Monday, 23 November 2020

What I'm streaming: a bit more edge in the royal soap opera

 THE CROWN - Series Four (Netflix)

Not quite bingeing: I’ve taken a week to get through the ten new episodes, covering Diana Spencer’s elevation from playschool assistant to the People’s Princess – the marriage which Prince Charles, in this adaptation, rightly calls a “misalliance”. The interview when Charles said “Whatever ‘in love’ means” is recreated to remind us that Lady Di never was embarking on a Happy-Ever-After fairy tale. We don’t yet get to the “three people in this marriage” interview, but Mrs Parker-Bowles looms large throughout the series, even lunching Diana after the Engagement (factual, we’re told) but never fading out of Charles’s life, which may or may not be the truth. Did he really talk to her almost every day?

Emma Corrin and Josh O'Connor
as Charles and Diana
Emma Corrin looks exactly right in the replica frocks and recreates the Diana we think we knew, fragile and needy, sometimes a bit pushy, always conscious of being an unwelcome but necessary brood-mare. The bulimia puking scenes are overdone. Josh O’Connor’s Charles appears to be developing a hunchback but he gets the voice off rather well. Emerald Fennell’s Camilla has more the look of Sarah Ferguson; intriguing (if it’s true) that she urged Charles to marry Diana but didn’t realize that she needed to let him go, whether he wanted to be let go or not.

Stephen Boxer and Gillian Andersen
as Denis and Margaret Thatcher
These are also the Thatcher Years, of which some of us do not have the fondest memories. Gillian Anderson’s Maggie gets almost as much screen time as Elizabeth our Queen; her portrayal is in the same vein as Spitting Image’s used to be; she occasionally appears to be auditioning for Cruella de Vil, but like Meryl Streep she gets that Nanny-Knows-Best voice off to a T (to a Mrs T!)

Olivia Colman settles very comfortably into Her Majesty’s sensible shoes; the escalating tension during the weekly audiences with the Prime Minister is something you long to believe in. Accurate or not, the scene when Michael Fagan invades her bedroom is pitch-perfect from both parties. Tobias Menzies as Prince Philip is presented as almost a still small voice of calm, not quite the image tittle-tattle gave us over decades past.

Helena Bonham Carter as Princess Margaret and Erin Doherty as Princess Anne are both splendid – imperious, bitter and bitchy. Marion Bailey’s Queen Mother is a bit like Nan in The Royle Family; there’s an edgy moment when she tries to justify her mentally challenged relations (“imbeciles,” they were called) being incarcerated for decades in an Edwardian-era lunatic asylum.

Christmas at Sandringham - not-so-happy families

The ethics – the morality – of this production remains open to question. It must be hard for William and Harry – and everybody else – to know that their friends are watching it and, like us, wondering how much of it is true. Interviews with cast members have stressed that this is a fictional dramatization, but most viewers will accept it as history, despite the liberties taken by Peter Morgan’s screenplay.

This is gossip and speculation lavishly amplified to soap opera. Yes, it’s terrifically well done and makes very watchable viewing, but it does the Royal Family a huge disservice. There’s a key scene in which the Australian Prime minister Bob Hawke bemoans the fact that Diana and Charles’s tour of Oz has set back the republican cause, but now, in 2020, how many people – here in the UK – feel as committed to the Monarchy as they did when Lady Di walked into St Paul’s in that curiously rumpled wedding dress?

Thursday, 19 November 2020

What I'm reading: Your DNA can introduce you to your murderer


Michael Connelly reintro-duces us to Jack McEvoy, the Los Angeles journalist who previously tangled with serial killers in The Poet and The Scare-crow. A woman McEvoy dated is bizarrely murdered, her head twisted through 180 degrees (like Linda Blair’s trick in The Exorcist). There have been similar murders, all women who sent their DNA to a company that can put people in touch with lost or unknown siblings. Jack investigates the link between this seemingly innocuous service and a serial killer who calls himself “The Shrike”, a monster almost as creepy as “The Tooth Fairy” in Thomas Harris’s Red Dragon (Hannibal Lecter’s debut).

Michael Connelly is rightly acclaimed as one of The Greats of modern Crime Fiction, and he’s on top form in this pacey, nerve-wracking thriller. If you’re thinking of sending a DNA sample to one of those “Find Your Lost Family” outfits, think again. It may end up in the hands of your future murderer. Fair Warning. 

Monday, 16 November 2020

What I'm reading: An autistic view of civil war


A first-person narrative of Syria’s civil war is bound to make a harrowing read – even more so when the narrator is an autistic teenager. As the battle between government forces and the rebels (ISIS is never named) intensi-fies, 14-year-old Adam, already traumatized by his mother’s death from cancer, finds the bombings and the disappearances impossible to understand. Painting, in vibrant colours, is his only refuge; “I’m painting the blood on the floor with real blood.” Grief drives Baba, his father, into dementia. Yasmine, the beloved sister who has replaced Adam’s mother as his protector, is abducted. Then, with Aleppo self-destructing, the family flee the city and take to the road to Damascus as refugees.

 Sumia Sukkar has done a brilliant job of entering the autistic mind. She gives Adam a unique perspective: “Maybe bad angels haunt our town, or maybe this is the bad angel’s town.” Inevitably one is reminded of Christopher in The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time and Dustin Hoffman’s Raymond in Rain Man, Adam’s unforgett-able progenitors. Two brutal scenes are told from Yasmine’s viewpoint, and I rather wish the author had done the same with other family members.

This is a book from the “Misery Memoir” shelf, which I don’t often pick from. It’s an intensely disturbing portrait of the unending agony of Syria. Appalling to think that terrors like these still constitute the everyday life of people not only in Syria, but in Iraq, in Libya and in Yemen. Will the unlearned lessons of history ever stop being repeated?

Monday, 2 November 2020

David at the Movies: Pretty - and pretty silly - remake



Sixty years on from the Hitchcock movie of Daphne du Maurier’s haunting romance thriller, Netflix have tarted it up with a glamorous cast and lovely locations, but as with their remake of The Boys in the Band I'm wondering: why? The revision doesn’t add anything new – except colour in place of black-and-white. The story is meant to be “timeless”, but aren’t there any new stories out there waiting to be filmed (David Gee’s Lillian and the Italians, for example – coming soon to a bookstore near you!)?

I’m not sure what the time setting is: a bit more modern than the Forties. Our heroine (Lily James and still nameless, as in the novel) is romanced in Monte Carlo by handsome widower Maxim de Winter (Armie Hammer, sporting an English accent that suggests he was voice-coached by Prince William). He takes her home to his magnificent coastal house Manderley (not sure it’s still in Cornwall – no echoes of Poldark that I could spot). Here we meet the formidable Mrs Danvers (Kristin Scott Thomas) who has kept Manderley – and herself – as a shrine to Rebecca, the first Mrs de Winter who drowned a year ago.

Mrs Danvers is the key character. In the 1940 version her obsession with Rebecca was threatening and creepy – it was even possible to read in a lesbian undertone. Kristin Scott Thomas is heroically starchy and becomes subtly sinister, but this year’s script makes her more patronizing than obsessive, and the battle between her and the new wife is more a power struggle rather than a study in psychosis.

The 1940 Alfred Hitchcock version
Lily James gives us a feisty Mrs de Winter, but Armie Hammer’s transition from attentive boyfriend to absentee husband is unconvincing. The melodramatic climax lifts the plot out of a rut but, far from satisfying, it is almost ludicrous. Times have changed, and maybe Rebecca is a bit too dated, and a bit silly, for today’s audience. Dated and silly doesn’t usually spoil an Agatha Christie remake (looking forward to Kenneth Branagh’s new Death on the Nile) but it doesn’t work for this Daphne du Maurier adaptation.

Thursday, 22 October 2020

What I'm reading: Miami Vicious

Thomas Harris: CARI MORA

We’ve waited thirteen years for a follow-up to Hannibal Rising, and what Thomas Harris serves up is not another episode from the Lecter legend but a Florida crime vault caper. Disap-pointment clouded the first few chapters of this for me until I was sucked in by the sheer pace of the story. 

Cari Mora is the 25-year-old caretaker of a house on the Miami Beach waterfront, a property that belonged to the late Colombian drug king Pablo Escobar. Buried behind its crumbling sea wall is a safe containing $25 million in gold bars. One of Escobar’s successors sends a team to crack the electronically protected safe. Others are also after it. Colombia’s cartel war opens a new front.

The basic story here could be an episode of Miami Vice, but Cari’s early life as a child soldier with Colombian guerrillas gives an extra dimension. One of the bad guys likes to mutilate women before disposing of them in an acid bath. This – and a man-eating crocodile under the house – bring gothic echoes of our favourite monster. A rival cannibal makes a brief appearance.

Mr Harris now writes a leaner, meaner prose (I didn’t like his random mixing of past and present tense), but there are frequent glimpses of the master’s old magic way with words. A storage facility smells of “sour shoes and old bedding ... the air of plans miscarried”. This is a ghoulish, garish read, pretty well unputdownable. That said, one vital ingredient has been left out.

Come back, Hannibal! We miss you.

Friday, 16 October 2020

What I'm reading: LGB parenting

Christopher Preston: THE DONORS

Chris Preston is a member of my Gay Authors Workshop group in London. This is his second novel and draws, I’m guessing, on some of his own experiences.

London in the 1990s, the era of Aids. Mark and Adrian, a gay couple in their thirties, decide to respond to adverts for sperm donors in the Pink Paper. The advertisers are lesbians, singletons and couples, keen to be mums and hoping for gay men who will want to take a paternal interest in their donations. I hadn’t realized that the D-I-Y procedure can be just as effective as the more expensive fertility clinic. A landlady in my student days used a turkey baster, I can’t remember why. 

Mark has a few misfires but Adrian hits the spot very quickly. As Adrian’s relationship with pregnant Sheryl deepens, Mark begins to feel neglected. His personal life, like his career as a theatre designer, lurches between hits and misses. 

All the characters here have the feel of real people taking one unusual step in otherwise ordinary lives. The Aids epidemic doesn’t cast too big a shadow. The story has moments of tenderness, moments of anger, moments of cruelty – all of which give it the immediacy of a soap opera. It’s a very engaging read and would make great television.

Saturday, 10 October 2020

What I'm reading: the best novel of the past fifty years?


In 2018, 9,000 people voted for this as the best of the Booker Prize-winning novels in the award’s fifty years. Salman Rushdie’s Midnight’s Children had previously been hailed as the best of 25 and then 40 years.

I’m a huge admirer of Anthony Minghella’s 1996 movie of The English Patient, but I’d missed reading the novel until now. It’s only 320 pages, but I found it a tough read. Stylistically it’s very dense, skipping between present and past tenses with frequent viewpoint switches. The story is fragmentary, and it certainly helps to have seen the movie which had a more linear timeframe.

It’s 1945 and Italy has been liberated by the Allies. Hana, a young Canadian nurse, is looking after a hideously burnt man in a ruined villa in Tuscany. She is joined by a fellow Canadian, Caravaggio, who seems to be AWOL, and a Sikh bomb-disposal sapper, Kip, with whom she falls in love. The English patient (who is not actually English) tells the other three of his time before the war exploring Egyptian ruins in the Sahara and of his affair with the new young wife of one of the archaeologists’ backers.

Ralph Fiennes and Kristin Scott Thomas
as Almasy and Katharine
As in the movie, the relationship between Almasy and Katharine has a kind of cold intensity. Almasy’s trek across the desert to fetch medical aid for Katharine, left injured in the Cave of Swimmers after the plane crash, is epic, but I wasn’t moved by it as much as by the tenderness between the nurse and the sapper.

The desert scenes and Tuscan landscapes are as vivid on the page as in Minghella’s visual feast of a movie. A sequence when Kip defuses a bomb is very cinematic. The English Patient is clearly a masterpiece of English writing, but I could only read a few pages at a time. There’s a lyrical quality to Ondaatje’s prose which requires re-reading as you go. Occasionally I felt I was getting echoes of T.S. Eliot. The only comparable novels I can think of are Lawrence Durrell’s Alexandria Quartet, which I hugely admired in my twenties but would perhaps find a bit ‘indigestible’ today.

Wikipedia will remind you of all the Booker shortlisted novels and winners through its 50-plus years. My personal favourite, not a winner but shortlisted in 1980, is Anthony Burgess’s Earthly Powers, a deeply powerful novel on the theme of Faith and Human Frailty. And I remember reviewing Rushdie’s Shame (1983), another runner-up, as a work of “Genius”, not a word I’ve been generous with. Looking for books that have given me the most pleasure rather than mere admiration, I’m going to plump for The Carpetbaggers and The Adventurers, both by Harold Robbins, two novels from the 1960s which thrillingly explored the world of Hollywood and Jet-Set celebrity.  Do I need to hide my head in embarrassment?

I’d welcome seeing your all-time favourites in the Comment Box.

Monday, 5 October 2020

David at the Movies: New York gays - 1960s revisited


If there can be a gay theatrical “warhorse” this must be it. I’m at a loss as to why Netflix have chosen to revive it. Firmly set in 1968, the year of its original stage production, and with a cast of clichéd gay characters exchanging a series of bitchy barbs, surely it doesn’t resonate with younger gays today? And those of us who are Dorothy's oldest friends don’t need to be reminded (again) - do we? - of what sharp tongues we used to possess.

Aside from some brief street scenes and a couple of spicy nude moments, it's still the same movie we saw in 1970. And it’s very much an ensemble piece with each cast member getting his fifteen lines of fame. The key roles are Michael, hosting a birthday party in his New York penthouse apartment, and Harold, the birthday boy. Zachary Quinto is outstanding as Harold, although he perhaps didn’t "de-glam" enough – Harold frets about ageing and losing his looks. Jim Parsons is for me the weakest link: he doesn't quite get under the skin of Michael and his ‘confessional’ scene strikes a few false notes. Charlie Carver as kissogram hustler Tex brings a pleasing echo of Jon Voigt in Midnight Cowboy.

The original play (and movie) came a year or two after Edward Albee’s Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf, which similarly centres on a drunken party where the games become cruel and the hostess’s deluded self-image is savagely stripped bare. Mart Crowley, creator of Boys in the Band (who died last March), was brave to write a play of this candour in the 1960s, which were even more homophobic then than the Bible Belt still is today, but his dialogue is not in Albee’s league – or Tennessee Williams’s who is occasionally echoed. In the movie of Who’s Afraid Liz Taylor hit an all-time high. Jim Parsons isn’t in Taylor’s league. Of course, he may not aspire to be, though I kind of hope he does. He might get there in a few years.

Tuesday, 4 August 2020

David at the Movies: "the horror ... the horror"


BBCtv just showed this extended (2 hours 53 mins) version of Francis Ford Coppola’s nightmare vision of the Vietnam War. There’s a French plantation scene I don’t remember from 1979 which seemed improbable – in a movie which makes the improbable seem horribly believable – but the stand-out moments still stand out. Robert Duvall (“I love the smell of napalm in the morning”) encouraging his men to surf the incoming tide during a bombardment. The Playboy centrefolds strutting their stuff on a riverside stage. Marlon Brando’s Kurtz like some primeval demonic god in his jungle temple.

There is no iota of romance or sentimentality here: the GIs load an injured toddler into a helicopter but we don’t know if the child lived or died. On the river they rescue a cute puppy from a shoot-out, only to mislay it during the next confrontation.

At the heart of this dark, dark movie (inspired by Joseph Conrad’s African novel Heart of Darkness) is Martin Sheen’s Willard. A bit like Jack Nicholson in The Shining, we see from the start that Willard is a man already damaged, probably a sociopath, but the perilous trip up the river and the confrontation with Kurtz turn him into a psychopath, as deluded and dangerous as the renegade he has been tasked with eliminating.

The Radio Times film critic named this as his favourite picture. Brilliant as it clearly is, it’s not mine (If it’s possible to have a “favourite” Vietnam movie, The Deer Hunter is mine, as much thanks to its beguiling theme music as to its disturbing central storyline). Coppola’s Godfather trilogy (I even admire the operatic Part Three) is in my top ten movies, even in my top three, and I very much admire his gloriously Gothic take on the legend of Dracula. But the power and the sheer brilliance of Apocalypse Now cannot be denied. Very few movies have this intensity.

Brando’s last words – “the horror ... the horror” – haunt Willard. They haunt me.

Wednesday, 22 July 2020

What I'm Reading: the ruthless Saudi Crown Prince

Daniel Silva: THE NEW GIRL

Khaled bin Mohammed, generally known by his initials, KBM, is the proactive and ruthless Crown Prince of Saudi Arabia. Previously famous for opening cinemas and allowing women to drive in the Kingdom, he’s now reviled because he ordered the murder and dismemberment of a Saudi dissident in the embassy in Istanbul. Reema, his 12-year-old daughter, attends an exclusive private school in Switzerland. Only a handful of people know who the New Girl's real identity, so her kidnapping should have been impossible. Because there are geopolitical ramifications, the Prince calls in the world’s most efficient spymaster to mount a rescue – Gabriel Allon, head of Israeli Intelligence.

Racing between Geneva, London, Washington and Tel Aviv, there are (literally) explosive moments in the muddy trail followed by Gabriel and his mixed team of Israeli/MI6/CIA operatives. There’s another New Girl in the story, Rebecca Manning, newly appointed to Moscow's SVR (the former KGB) but previously close to the top of MI6 - Gabriel exposed her as a "mole" in The Other Woman, the previous Silva novel. Rebecca is the illegitimate daughter of the most famous double agent of them all, Kim Philby.

This is one of Mr Silva’s more "audacious" spy thrillers. In a Foreword he makes no secret of the fact that he has drawn on a real-life Saudi prince known by his initials – and widely believed to have sanctioned a grisly murder in an embassy in Istanbul. Silva fictionalizes the British Prime Minister (more Cameron than Johnson), but he avoids naming the Presidents of the USA and Russia (as previously, he calls Russia’s head of state “the Tsar”, a term that could almost be applied to the imperious current White House ruler!).

Bold, brisk and highly believable, The New Girl showcases Daniel Silva’s exceptional grasp of global politics. Incidental details are always a pleasing part of the mix: the sedate Essex village of Frinton-on-Sea provides one of his UK locations. This is my third Gabriel Allon adventure in a little over a year. It’s the best of the three – and one of the finest in the 20-plus series.

Monday, 13 July 2020

What I'm reading: the new Fanny Hill?


I seem to be having an “erotic week”. 365 Days on Netflix, which seriously pushes the envelope on soft-core movie-making. And now Kate Zarelli’s new novel which does the same for X-rated fiction, the area most famously occupied in recent years by Fifty Shades of Gray

Ellie Murphy, a raven-haired Irish beauty teaching English in Venice, begins a torrid affair with the hunky professor whose book on Casanova she is proof-reading. A master of the sensual arts, Piero soon has her role-playing some of the legendary lothario’s amorous adventures, appropriately costumed: the chambermaid with the novice priest, the prostitute with the soldier on furlough. Piero also introduces Ellie to a gifted artist who paints her in provocative poses for a “special” client, who is allowed to watch the modelling.

Signorina Zarrelli’s steamy sex scenes are the most explicit I’ve seen in a long time. They are also elegantly written. Phrases like “her quivering moistness” reminded me of Fanny Hill, the 18th-century “grandmother” of literary pornography (I bought my copy of Fanny Hill on the Via Veneto in 1969, a stone's throw from the Vatican!). Zarrelli also brings the city of Venice richly and vividly to life – its beauty, its magic, its mystery. And its dark side: Ellie has a mysterious stalker who adds dramatic tension to the story.

This sort of book is not everybody’s taste. It’s not usually mine; I found Fifty Shades unreadable. But The Casanova Papers is in a very different league. It deserves to become a new Classsic of literary erotica.

Friday, 10 July 2020

David at the Movies: the Italian super-stallion

365 DAYS (Netflix)

Wow! The line between soft-core and hardcore is getting a heck of a lot narrower. This Polish/Italian mish-mash is a tale of obsession, although its star stud, Italian stallion Michele Morrone, looks like a model for Calvin Klein’s Obsession fragrance. He plays Massimo, a Sicilian gangster who kidnaps a Polish woman, Laura (Anna Maria Sieklucka), because she resembles the girl of his dreams. He tells her he will keep her for 365 days until she falls in love with him.

Needless to say, it takes only a few minutes of screen-time before she surrenders to his considerable charms. His career as a Godfather is hardly shown, in case it gets in the way of the ‘romance’. Sieklucka is a pretty woman, but the camera concentrates on Morrone, who is impossibly handsome. His hair, never out of place, reminded me of George Hamilton.

The plot is about as slender and incidental as it was in Joan Collins’s two forays into erotica, The Bitch and The Stud. The endless bonking is the only reason to watch this. Female (and gay) viewers will drool. Signor Morrone is the pinnacle of drool-worthy. Straight male viewers might prefer to dig out their old video of Debbie Does Dallas.

Friday, 3 July 2020

What I'm reading: Gays in High Places


It’s the winter of 1976. Tom Wildeblood, a 20-year-old rent-boy, accidentally becomes a private eye following the murder of another youngster from the Piccadilly arcade where punters find their prey. The trail rapidly leads to Gays in High Places, notably to the Liberal leader Jeremy Thorpe. In this ‘What If’ version of real events, amateur hitmen have murdered Thorpe's toyboy Norman Scott and are now looking for our inept hero and his boyfriend.

With Tom Driberg, Harold Wilson and Marcia Falkender in its cast, Beneath the Streets is an uneven mix of the mighty and the mundane. Tom’s estranged mum and dad in Reading are about as mundane as you can get. In Downing Street, Wilson is a fading force, over-reliant on Falkender, a PA with too much power. We are reminded that people in high places frequently have feet of clay – in Jeremy Thorpe’s case, very muddy clay. And the story ends with a chilling hint of other shocking scandals that, in 1976, were still under the radar.

Tuesday, 9 June 2020

What I'm reading: Funny and sad and a bit disturbing

David Sedaris: NAKED

An earlier set of recollections than the David Sedaris book I read last year, this is a memoir covering his boyhood in North Carolina and some time he spent 'on the road'. Needy and nerdy, he suffered from OCD and competed aggressively with his siblings for their parents’ attention. His mom once congratu-lated herself on having six unmarried children: “I’ve taken the money we saved on weddings and am using it to build my daughters a whorehouse.” Wish my mother had been so acerbic!

Sedaris grew up gay in a town and a time where ‘faggots’ were easy bait for bullies. He worked as a volunteer in a local mental hospital and met an equal number of weirdos and psychos hitchhiking or riding Greyhound buses. Dropping out of college, he spent a summer fruit-picking and fruit-packing. One of his co-workers was a major-league dumbass: “I’d tried to straighten him out, but there’s only so much you can do for a person who thinks Auschwitz is a brand of beer."

David Sedaris 
Hard to believe from an early life like this that Sedaris, now in his sixties, matured into a noted broadcaster and essayist. There are pleasing echoes of Truman Capote in his fluent prose and even his life style. Naked (the title is from a chapter in which he moves into a nudist trailer camp: weirdos in the buff!) is funny and sad and a bit disturbing. Keep an ear out for the author’s occasional monologues on Radio 4 – like our 'National Treasure' Alan Bennett, he’s a joy to listen to as well as a joy to read.

Sunday, 7 June 2020

What I'm reading: Romance with Hardy echoes


It’s 1917. In Oxford-shire’s Chiltern Hills beautiful young Ellen Quainton has been brought up in the austere Primitive Methodist faith. Grieving for a fiancé lost on the Western Front, she is wooed by Sam Loveridge, one of a group of gypsies helping to bring in the harvest. Sam has an ill-tempered wife who has failed to give him any children.

Ellen recklessly surrenders to seduction by the hand-some gypsy. Romany culture is as hide-bound as the “Prims” and Sam is forced to serve jail-time for another man’s crime. In prison he is brutally flogged, but then befriends a parson who teaches him to read and write. Meanwhile, in the Chilterns, an elderly widower rescues Ellen from the shame of pregnancy, but her heart has been lost to Sam, who knows he will look for her after his release.

Passion and tragedy are combined by Katie Hutton into a rich powerful saga. The author is a writer of substance: this fateful love affair brings echoes of Thomas Hardy’s Jude the Obscure and D.H. Lawrence’s The Rainbow. The Gypsy Bride has a fine pedigree; romance readers will find it deeply absorbing. And a sequel is promised next year!

Tuesday, 19 May 2020

What I'm reading: Bosch and Ballard - the new A-team

Michael Connelly: THE NIGHT FIRE

Harry Bosch is now an ex-detective, pushing 70 and nursing a new knee. But you can’t keep a good man down, and Harry is helping his half-brother Micky Haller, the ‘Lincoln Lawyer’, unravel a wrongful-conviction case. He also assists Renée Ballard, of the LAPD night watch, on what seems to be a random crime, the burning to death of a homeless man in his tent under the freeway. And the widow of an old friend gives him a file that reopens an old 'cold' case. Of course, these three investigations will crisscross and eventually intersect. Not for the first time, Bosch and Ballard find themselves looking down a gun barrel.

Michael Connelly’s cops solve crimes by stakeouts and wiretaps and dogged persistence. Every now and then this author produces an outstanding thriller – The Narrows and Echo Park are two of his greatest: chase them up if you’ve missed them. The Night Fire is not outstanding, but it‘s very, very good.

Friday, 8 May 2020

What I'm streaming: Rock Hudson, the pioneer of gay liberation


This is up there - for me - with Grace & Frankie in the "Best of Netflix". It starts well in a splendid recreation of 1940s Hollywood with a far-from-fictitious LA gas station, run by Ernie West (Dylan McDermott, clearly enjoying himself in an off-character role) with a sideline in pimping his hunky attendants as gigolos and rent-boys. The hunkiest of the gigolos is Jack Castello (David Corenswet), a wannabe filmstar who can’t even get hired as an extra until he screws Avis Amberg, a studio head’s neglected wife (Patti LuPone, outstanding in a cast of fine actors). Another of the gas station boys is Archie (Jeremy Pope), a cute black guy whose first ‘client’ is Roy, another struggling actor who will come to be superstar famous when his name is changed to Rock Hudson (Jake Picking, a very good look-alike).

David Corenswet and Dylan McDermott, a gigolo and his pimp

When Avis takes over the running of her ailing husband’s studio she ‘greenlights’ a movie about Peg Entwistle, the actress who jumped off the Hollywood sign in the 1930s. The movie is scripted by Rock’s new boyfriend Archie and directed by another newcomer Raymond Ainsley (Darren Criss, who played Gianni Versace’s serial killer stalker a couple of years back).

There never was a movie about poor Peg, and this take on her story goes somewhat off the rails when the decision is made to change Peg to Meg and give an opportunity to Raymond’s gorgeous black girlfriend Camille (Laura Harrier). So, the two big twists on the ‘real’ history of Tinseltown are the breakthrough for black actors on screen being brought forward by several decades, and Rock Hudson becoming a pioneer of gay rights also many years before any major player risked coming out of the closet.

Jack Picking as Rock Hudson: "Fill it up, and while you're about it ..."

Gays everywhere knew that Rock was a ‘fag’ but it was kept a secret from his female fanbase until just before his death from Aids in 1985. Even today, when privacy is harder to come by and a number of high-profile stars are Glad to be known to be Gay, there are several who aren’t (naming no names).

Other real-life people are woven into this story – Vivien Leigh, Cole Porter, Anna May Wong, Hattie McDaniel (Queen Latifah, always a joy to watch) – which adds to the glamour as well as the authenticity. The making of the Peg/Meg movie becomes a bit tiresome – I wish they’d thought up a grander project for the era of Mildred Pierce and The Best Years of Our Lives – but the gas station brothel contributes plenty of juice to the story (and it’s true) and I relished the fantasy that Gay Liberation was kick-started by Rock Hudson in the 1940s. He could be canonized!

The real Peg, who jumped off the big H in 1932

Wednesday, 6 May 2020

What I'm reading: Gays just wanna have fu-un


This is a tough read. James Wharton writes about the world – an “Underworld” – of gay and bisexual Londoners who hook up on Grindr and party in each other’s homes for long nights and whole weekends, off their heads on psycho-active drugs. The drug of choice is “G”, also known as “Gina” (GBL, liquid Ecstasy), which is fast-acting and gives a terrific high, but there’s also crystal meth (“Tina”) and mephedrone (“Meow Meow”). G is mostly swallowed in very small amounts, but some users “slam” (inject) it. An overdose will knock you unconscious. Wharton woke up from one overdose to find himself being raped. The serial killer Stephen Port subdued his victims with G. In London somebody dies from an overdose of G every twelve days. 

Why do gay guys take these risks, only three decades after the peak of Aids? Lots of people, gay and straight, settle for promiscuous sex to ease the pain of a failed relationship or the failure to find a loving partner. But for many, Wharton says, it’s just hedonism, the pursuit of fun. Pre-Aids it was amphetamines and poppers that were used to give sex an extra boost. Back during the “Summer of Love”, the mid-1960s, it was pot and “acid” (LSD). Aldous Huxley was experimenting with mescaline in the 1950s (and took LSD to hasten his death from cancer in the week of Kennedy’s assassination). In Queen Victoria’s time opium was widely used by both the upper and lower classes.

James Wharton quite rightly extols individuals and groups that offer support to those severely affected by addiction and those struggling to detox themselves. And he urges the rest of us not to be judg-mental, an appeal that will fall on many a deaf ear in Europe as well as in Bible Belt America. People of my generation (78 next week) came up (and came out) through the Sixties and quite a lot of us will have experi-mented with "recreational" drugs, so let us not now, amid the comforts (or discomforts!) of old age, throw stones at the younger folk who fall for the more dangerous temptations currently on offer. If we believe – which I hope we do - in Freedom and the Pursuit of Happiness for everybody, then I guess that includes the freedom to ingest substances which enhance sexual pleasure, even at the risk of an overdose that may expose the user to victimhood and death.

In the early years of Aids, reviewing for LAM in Shepherds Bush, I read The Plague Years, one of the first books about the “new” epidemic carving a swathe through the back rooms and bathhouses of New York and San Francisco. Later came Randy Shilts’s encyclo-pedic And The Band Played On, which was made into an all-star movie.  Something for the Weekend is a similarly grim book, full of grim statistics, but if society can offer support rather than condemnation, the gay community will weather the Chemsex crisis as it has weathered HIV. It has to. But it’s gonna be an uphill climb.

Friday, 24 April 2020

What I'm reading: a Dog and his Ghost-writer


I have to declare an interest here. Havoc, the author of this travel memoir, stayed at my flat in Hastings in 2007, halfway through his 5,000-mile walk round the coast of Britain – raising over £50,000 for Guide Dogs and the Lifeboats.

It’s not often you read a book written by a dog. Havoc’s ‘ghost-writer’ Wendy is my second cousin. She gets the dog’s ‘voice’ exactly right. During a spell of pet-sitting: ‘I soon put the other dogs in their place and let them know that I was still top dog, whoever’s house we were in.’

Havoc’s perspective on their 11-month trek (and subsequent campervan excursions to the Scottish Isles, Ireland, France and the Spanish costas) is loaded in favour of riverside walks, beach chases, food and treats, dogs and other animals encountered. There’s quite a lot of peeing and pooing, but he does take time to notice the scenery and historical attractions. He also records the break-up of his Mum’s relationship with an abusive partner and its happier sequel with a new partner (soon husband), who drives the campervan on their later adventures. And he touchingly chronicles his own declining health on their continental journey. Expect to shed some tears.

If you loved Marley and Me and A Dog’s Purpose (and how could you fail to?), you will very much enjoy this happy/sad autobiography of an adored and adorable collie/terrier cross.

Thursday, 16 April 2020

What I'm reading: rewriting the Book of Genesis

Dan Brown: ORIGIN

The Da Vinci Code is where most of us first encountered Dan Brown, although his first Robert Langdon thriller Angels and Demons is in my opinion a better thriller and slightly more plausible (the book rather than the movie). The Lost Symbol was clunky (similar to but not as good as the Nicholas Cage movie National Treasure), and Inferno was seriously daft.

Now comes Origin, which in some ways is more daring than Da Vinci with its descendants of Jesus and Mary Magdalene, a challenge to Christians everywhere, especially Catholics. Now Mr Brown flings mud in the eye of followers of every faith by offering, he claims, scientific proof of the origins of life in the universe. Evolution is also redefined, so Brown sets out to upset Darwin’s disciples almost as much as those (half the population of the USA, we are reminded) who insist that the Six Days of Creation in the Book of Genesis is the only true version of How It Happened.

Dan Brown
Edmond Hirsch, the techno-geek author of this new theory, is murdered to block its presentation, in Bilbao’s Guggenheim Museum where Robert Langdon is among the audience. Langdon, like Indiana Jones, is soon on the run again – yes, with a beautiful distressed damsel, of course – and trying to sort out which of the suspects is the real villain. A Catholic bishop is one, the (fictionalized) Crown Prince of Spain is another. We are also introduced to a breakaway Catholic sect – the Palmarians (Google them!) – who have their own cathedral in Andalusia and their own pope (fictionalized here). The Palmarians are ultra-conservative believers and bound to be ultra-offended by the novel.  

The story reaches its climax in Barcelona with its weirdly wonderful church of the Sagrada Familia. Langdon’s ability to decipher codes and symbols is under-used in this adventure. He and his companion are helped by an AI computer voice inspired by Hal in 2001, a borrowing the author acknowledges and perhaps overdoes. As thrillers go, this one, like Inferno, is pretty daft, but – plus or minus the pseudo-science – it’s an undeniable page-turner. The goods are sometimes shoddy, but Dan Brown always delivers.

Wednesday, 8 April 2020

What I'm reading: Love in the shadow of the gas chambers


I had reservations about this. I still do. A love story in a Nazi death camp? I still question the ethical stand of The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas, which made the fate of one German officer’s son an ironical counter-point to the systematic slaughter of six million victims of Adolf Hitler's extermination programme.

The Tattooist of Auschwitz is based on the true story of Lale Sokolov, a Slovakian Jew who chanced into the job of tattooing the new arrivals, Jewish and Romany, at the twin Polish concentration camps of Auschwitz and Birkenau. He falls in love with Gita, also from Slovakia, who escapes the gas chamber by getting clerical work documenting the deportees (the Nazi obsession with documentation makes the Holocaust even more chilling). Their love affair consists of snatched moments together and is overshadowed by the constant threat of illness or execution. The most beautiful girl in the camp becomes the plaything of the commandant. Some of the women processing new arrivals steal cash and jewellery which Lale smuggles to the local villages through bribed guards to be exchanged for extra food. 

'Work will set you free.' The great Nazi lie.
This is a harsh story, but it could have been harsher. Heather Morris gives us one glimpse of the gas chamber in operation and a few glimpses of the rain of ash from the crematorium chimneys, but she spares readers the most harrowing images we have seen in other accounts and TV documentaries. Josef Mengele appears (‘this man whose soul is colder than his scalpel,’ she calls him), but she gives barely a hint of his obscene medical experiments on prisoners. Yes, it’s all been detailed before, but I think we do the six million dead an injustice if we gloss over the full horrors of the Final Solution.

Morris writes in the present tense, as does Hilary Mantel. Past history in the present tense grates with me (the only time I enjoyed it was in John Updike’s Rabbit quartet, four of the greatest novels of my lifetime). But, for all my reservations, I can see why The Tattooist of Auschwitz has been so widely acclaimed. It has a surprise ending. And there is an irresistible charm to the notion that Love can blossom, can flourish, even on what in another memorable phrase the author calls ‘the threshold of Hell.’

Wednesday, 5 February 2020

What I'm reading: Copycat child murderer


I bought this because it’s a Richard & Judy Book Club selection and cover reviews compare it to Thomas Harris and Alfred Hitch-cock. It’s good but not that good.

Newly widowed Tom Kennedy and his ten-year-old son Jake move into a creepy house in Featherbank (no indic-ation as to what county this is), a town where a serial paedophile killer was active 15 years ago and where a seemingly copycat abduction has just taken place. Young Jake has an “invisible friend” who turns up both in the new home and the school playground. She tells him about “the boy in the floor”, which turns out to be a link to the earlier murders. The detective who caught that killer visits him in prison for clues to the copycat abductor, a rather obvious echo of Hannibal Lektor.

Fathers and Sons is a recurring theme. The detective, the widowed father, the serial killer and the copycat perpetrator all had violent abusive fathers. For me this made the story top-heavy, and the mix of first- and third-person narration is laboured. But the writing strengthens as the plot moves towards its (inevitable) climax. There’s a possible movie in the offing, which will hopefully highlight the book’s spookier elements.