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Prokofiev: Piano Concertos Nos. 1-5
Prokofiev: Piano Concertos Nos. 1-5
Price: £8.58

5 of 5 people found the following review helpful
5.0 out of 5 stars Excellent Value, 21 Oct. 2012
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You'd be hard pressed to find better value for money than this double CD: the first disc contains the first three piano concertos; the second has Concerto Number Four (written for the left hand and one-armed pianist Paul Wittgenstein), Number Five, Visions Fugitives and the Overture on Jewish themes.

Like most people, I suspect, I came to these piano works through the everlastingly popular Piano Concerto Number Three. I did not know Two, Four and Five but they are a revelation - particularly Two, in G Minor. I now consider this to be the greatest of the piano concertos written in the last century, even above Bartok's Second, but this is, of course, a personal preference. Nevertheless, the range and variety of emotion, the sheer inventiveness on display (without ever collapsing into incoherence) are breathtaking. The performances of all five would be hard to fault; I may here and there have some particular favourites ( Kissin for One, Vinnitskaya and Guiterrez for Two, Argerich for Three , and so on), but certainly Berman is at those exalted levels.

With these performances of such wonderful music, and at such a price, this is definitely a double disc to snap up.
Comment Comments (3) | Permalink | Most recent comment: Mar 16, 2013 3:39 AM GMT


The Peculiar Memories of Thomas Penman
The Peculiar Memories of Thomas Penman
by Bruce R. Robinson
Edition: Paperback
Price: £6.99

4.0 out of 5 stars Memorable, 21 Oct. 2012
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An unhappy childhood is said to be a gift to a writer and this is certainly the case here. Thomas Penman grows up in a rambling Victorian house in Broadstairs, Kent. This miserable dwelling, festering with ignored dog-turds and palpable unhappiness, is presided over by a fascistic psychopath, Rob, and Mum - Mabs - who does very little to protect Thomas. Friction and conflict seem to be the only way this disastrous couple are ever able to communicate. Really the book is about survival in the midst of disappointment - a loss in love both Thomas and his beloved grandfather Walter have to somehow get over. Now I know that doesn't sound like whole bundle of fun, but actually the writing is so vivid and evocative and energetic the rather depressing subject matter becomes transformed into an acutely funny series of grotesque, harrowing but very memorable scenes. You wouldn't think a neck-brace wearing brute, whose idea of a good time is to run along the shore with his son, spurring him on by judicious little slashes from a horsewhip, would be a particularly hilarious character, but Rob is. He's priceless: his rants against commies, Castro and the U.N.; his list of people who he'd like to string up personally, are very entertaining.

Some people may be put off by the scatology and grand-dad's pornography habit (also shared by Thomas); it did seem to me the former was overly symbolic at times, with Mabs indirectly telling Rob through the incontinent dogs what she thinks of their marriage. Another less convincing portrayal is Gwendolin, Thomas' love interest. Basically she's a cardboard cut-out; Thomas' sister Bel, whose presence in the novel only runs to a few pages by comparison, has far more spark. Nevertheless, these are relatively minor quibbles when set beside the telling set-pieces and the sheer quality of the writing. As a Rites-of-Passage novel this is one of the best I have ever read, and certainly by far the most memorable.


Schoenberg - (5) Orchestral Pieces; Brahms & Monn Transcriptions
Schoenberg - (5) Orchestral Pieces; Brahms & Monn Transcriptions
Price: £7.70

5.0 out of 5 stars Variety, 10 Oct. 2012
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It took me a while to accustom myself to the very different sound worlds brought forth by these three works. The first, Five Pieces for Orchestra, was composed in 1909. (" On or around 1910, " Virginia Woolf wrote, " human nature changed. " Well, she was wrong. ) Hard to imagine Elgar's Violin Concerto followed a year later, with its rich patina of postromantic nostalgia. This is a different world completely. Although there are, it is true, ghosts of Mahler and perhaps Strauss flitting here and there, there are also suggestions of Debussy, particularly in the delicacy and transparency of the scoring. Otherwise we are, harmonically, at the juncture of Schoenberg's postromantic idiom of Pelleas and Verklarte Nacht and his discovery of the twelve-note system - we are immersed in atonality, or, as Schoenberg had it, pantonality. The five pieces, only given titles on the suggestion of the composer's publisher in 1912, have a great variety of mood: sinister, quixotic, brutally dissonant (as in the 'war-elephant outburst' in the first piece), great stillness (Farben, the third) and haunting originality. My favourites are the second and third. I've rarely encountered such magical sound worlds as these. This orchestral work is a dazzling masterpiece of such delicacy and subtlety it is very hard to follow in a score.( By comparison, Le Sacre is much easier.) I've come to the conclusion old Arnold was a bit of a control freak when it came to scoring - every note and gradation of note has to count but the LSO manage very deftly.

The Monn cello concerto is nice enough in its way and nothing like its predecessor. It is tuneful and inventive and I would imagine fiendishly difficult for the excellent soloist, Fred Sherry. (Apparently Pablo Casals refused to play it.) Perhaps Arnold was a sadist as well as a control freak...

I find the reworking of Brahms' Piano Quartet fascinating. I am surprised it is not better known. There is a bewildering panoply of orchestral variety on display here and it isn't long before Brahms has left us. I mean thematically this resembles a work by Brahms, but the orchestration is nothing like him.( Would he have used a glockenspiel?) Prepare to be amazed at the sheer variety and invention.

Mention Schoenberg sometimes and concert-goers equate him with 'box-office poison'. This is changing, little by little, thank God. Certainly there is nothing here that is particularly hard on the ears. I would further like to add, apart from the excellent performances, Robert Craft's sleeve-notes are a revelation. They are among the most detailed and comprehensive I've ever read.


Nighty Night - Series 1 [DVD]
Nighty Night - Series 1 [DVD]
Dvd ~ Julia Davis
Offered by rsdvd
Price: £3.96

2 of 2 people found the following review helpful
4.0 out of 5 stars One of Life's Givers, 9 Oct. 2012
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I didn't like this when I first saw it. Didn't like it at all. In fact, I pretty well hated it. The whole set-up seemed wildly implausible. Jill Tyrell, a fabulously incompetent hairstylist, has just been told her husband is dying of cancer.( "Why me? " she wails.) With slow-speaking Terry safely tucked away in hospital, Jill is free to grow as a woman. This means insinuating herself into the lives of her new neighbours Cathy and Don, her intention being to steal Don from Cathy. All the while she must contrive to keep from Terry the fact his tumour is actually shrinking and he is recovering. Terry, told repeatedly by Jill the tumour has "biggened", seems to accept this even though he is probably fit enough by now to be a trapeze artist. (Funnily enough the doctors never seem to discuss Terry's condition with him, especially as the news is good.) Terry must be the stupidest man on the planet, which is maybe why Jill married him.

Well, OK. A plausible impossibility is better than an impossible plausibility. My worry on first viewing was Julia Davis would yield to the temptation a lot of comedy writers yield to and try to make everything as darkly twisted and sick as possible - anything for a horrified laugh, and the whole series would collapse into absurdity. Character would be pulled out of shape by the accumulation of grisly events and the whole thing would be a kind of unholy cross between Carry On and the Marquis De Sade. On repeated viewing I'm happy to say this didn't happen, except for the one sticking-point for me, the character of Terry.

Actually I've met hairdressers like Jill (well, one) who always have some slick excuse for their negligence. In one funny exchange it's, " I think divorce has brought your eyebrows down, Mrs Horner. " (Eventually the poor woman ends up with a hairstyle like Richard III and jumps off a bridge.) Some of the scenes in the salon are hilarious. Jill is helped by Joy and Linda, the latter brilliantly played by Ruth Jones. Linda suffers from asthma, an uncontrollable appetite and is if anything even more incompetent than Jill. The health & safety inspection scene is a particular favourite of mine, with Linda whimpering as the inspector finds one hygiene disaster after another. In another scene Linda (whose own hairstyle resembles two charred cottage loaves stuck either side of her temples) is unwisely left to operate the tan blaster on a Mrs Wickstead. As Jill goes through the procedure, practically telling the customer the room is as confining as the Black Hole of Calcutta (just to put her at her ease), Linda keeps mumbling, " Ah..." , zombie-like. Then, as Mrs Wickstead is led off to her fate, she asks, " Jill, who is Mrs Wickstead? "

Much of the comedy around Jill derives from her appalling insensitivity, narcissism and shameless me-first outlook. Cathy, the new neighbour, has MS, and Jill shamelessly exploits her illness and her politeness to get what she wants. I cherish the episode where a 'girly afternoon out' foisted on Cathy by Jill turns into a grotesque obstacle course of negotiating gradients and bumps for Cathy in her wheelchair, while Jill drives blithely away in her car. A later dinner party piles on the agony: Cathy is vegetarian, so of course Jill has prepared a hideous meat platter consisting of tongue: cow, deer, sheep, duck, pig, auroch... Then 'prawns in a milky basket' that Jill charmingly likens to a 'panty-liner' while both guests are trying not to throw up. During the course of this evening Cathy gets locked outside (deliberately), urinated on by the manic terrier Michael, slapped (a blow aimed at Michael that somehow misses), and finally showered with dog-turds when she tries to find some Pepto-Bismol for her upset stomach. It is excruciating to watch, but very funny.

Most of the acting is first rate, but particular mention must go to Rebecca Front as Cathy, who is absolutely outstanding - every nervous laugh, accommodating smile, twitch of disgust at her oblivious husband's stellar crassness ( Cathy: " I just feel ugly, and old, and inadequate..." Don: " C'mon, darling, you're not...old ") is perfectly calibrated. She doesn't put a foot wrong. Mark Gatiss is also superb as the hapless Glenn Bulb, with his memorable tic of a gulping sideways yawn. And Angus Deayton, who on first view I thought to be a total nonentity, is actually very amusing to watch, taking Cathy for granted, slipping off to the pub from the church group whenever he can, ogling Sue (the vicar's wife) and flirting with his receptionist, Gina, who is Asian. ( Jill calls her "a dwarf with styes". )Along with the acting is a particularly well-chosen soundtrack, and such a relief from the bane of any good comedy, the laughter track. Gabrielle's Don't Need the Sun to Shine plays every time Don sneaks off for 'a bit of a quiet time' away from the church group Swallow's Fun & Friendship themed get-togethers; I'll never be able to hear Marillion's Lavender in quite the same way as it is the clarion-call to Jill's obsession with Don; The Pretenders' I'll Stand by You is poignantly used in the funeral episode, especially as standing by Terry is manifestly not what Jill has done; the opening of Elgar's cello concerto lifts the curtain on the funeral and counterpoints her murderous assault on Terry.

Black comedy is very hard to do; as I say it usually collapses under the freight of twisted humour it feels obliged to carry, but this series I believe mostly succeeds. It stands alongside the comedy greats ( Fawlty, The Office etc. ) quite easily in its scope and ambition and works principally because although improbable at some points ( Terry, Jill's funeral speech) the very restricted and restrictive suburban milieu offset the demented goings-on so well. So don't go by first impressions, as I did. Give it another try. It is well worth it.


Talented Miss Highsmith
Talented Miss Highsmith
by Joan Schenkar
Edition: Paperback
Price: £16.99

4 of 5 people found the following review helpful
3.0 out of 5 stars Self Indulgent, 6 Oct. 2012
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A (fairly) recent Times poll had Highsmith down as the greatest crime writer, a view with which I fully concur. Unfortunately this biography does not do her justice, being for the most part a slovenly, self-indulgent appraisal (if I can dignify it with that term) of her genius. Appraisal? It's mostly about who she slept with, and seemingly every alternate chapter bears the title 'Les Girls'. Now I love gossip, but only insofar as it sheds light on the work. Ms Schenkar's effort casts a moth-eaten pall of drivelling pseudo-psychologese over everything. Look at this passage: " No one who knew Patricia Highsmith in the last, claustral years of her life in Switzerland can believe how social - even how socially confident - she could seem to be in the 1940s Manhattan. The Embittered Old Oyster, shut up in a shell of her own devising in suburban Switzerland in the last decade of the twentieth century, was once a Pearl of a Girl in wartime Manhattan: avid for experience, hungry for connections, and going to every single place in New York City where she could find both." Anyone who writes as badly as that deserves to be called out as an Incompetent Purblind Old Hack. ( Sorry about the capitalizing but Ms Schenkar's style is contagious. Like genital herpes.)

Although I agree almost completely with the previous reviewer, I actually quite like a non-chronological approach, and have a soft spot for biographers (such as Roger Lewis in his mad, magnificent and fatally flawed Life of Peter Sellers) who take this path. Joan Schenkar is good on Highsmith's past, on her writing processes and particularly on her toxic relationship with her mother Mary, but whilst I abhor biographers who spend acres of print on discussing the work at the expense of the life, there really isn't enough about the former. I felt the previous biographer, Andrew Wilson, was more thorough about Highsmith's writing. I would suggest to those who love Highsmith's work to buy the excellent Beautiful Shadow first. This volume I would have strictly as back-up.


10 Rillington Place [1970] [DVD] [1971]
10 Rillington Place [1970] [DVD] [1971]
Dvd ~ Richard Attenborough
Price: £3.69

2 of 2 people found the following review helpful
5.0 out of 5 stars Exceptional Serial Killer Movie, 6 Oct. 2012
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This film details the crimes of John Reginald Christie, slum landlord in a seedy London backwater, who, under the pretence of being a backstreet abortionist, gasses, rapes and kills women.( In real life, apparently, Christie was not capable of having sex with a conscious woman.) Hence the crimes. This film is so far from being the conventional generic slasher movie it almost warrants its own sub-genre; if you are looking for a smirking sadist taunting the police and his victims, the brutality ratcheting up with each murder, forget it. This actually happened. As such, I would go as far as to say in the whole sordid array of torture porn, this low-key effort is a masterpiece.

In reality we can look at Seven, Silence of the Lambs, The Watcher, Red Dragon and so on and see they are really quite nonsensical. This is the real thing. First, the setting. It was filmed in the same street, very close I believe to where the crimes took place. The grimy seediness of just-postwar London is memorably evoked; every detail rings true. Through it all shifts Christie, quietly-spoken yet with a pedantic sinister air; Richard Attenborough's performance is all the more masterly for being so understated. As a lady 'in trouble' rings the doorbell, nervously glancing around, she usually fails to notice the curtain twitching in the window nearby, and the pale, balding face of Christie as it appears, a dull light blanking out the eyes behind the horn-rimmed spectacles. When she enters, and Christie is so kind and polite and solicitous ( "would you like a nice cup of tea?") everything seems fine until she agrees to submit to the anaesthetic. (A crude hook-up to a gas-tap.) Along the way the killer may slip up verbally, confusing CO2 with Carbon Monoxide, but by then it is too late. The real drama begins with two tenants, Timothy Evans and his wife, the latter of whom Christie murdered, and then, in the subsequent investigation, managed to successfully frame the husband for the killing. An appalling miscarriage of justice ensued, and an innocent man went to the gallows.

All the performances are first-rate. Attenborough is, as I say, one of the most believable murderers to appear onscreen, Judy Geeson is superb as Evans' put-upon wife and John Hurt is wonderfully sympathetic as the boastful, rather simple-minded fall guy. (Although his Welsh accent might need a bit of fine-tuning there.) In the end Christie's insane compulsion had the predictable outcome, but the miscarriage of justice that occurred still resonates today. If you want the truth, brilliantly rendered, watch this. If you want the usual clockwork formulaic conventions, don't.


The Ten Commandments [DVD] [1956]
The Ten Commandments [DVD] [1956]
Dvd ~ Charlton Heston
Offered by A ENTERTAINMENT
Price: £8.94

4.0 out of 5 stars Spectacle, Spectacle, Spectacle, 2 Oct. 2012
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I first saw this when I was about ten and was stunned. The screen seemed to swallow you up in a way I haven't experienced since. Looking at it after some decades, I still find it immensely enjoyable although it is also a massive piece of schlock. The scenes are magnificent, the set pieces sweeping and wonderful, untainted by the disease of CGI. The acting is, well, of the car-crash AND wooden variety, like the collision of two furniture vans. Heston is charismatic but that's all he is, Yul Brynner plays Rameses as a petulant egomaniac, the brilliant Anne Baxter pouts and simpers and flutters her eyelashes as she reclines on her divan, purring, " Oh, Moses..." I keep expecting her to bring an ebony cigarette-holder to her lips and blow a Valentine-heart of smoke in the air. The dialogue is mostly cretinous. But, never mind! The film is made with energy and conviction and that saves it. The best roles seem to be the relatively minor ones: Edward.G.Robinson as the slave-owner Dathan, and Vincent Price as his overlord, sounding creepily camp like Liberace trying to imitate Dick Dastardly.

Recent remakes (was there one in 2007?) have failed miserably. That one I mentioned: I can't even remember who starred, how they did the plagues, the Crossing of the Red Sea - nothing. The fact is: myths, legends, Biblical stories, Ancient Histories - the film industry's adaptations haven't improved one jot. Even the relatively enjoyable Gladiator fell down on what for me was CGI effects cobbled together by some techno-moron who'd just been hired straight from the lobotomy clinic. Cecil.B.De Mille knew what he was doing.


The Intellectuals and the Masses: Pride and Prejudice Among the Literary Intelligentsia, 1880-1939
The Intellectuals and the Masses: Pride and Prejudice Among the Literary Intelligentsia, 1880-1939
by John Carey
Edition: Paperback
Price: £10.68

5 of 11 people found the following review helpful
2.0 out of 5 stars Slummingly Selective, 1 Oct. 2012
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John Carey, the Populist Proselytizer, fervently wishes all artists were lovely people, considerate of others, apostles of equality, multiculturism and general all-round niceness. He's like a cheerleader for a Glee Club. But there's T.S.Eliot with his anti-semitism, Orwell spluttering over the 'bacon-like reek' emanating from the lower classes (not mentioned in the book, that phrase, by the way), Wagner with more anti-semitism, Wyndham Lewis who was racist, and of course Hitler who could, had he been accepted by the Vienna Academy of Art, have shared a studio with Egon Schiele. Then there's Leavis and Bloomsbury. The hero of the book is Arnold Bennett, who, if not read very much these days, was terribly terribly nice. Which makes him in Carey's view a thunderingly great writer.

Although his thesis makes some predictably valid observations about mass transport, production and advertising facilitating culture's greater accessibility to the masses, I find the assumption lofty intellectuals responded to this fearful levelling tendency by turning their work into obscurantist, indecipherable novels and poems a little bit simplistic. First of all, the hatred evinced by Nietzsche (the presiding Lucifer of this book) for the mob is hardly just a modernist revulsion for unwashed hordes. It's pretty much general in literature and art (see Breughel, Bosch, Goya, Daumier) and even as relatively recent a writer as Mark Twain (hardly an effete elitist, although later on he did take to wearing a white suit!) excoriated the mob in his work. There are problems too with Joyce, whose Bloom is manifestly of lower-middle stock; Carey reminds us Bloom wouldn't have been able to understand Ulysses. This is a feeble argument; by the same dubious logic Emma Bovary wouldn't have got past page one of the eponymous novel. ("Where is the romance, Gustave? Where is the dashing hero in cape and tricorne hat? Where the sweeping drives, the chateaux? This is about a BOY, and a paragraph about his CAP...")Furthermore, both Joyce and Eliot expressed the wish ordinary people would be able to understand their work (" the man on the Clapham omnibus"); they may have been unrealistic in this, but such a wish does not sit very comfortably with unutterable contempt for ordinary people.

In a way it is a pity Carey doesn't step out of his literature bubble and look at other modernists, but it is clear that if he did his thesis would collapse. Let's look at other modernists, like Picasso. Lived in abject poverty during the Bateau-Lavoir period, became rich around the 'thirties. According to his friend Jean Cocteau, thereafter "lived like a tramp under a bridge of gold". Became a committed communist. Does Guernica express obscurantist contempt for the masses? As composers, Bartok, Stravinsky and Schoenberg hardly expressed Lewis-like diatribes against Jews, blacks, Slavs and the working classes. Carey is speaking only for literature, and English-speaking literature at that. What about Brecht, Hemmingway, Paz, Pollock, Rothko, Bacon? Certainly this is an interesting book for all the wrong reasons, Titanic to Carey's Brittanic 'What Good Are the Arts?'


Full Dark, No Stars
Full Dark, No Stars
by Stephen King
Edition: Paperback
Price: £6.29

4.0 out of 5 stars The Less Supernatural, The Better, 1 Oct. 2012
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This review is from: Full Dark, No Stars (Paperback)
Fellow readers might not agree but I always feel when King ditches the vampires, ghouls, ghosts and aliens he is a more interesting and absorbing writer. So it is with this collection, in two out of the four stories.

The first, 1922, is that hokiest of ploys, the confession scribbled down as the forces of retribution are closing in. The protagonist, Wilfred Leland James, is at odds with his wife, who wishes to sell their farm to a corporation for big bucks that will mean their not having to scratch a living any more. Husband and son are opposed; husband eventually persuades son to do her in and hide the body down a well. Only the well attracts rats, which spread throughout the house and seem to purse Wilfred wherever he goes. Son goes off the rails, leaves home and becomes half of a sort of Bonny-and-Clyde team. The story starts off with some fusty stylistic tics like 'twas and capitalizing types like 'Conniving Man' and there are Biblical homilies but fortunately King abandons these. Still, it doesn't do a great deal for cohesion.

The third story, Fair Extension, tells of Dave Streeter, who is on chemotherapy. Stopping by a roadside to puke, he comes across a trader who promises him an extension on whatever he chooses. Which of course is his life. The roadside trader is called Mr Elvid (su pleh doG) and the catch is not that Dave has to sell his soul but the balancing aspect of evil luck has to happen to someone he hates. Dave reluctantly selects a buddy whose good fortune he has always envied. There are some fine details, as always with King: Mr Elvid's stall umbrella that glows yellow in the dying light but really turns out to be grey, the folksy sign by a dumpster: DERRY DAWG SEZ 'PUT LITTER IN ITS PLACE!' However, breaking the rule of Show, Don't Tell, King's story reads subsequently like a police report.

The other two stories in the collection are marvellous and more than worth the price of the book. Both, significantly, eschew external paranormal phenomena and concentrate on psychological realism. In Bad Driver, the second story, a lady crime writer is set up after a public reading and raped and left for dead by a grossly fat, psychopathic truck driver. Barely surviving, she nevertheless draws on her innate detective skills to exact revenge. The story is consistently gripping and convincing and again, it is King's eye for the telling detail that makes the whole thing so horribly believable. (The villainess' dreadful house, stuffed to the brim with troll dolls and The Sound of Music carolling through the stereo; the rapist grotesquely dancing to 'Brown Sugar'.) I am sure a film will be made of this at some point - at least I hope so. And a bit better than The Brave One, the Jodie Foster vehicle mentioned in the story.

You're happily married, your husband is a good father and provider, if a trifle dull. But what if, one evening when he's out of town, you discover he's a murderous rapist? Your good, honest man is Ted Bundy. This is the starting point for the last story, A Good Marriage. Particularly impressive is the denouement, nothing melodramatic or blood-curdling, and again, very psychologically convincing.

On the whole, although I enjoyed the unfolding of events in the first story, I did find it somewhat thin in terms of content, bolstered instead by powerful details that only drew attention to its absurdity, rather like putting a stained glass rose window in Wall-Mart. Enjoy the other two, and think perhaps how the third might have been an inspired black comedy, a genre King hasn't fully attempted, but could quite easily.


One Day
One Day
by David Nicholls
Edition: Hardcover

4 of 13 people found the following review helpful
1.0 out of 5 stars Epic Banality, 4 Feb. 2012
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This review is from: One Day (Hardcover)
I know this book has been attacked for being sentimental and corny - a sort of toxic marshmallow sludge - but my problem with it was it was all too realistic. And no, that is not faint praise by any means; that is the worst thing I can possibly say about it. The characters Emma and Dexter are the literary equivalent of reading the minutes of the Institute of Chartered Accountants' AGM for the last half century. Nothing they say or do is at all memorable; they are relentlessly normal and the unending banality of their lives unfurls in painstaking detail every 15 July, year by year from 301 BC to 2005, seemingly. If only there was something a little bit dark or even twisted about them; they barely do drugs and yes, the ineffably self-satisfied Dex does have a drink problem, but that is simply the author's miserable attempt to prevent himself from lapsing into a coma over the keyboard through the monumental dullness of his male protagonist.

Still, I must give the author some credit. When the complacently smug Emma dies in a road accident towards the end - splattered across the asphalt like a raspberry sundae - I gave a brief yodel of interest. ( Gosh darn - I've given away the plot. I could bite my tongue out!) That, however, was the high point of the novel. The rest deals with the predictable will-they-won't-they-get-together scenario, the tiresome question of whether best mates can be lovers. All through this I was irresistibly reminded of the most wooden couples I had ever known in college and yes, they were like these two. Even Mother Theresa would have taken a chainsaw to them.

If 'One Day' were a film it would have dialogue by Jeffrey Archer, a soundtrack by Madonna, it would star Madonna (again) and Arnold Schwarzenegger, and be directed by Ed Wood. Oh, wait a minute, they HAVE made a film of it,
starring I think an actress who looks like a clown with half her makeup scraped off... Well, I won't be going to see it and no one should read this book as it is the worst novel written by man or woman in the history of western civilization and makes Barbara Cartland look like Wittgenstein. The person who recommended this as a "clever beach read" has since been decapitated and disembowelled.
Comment Comments (9) | Permalink | Most recent comment: Feb 24, 2012 11:31 PM GMT


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