pizza in Windsor and demanding that his chef, Geoff, make him a replica (Geoff traces the Pizzaland owner to Abu Dhabi and makes Cowell a pizza in a box decorated with Pizzaland’s motif; I’m still worried about Geoff). When you’re extremely rich and have lost all normal human instincts, these are the sorts of things you can do without people murdering you in your sleep.

Cowell’s power and influence are undeniable. If you own a television, they’re also inescapable. He is the emperor of Saturday night entertainment. Cowell’s brainwave was to create a machine that feeds itself, his vastly popular programmes sourcing artists out of whom he can then make millions. The machine, over the past ten years, has clawed into the US and been copied across the world, reaching ever deeper into the pockets of audiences and advertisers.

You know all this. What you don’t know, until you read Bower’s book, is the psychedelic horror of the early, failing years, which by happy chance occurred during the aesthetically problematic decades of the 1980s and 1990s. The reader is fed joyous accounts of Cowell’s habit of crashing his father’s flash cars, his indefatigable promotion of such musical luminaries as Sinitta, Sonia and Robson and Jerome, his reputation for being incapable of spotting talent (he was only interested in Take That if they dropped Gary Barlow).

Bower depicts a young man burning with desperation, reliant on his father for cash bailouts, a figure of industry-wide mockery. (He is perfectly described by a music producer in the 1980s as “not credible. He looked like he was in charge of Easter eggs.”) Eventually, he has a genuine hit (if that’s a fair description of Westlife) and it’s not long before the TV version of Cowell is launched and the money rolls in.

Bower’s central theme, as the title suggests, is revenge. He was granted access to Cowell yet he is at pains to assert his authorial independence: copy approval was not granted and he “arrived unaided at my own conclusions”. But if only he hadn’t opted for such an obvious narrative: the hopeless, grasping youth who transforms into a brutally successful businessman with a desire to take revenge on all who had stood in his way (Simon Fuller). As a storyline, it bears a remarkable similarity to the artfully filmed life histories of X Factor contestants who turn their backs on a miserable life in the suburbs of Luton to seek global stardom. We are too well trained by Cowell’s televisual output not to see through the ruse.

Far more likely, it’s that gnawing insecurity that drives him. Cowell, Bower tells us, lugs around two suitcases of beauty products and gives Botox vouchers as Christmas presents. His greatest pleasure is to lie on the sofa between ex-girlfriends who attend to his ego like Roman slaves. He still has the teen mentality of wanting to be in the cool crowd, of resenting “arty” types who actually like music. He dismisses girlfriends as “boring”, the classic attack of the dull. He lives surrounded by a cast of grotesques – “best friend” Paul McKenna, Philip Green, Piers Morgan and the Murdochs: an Avengers Assemble parody of the super-rich, who live suspended over the Atlantic in their jets, toasting themselves with Cristal.

Bower’s prose lacks elegance – “Celebrity and shameless vanity have become Cowell’s vehicle of subversion,” he booms – but he compensates with an eye-watering gallery of anecdotes. It’s worth reading Sweet Revenge for these alone (but only if you can handle being seen with a book whose back cover bears a photograph of Cowell topless on his yacht, flambéed a deep orange by the sun).

I’ll leave you with one: last year, Cowell visited his new multimillion-dollar, 15,000-square-foot home on North Palm Drive, Los Angeles. “Everything, he declared, was ‘great’, except the grass in the garden. ‘It’s too smooth, like for bowling.’ He ordered it to be ripped out and replaced with normal grass.” The world’s greatest music mogul is a spoiled child.

Sophie Elmhirst is features editor of the New Statesman

This article first appeared in the 21 May 2012 issue of the New Statesman, European crisis

Jens Schlueter/Getty Images
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The House by the Lake is a history of Germany told in a single house

History, which we learn about as a series of ideological abstractions, is lived concretely - in ordinary houses.

Recent years have brought a number of popular stories, told about Jews who lost their patrimony during the Nazi period: Edmund de Waal’s book The Hare With Amber Eyes, for example, which focused on a group of netsuke – small Japanese figurines – that was all that remained of his family’s once-vast art collection, and the film Woman in Gold, which tells the story of the descendants of Adele Bloch-Bauer, who successfully sued to reclaim Gustav Klimt’s portrait of her.

It is no coincidence that these stories are emerging just at the historical moment when the last survivors of the Holocaust are dying. The actual victims of the Holocaust suffered too much to be plausibly recompensed; there is no way to tell their lives ­except as stories of irrecoverable loss. It is only for the second and third generations that the restoration of lost property can seem like a form of making whole, or a viable way of reconnecting with a familial past. There is, however, always something a little uncomfortable about such stories, because they seem to suggest that regaining a painting, or a piece of real estate, does something to heal a historical rupture that in reality can never be closed.

The House by the Lake starts out seeming like another one of these stories. In 2013 Thomas Harding travelled from London to the outskirts of Berlin in order to visit a house that had been built by his paternal great-grandfather, a German-Jewish doctor named Alfred Alexander. What he finds is a shambles: “Climbing through, my way illuminated by my iPhone, I was confronted by mounds of dirty clothes and soiled cushions, walls covered in graffiti and crawling with mould, smashed appliances and fragments of furniture, rotting floorboards and empty beer bottles.” The house had been used by squatters as a drug den for years and it was now scheduled for demolition by the local authority. Here is a perfect symbol of a lost estate and the reader half expects Harding triumphantly to restore the house and reclaim it for his family.

Yet The House by the Lake has a more complex and ambiguous story to tell. For one thing, Harding makes clear that his relatives want nothing to do with the house, or with Germany in general. Harding comes from a family of German Jews who emigrated to Britain in the 1930s, starting new lives with a new name (originally they were called Hirschowitz). Understandably, they have no sentimental feelings about the country that drove them out and no interest in rekindling a connection with it. But Harding is an exception. His last book, Hanns and Rudolf, was also an excavation of the family’s past, in which he showed how his great-uncle Hanns Alexander fought in the British army during the Second World War and ended up arresting Rudolf Höss, the infamous commandant of Auschwitz.

Rather than let the house disappear, he sets about recovering its story, in an attempt to convince the German authorities to let it stand as a structure of historical value. In doing so, he broadens his subject from Jewish dispossession to the history of 20th-century Germany, as seen through the lens of a single modest building.

Alfred Alexander built the house in 1927 as a summer home for his family. He was a fashionable Berlin doctor, whose patients included Albert Einstein and Marlene Diet­rich, and he joined a number of successful professionals in building second homes in the village of Groß Glienicke, just west of the capital. The village had a long history – it was founded in the 13th century – but the exponential growth of modern Berlin had disrupted its traditions.

The land that Dr Alexander leased to build his house on was part of an estate owned by Otto von Wollank, who sounds like a stern Junker but was a Berlin real-estate developer who bought the estate (and then his title) in the early 20th century. Already Harding shows that the history of Groß Glienicke is bound up with social changes in modern Germany and in particular those in Berlin, whose population exploded in the years before the First World War. This made it more profitable for the von Wollanks to parcel off their land to city-dwellers than to farm it, as its owners had done since time immemorial.

The house that Alfred Alexander built was a modest one: a one-storey wooden structure with nine small rooms and, because it was intended to be used only in the summer, no insulation or central heating. It was a place for leading the simple life, for rowing and swimming and playing tennis, and the children – including Elsie, who later became the grandmother of Thomas Harding – loved to spend time there.

Groß Glienicke was, however, no ­refuge from rising anti-Semitism: Robert von Schultz, the Alexanders’ landlord and Otto von Wollank’s son-in-law, was a leader in the Stahlhelm, the right-wing paramilitary organisation, and a vocal hater of Jews. After 1933, when Hitler seized power, things became much worse, though the Alexanders attempted to continue living a normal life. Harding quotes a diary entry that the teenage Elsie made in April that year: “Thousands of Jewish employees, doctors, lawyers have been impoverished in the space of a few hours . . . People who during the war fought and bled for their German fatherland . . . now they stand on the brink of the abyss.”

Fortunately, the abyss did not swallow up the Alexander family. By 1936, all its members had escaped to Britain. At first, they tried to keep legal possession of the Groß Glienicke house, renting it out to a tenant named Will Meisel, a successful songwriter and music publisher. (The company he founded, Edition Meisel, still flourishes today.) But Meisel, like so many ordinary Germans under Hitler, was not above profiting from the dispossession of Jews. When the Alexanders’ citizenship was revoked by the Nazi state and their house confiscated, Meisel bought it from the tax office at a bargain price, much as he had previously bought up music publishers abandoned by their Jewish owners. After the war, evidence of this profiteering delayed – but did not prevent – Meisel’s efforts to be “denazified” by the ­Allied occupying powers.

Meisel won the house by the lake thanks to one political upheaval and lost it thanks to another. The postwar partition of Berlin left Groß Glienicke just outside the city limits; as a result, Meisel’s business in West Berlin was in a different country from his lake house in East Germany. This turned him into another absentee landlord, like the Alexanders before him. Indeed, there is an odd symmetry to what happened next. Just as the Nazis had taken the house from its Jewish owners to give it to an Aryan, now the communists took the house from its capitalist owner and gave it to the workers.

Because of the housing shortage in postwar Germany, the small summer house now had to serve as the year-round residence for two Groß Glienicke families, the Fuhrmanns and the Kühnes. This required a series of alterations that destroyed much of the house’s original character – a typical eastern bloc triumph of the utilitarian over the aesthetic.

In tracing this next phase of the house, Harding shows what life in East Germany was like for some of its typical citizens. Wolfgang Kühne, a bus driver, was recruited by the Stasi (his code name was “Ignition Key”) but was soon booted out for failure to do any actual spying. His son Bernd was a promising athlete who unwittingly participated in the state’s doping programme, before an accident destroyed his sporting career. At the same time, the family benefited from the guaranteed food, jobs and housing offered by the state – perks that Wolfgang would miss after reunification brought capitalism back to Groß Glienicke.

The institution of East German life that the Kühnes could never ignore, however, was the Berlin Wall. Because Groß Glienicker Lake was legally part of West Berlin, a section of the wall ran between the house and the lake shore – a three-metre-high ­concrete monolith that was literally in the Kühnes’ backyard. They couldn’t have guests over, since they lived in a restricted border zone, which required a special pass to enter. Occasionally, Harding writes, the young Bernd and his classmates would make a game of tossing sticks over the wall, trying to set off the alarm tripwires.

This emblem of tyranny was just another fact of life for those living in its shadow. And that is, perhaps, the most important lesson of Harding’s book. History, which we learn about as a series of ideological abstractions, is lived concretely. This is why an ordinary house can serve so effectively as a symbol of the German experience.

Today, the Alexander Haus, as it is known, is a designated landmark and Harding hopes to turn it into a museum, a fitting new incarnation for our own age of memorialisation. Whether it will be the last stage in the house by the lake’s career is something only time will tell.

Adam Kirsch is a poet and critic. His latest book is “Emblems of the Passing World: Poems After Photographs by August Sander” (Other Press)

The House by the Lake: a Story of Germany by Thomas Harding is published by William Heinemann (£20, 442pp)

This article first appeared in the 08 October 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Putin vs Isis