April 5, 2015 § Leave a comment
As a retort to those who still believe psychiatry is brain-shrinking, a tool of big Pharma or that there are no mental disorders, only diverse mentalities, eminent psychiatrist Lieberman’s lively history and spirited defence of psychiatric diagnoses and treatments has much work to do. To his credit, he gives a frank explanation of how, in 1952, the American Psychiatric Association came to publish the first supposedly scientific ‘Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders’ (DSM-I), which listed homosexuality as a “sociopathic personality disturbance”. Fortunately, says Lieberman, “the full story of psychiatry is not just a dark comedy of fanciful gaffes.” There are also heroes and brave pioneers – notably Robert Spitzer who fought for the soul of psychiatry as the editor of DSM-III which has become the de facto map of mental illness for every sector of society. This is a humane, humorous, behind-the-scenes guide to psychiatry’s neurotic internal conflicts and an intelligent, candid account of its claims to scientific credibility.
BROWNED OFF AND BLOODY MINDED: The British Soldier Goes to War 1939-1945 by Alan Allport (Yale, 396pp; £25)
Pity the poor bloody infantry – men, most of them no more than teenagers, conscripted into a low-paid and low-status army, kicked around by corporals and colonels, more than liable to be killed or wounded in action, and then sent back to civvy street to fend for themselves after years of drills, discomfort and danger. From a hugely diverse treasury of memoirs, letters and diaries of ordinary servicemen, social historian Allport has compiled a frank report from the sharp end of a conflict waged on all fronts – class, sex, national identity and military tradition. The conventions of the army, particularly of rank and military discipline, had not changed much since WWI, but the young conscripts had: they were healthier, wealthier and better educated than their parents; they were modern in their attitudes and liberated in their behaviour. The stories of these brave but bewildered civilians in uniform are as illuminating as searchlights in a dark age of traumatic war.
ONCE UPON A TIME IN THE WEST … COUNTRY by Tony Hawks (Hodder & Stoughton, 356pp; £14.99)
If you’re going to have an epiphany, it’s probably best that it shouldn’t happen at 3.09 a.m. in a hotel in the Philippines and you certainly shouldn’t try to wake your partner to tell her that the voice in your head is advising you to move from London to live in Devon. The life of a professional comedian is full of larks, most of them laughably (with any luck) self-inflicted as potential comedy material. Tony Hawks is breezily humorous in this account of becoming a countryman growing organic vegetables on an allotment, a father braced for hypno-home birthing and, in a challenge to raise money for a Moldovan children’s care centre, cycling from one Devon coast to the other with a good-natured micro piglet called Titch, worn comfortably in a baby sling round his neck, who companionably shares his hotel bed on their travels. Though Hawks rather relentlessly lays on an attitude of innocent ineptitude for comic effect, he is a genial personality in practiced possession of a consistent talent to amuse.
April 5, 2015 § Leave a comment
Barry Forshaw concurs with Orson Welles who declared that “two things can never be filmed in an interesting way: prayer and sexual intercourse.” Nothing daunted, film makers have certainly given sex their best efforts, with varying results and reactions. In a very thorough review of cinematic sex from the witty Hollywood sex comedies of the 1930s and the 1960s to the European post-war reputation for frank sexuality and mesmerising, post-millennial shockers such as ‘Nymphomaniac’ by Lars von Trier, the explicit, the erotic and the exploitative are analysed with witty erudition. The section on the UK film industry is, pitifully, titled ‘British Smut’: typical were the cheap, camp, comic ‘Carry On’ films, or the fearful 1976 anti-sex comedy “I’m Not Feeling Myself Tonight”, heavy on innuendo but light on lust. Forshaw, one of our best film critics, has probably watched more sex films than any furrow-browed censor ever did: for his own good, maybe now he should find a good prayer movie.
Marcus Aurelius regularly pitches for stoic virtues, Ovid is still consulted on matters of love, and now Cicero, Cato (the Elder, of course), Aristotle, Aristophanes, Plato and many other ancients advise on how to be old in an age when so many more of us will be aged. Cicero’s view is that a good old age depends on a well-spent youth: “lustful, immoderate youth hands on a worn-out body to old age.” And it’s a good idea to be old before your time: “if you want to be an old person in public life, you shouldn’t start too late.” The lively lessons Payne draws from antiquity are applied to modern life: we still worry about going bald or losing our looks. The trick then, as now, is to grow old naturally, but not too naturally. Basically, says Payne, look in the mirror and “think how much worse it could have been if you were living in the ancient Mediterranean.”
Annually, readers would write letters to The Times, competing to be the earliest to hear the first cuckoo of spring. Welcome though its song might be, the bird’s moral conduct was reprehensible, laying an egg in the nest of other birds which were landed with the job of fostering the cuckoo chick at the expense of their own offspring. Nick Davies gives a naturalist’s explanation of this bad bird behaviour, quoting Gilbert White who regarded the cuckoo’s habits as “a monstrous outrage on maternal affection, one of the first great dictates of nature”, the French anatomist Francois Hérissant who thought cuckoos incapable of incubation because of the disposition of their intestines, and finally Darwin who explained the parasitic habits of the cuckoo as having evolved by natural adaptation. As one of nature’s most accomplished cheats, the cuckoo has prospered wonderfully well. Davies admiringly detects its deceitful devices in terms of ancient lore and modern scientific ornithology.
March 22, 2015 § 1 Comment
On a September evening in 2005, driving back from a Father’s Day outing, Robert Farquharson veered off the Princes Highway south-west of Melbourne, and plunged into a dam. Farquharson freed himself and swam to the bank, but the car sank into deep water and his three young sons were drowned. Two years later, in the Supreme Court of Victoria, he stood trial on three charges of murder. The case divided Australia: his family believed it had been a tragic accident; the public believed that Farquharson, a man down on his luck and dumped by his wife, had been either grief-stricken at the loss of his family or motivated by evil revenge. A court case such as this is a legal procedure, but it is also public theatre. Helen Garner has recorded the performances that revealed the blighted lives of a family, the bleak man at the centre of a powerful tragedy and the tragi-comedy of dramatic legal proceedings.
Were it not true, this could be the theme for a novel: young, blind, self-taught and unlicensed (‘barefoot’) lawyer from a poor provincial farming background takes up the cases of citizens oppressed by big government and is himself harassed, beaten up and imprisoned by the authorities he is challenging. If this was America, he would be a John Grisham hero. But he is Chinese, and his crime was to stand up for the rights of the disabled coerced for high taxes, women forcibly sterilized under the ‘one child’ policy, and victims of official corruption. His daring escape from house arrest and disappearance for days, the dangerous flight to the American Embassy and his negotiated release to the United States in 2012 was worldwide news as an embarrassing affront to Chinese political pride and a moral victory for Western constitutional liberty and individual human freedom. Guangcheng’s bravura narrative is an action-packed tribute to the power of personal political activism.
On 1 May 1915, with a mixture of hope and fear, some 2000 passengers embarked on the luxury Cunard liner Lusitania bound from New York for Liverpool. Among them were a large number of children and babies. The ship had often made the Atlantic crossing without incident, and the captain – despite Germany having declared the seas around Britain to be a war zone – trusted that a civilian, unarmed ship would be safe from U-boat attack. On 7th May, the Lusitania was torpedoed: 350 pounds of explosives detonated against the hull, 10 feet below the waterline. Only 764 passengers survived. Larson’s true narrative of an epic disaster is told from the perspective of passengers, the ship’s crew, the personnel of Unterseeboot-20, and politicians on both sides of the Atlantic. With practiced skill, Larson powerfully confronts the emotional pathos of wartime tragedy with the fatal errors by officials and politicians on both sides of the Atlantic that might have avoided it.
March 16, 2015 § Leave a comment
Mick Houghton is a fan boy for Fairport Convention and its lead singer Sandy Denny. “Here,” he says, “was Britain’s answer to Jefferson Airplane, with a singer who was Grace Slick’s equal. No, Sandy Denny was better.” His biography is enthusiastic about Denny’s dynamic vocal range, dramatic genius as a singer-songwriter, and as a bridge between 1960s folk and pop and the sensitive singer-songwriters of the 1970s. But then there was her marriage to Australian singer Trevor Lucas, which Houghton compares with the tensions between Plath and Hughes or Bogart and Bacall. Interviews with Denny’s friends and fellow musicians are revealing, though diverse. She was “manic”, says one; “manipulative”, another; and for sure she was deeply conflicted about her role as a mother and disdainful of pop success. Denny’s death at the age of thirty-one in 1978 is lamented by Houghton, whose well-researched, lively biography does her character full justice and proclaims her long-term legacy to modern music.
The gods of the morning, according to Virgil, are birds. They are regarded with reverence by naturalist and conservationist John Lister Kaye who has written his own Georgic in lyrical praise of the wildlife at Aigas, his field study centre near Inverness. He keeps a seasoned eye on the seasonal behaviour of birds, logging unusual variations in their migration and nesting patterns, and developing a wry sense of their character. Rooks, for instance, are “boisterous personalities, like inner-city youths: racketing, arguing, bossing, coming and going, flapping, cawing loudly.” In this ecological microcosm, the birds of Aigas are “thermometers of environmental health and change – not always a happy story.” There have been losses over recent decades – moorland waders, curlew, lapwing, greenshank, redshank and oystercatchers. Though Lister Kaye warns of the damage caused by humankind, and sometimes strikes an elegiac note, he sings full-throatedly in praise of the struggle for survival and the persistence of nature.
In March 2014, a cochlear implant enabled Jo Milne, profoundly deaf since birth and registered blind as an adult, to hear for the first time in the forty years of her life. The pioneering surgical procedure caused a global media sensation, and now Jo travels the country as a mentor to other deaf-blind people who suffer from Usher Syndrome. The transition from silence to sound would seem an absolute benefit, but Jo was undefended: she had to learn to process the noise she was hearing, to identify the sound of a phone ringing, the ‘clunk’ of a cab door closing. The world, she discovered, is filled with sounds of distress, but there is also the sweet flood of music and the joy of birdsong at dawn. Now and again, it all becomes too much and Jo removes the cochlear implant. Movingly, she says now that “the silence I’d been so terrified of my entire life suddenly became a great comfort.” Her memoir of a life lived in light and darkness, silence and sound, is bright with her courage and humanity.
March 8, 2015 § Leave a comment
From 2008, travelling in the oil-slicked Niger Delta and the mineral-rich Congo, economist and journalist Tom Burgis began to believe that “Africa’s troves of natural resources were not going to be its salvation; instead, they were its curse. … Africa is not only disproportionately rich in natural resources; it is disproportionately dependent on them.” Captains of the oil and mining industries stress the nobility of their endeavours as the solution to Africa’s woes, rather than as the cause. Their dilemma is devilish: “The general in the Niger Delta told me he kidnapped to pay school fees. Shell’s Mutiu Sunmonu had a lump in his throat as he recalled the terrible state of his homeland despoiled by the oil industry he helps to run.” Burgis makes a powerful, outraged case, through anecdote and evidence, that the dirty trade in raw materials of these home-grown African potentates, international commercial pirates and multinational financial buccaneers serves only their own enrichment and the demands of oligarchic and state interests worldwide.
As a tenacious, long-term investigator, digging deep into the details of dodgy food processing, Joanna Blythman was still suspicious that the information she was given by the food industry, was a few e-numbers short of a full lunch. Now she has penetrated further into the dark web where factory food processors put up ‘do not disturb’ notices to fend off outsiders and plot the death of real food by discussing how it can be chemically shaped, bio-engineered, redesigned and presented as virtuously healthy. But how has that pack of pitta bread survived for weeks without growing whiskers? Is the taste of that bagged salad meant to last all day? And is that really cheese you’re squeezing out of a tube like toothpaste? The answer is enzymes, nanoparticles, protein isolates, acidulants, permeates, cyclodextrins, sugar alcohols and other ingredients that a five-year old kid can’t pronounce and your grandmother doesn’t recognise as food. In this fine book, Blythman uses a long spoon to sup with the devils of our daily diet.
Satirical novelists and bar-room wits have brought the poor old Victorian vicar into low repute, but he had much to contend with; he preached in an age of religious faith that was losing ground to theological doubt; and in many parishes, then as now, there were chronic problems of social inequality. Pastoral care was just as often humanitarian as spiritual. In one case, a parson was obliged to take a pair of pliers to an old woman’s aching tooth; and the description by the Revd. Armstrong of a street in East Dereham in Norfolk would make the modern ‘Benefit Street’ seem like a utopian paradise of social care. From period diaries and documents, Barry Turner gives the good Victorian parish parson a positive makeover as a campaigner for better education and literacy, sanitation and health. As an unsung hero of progressive social politics, he created the scaffolding of what would become the welfare state.
March 1, 2015 § Leave a comment
To moon, spoon, June, add a swooning tune and what have you got? Not a lot; or not enough, anyhow. Love, like the songs devoted to it, is never simple. There are millennia of social history behind what birds do, bees do, even Beatles, Stones and Talking Heads do: sing of love, that is. In a richly researched and heartfelt song book of the ages, Gioia takes us from the sweet tweet of birdsong, through the high romance of troubadours, the ale and Aran-sweatered inspiration of folk singers, the low whiskey tones of crooners, the slow smoulder of torch song gals, the bubblegum pop of bobbysoxers, the bump and grind of rock ‘n’ roll, to the hippy-dippiness of Woodstock and beyond – to punk, grunge and the achey-breakey heartache of C&W. Gioia boldly and brilliantly enters the space between the noises of ancient fertility rites and the sexualised music videos of YouTube to discover how melody and love songs, like hearts full of passion, jealousy and hate, are never out of date.
From 29th September 1941, the siege of Leningrad by the Nazis lasted for 872 days and nights, during which some 800,000 citizens died from disease, hunger, air raids and cold. With candour and courage sixteen year-old Lena Mukhina’s diary records the dreadful days. She admits that the citizens have to be selfish to survive, and that she too has become heartless. Food is the great preoccupation. Casting a pitiless adolescent eye on Aka, a nanny or grandmother, sick and weak, Lena calculates that the old woman’s bread ration would help keep herself and her mother alive. But somehow, the city salvages some humour, humanity and resourcefulness from destitution and despair: school continues, there is a fir tree at a New Year party, cinemas show films, there are theatre performances, and news of Russian victories filters through on the radio. Lena’s diary, sustained by emotional stamina and driven by daily drama, ruthlessly describes one of the worst civilian horrors of modern wartime.
Before she became TV’s ‘Queen of Shops’ and a campaigner for the revival of British High Streets, Mary Portas was already a media darling. As the creative director of Harvey Nichols, she brought the high energy of street cred to the store’s fashion policy and inventive window displays. Now she tells where she got her cool: in the 1970s, in Watford, in a sprawling Irish Catholic family, headed by her pigeon-fancying Dad but ruled by Theresa, her beloved mother, who talked in interesting idioms and served up Vesta curries with mashed potatoes and Angel Delight. Family life, almost a blueprint for a 1970s TV sitcom, is devastated by Theresa’s early death from meningitis. Dazed and confused at college, Mary’s teenage resistance to a career in retail is subverted by the camp glitz of the New Romantics and her first days working with new fashion styles at Harrods. Her story begins in this first memoir; by the end, she is a fashion princess-in-waiting for her media crown.
February 22, 2015 § Leave a comment
Do you resist tobacco/alcohol/drugs? Do you monitor your heart/pulse/calories? Do you jog/run/cycle? Do you balance work/rest/play? If the answers are yes, you are living well and may even have achieved the gold star zone of “ideal performance state.” But are you happy? In 2005, David Cameron recruited the ideology of the wellness guru Martin Seligman to help him to measure wellbeing in Britain and float the bubble idea of happiness as deriving from self-help rather than welfare dependency. By striving strenuously for self-improvement, we should feel good, become good and do good. In a sceptical investigation of wellness as a virtuous circle, Cederström and Spicer show how it has been taken over by the consumer economy and they rebrand it as oppressive. In 1984, the oppressed victims of Big Brother were coerced into social uniformity. Thirty years later, Big Brother is an evangelical life coach who preaches moral self-mastery. Ideological wellness tricks us into oppressing ourselves.
When he wants to learn something new, says Weinberg, he teaches a college course about it. In this masterful, entertainingly “irreverent” book, he explains the rise of science (mostly physics and astronomy) from ancient Greeks to modern geeks in terms that his students and the rest of us as scientific amateurs will understand. Weinstein chooses the word “discovery” instead of “invention” to emphasise the discipline of modern science as a technique that was waiting to be discovered. He comes less to hype the heroic natural philosophers of history such as Aristotle, Copernicus, Galileo and Newton, than to show how far they were from our present conception of science. In turn, Weinberg as a modern scientist is prompted to wonder how much still remains to be discovered, in how many realities yet unknown, and at what point the inadequacy of human intellectual and economic resources will stall further progress.
Anna Lyndsey (a nom-de-plume) suffers from a severely disabling form of photosensitive seborrhoeic dermatitis; a reaction to light, natural or artificial, that causes agonising pain in her skin. She lives for months at a time in a darkened room by day and is able to go out only at night. Sound familiar? A coffin worked as a blackout zone for Dracula, says Anna, but in her case there would be breathing problems and her husband couldn’t get it in the car. With black humour, she describes her strategies for living as full a life as possible without becoming an emotional basket case. There’s Radio Four (allowing for radio rage), audio books (SAS thrillers, preferably, but no James Patterson or Miss Read), knitting (badly), marriage and making love (but at risk of physical injury). In the dying of the light, there is rage but also laughter, love and the hope of progress in small, shining victories.