Cavalcade by Noel Coward (1930)

New Year’s Eve: our London family, sheltered through two generations of Victorian prosperity, awaits the headlong cavalcade of the Twentieth Century…’
(First caption of the 1933 movie version)

Introduction

Copied from the Wikipedia article (why reinvent the wheel?) with my own adaptations:

‘Cavalcade’ is a play by Noël Coward with songs by Coward and others. It covers three decades in the life of the Marryots, an upper-middle-class British family, and their servants, beginning in 1900 and ending in 1930, a year before the premiere.

Its 22 scenes each focus on a major historical event of the period, including the Relief of Mafeking (17 May 17 1900), the death of Queen Victoria (22 January 1901), the sinking of the RMS Titanic (12 April 1912), scenes from World War I and so on. Popular songs from each period are woven into the score.

The play was premiered in 1931 at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, London, directed by Coward himself. It took advantage of the large stage of Drury Lane with its hydraulics and moving components to stage a spectacular pageant.

Presented by the impresario Charles B. Cochran, the spectacular production involved a huge cast and massive sets. The first night was met with a standing ovation and it proved a hugely popular play, running for almost a year.

Background and production

During the run of his successful comedy ‘Private Lives’ in London in 1930, Coward discussed with the impresario C. B. Cochran the idea of a big spectacular production to follow the intimate small scale of ‘Private Lives’.

Coward considered the idea of an epic set during the French Revolution, but when he saw a photograph of a troopship leaving for the Boer War in an old copy of the Illustrated London News the germ of the new play came to him.

He outlined his scenario to Cochran and asked him to secure the Coliseum, London’s largest theatre. Cochran was unable to do so but was able to book the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, which was not much smaller, provided Coward could guarantee an approximate opening date.

Coward and his designer Gladys Calthrop inspected Drury Lane and found it adequate in terms of the size of its stage and its technical facilities, although two extra hydraulic lifts had to be installed for quick changes of scenery, and unlike the Coliseum it lacked the revolving stage Coward wanted. While Calthrop began designing hundreds of costumes and twenty-two sets, Coward worked on the script, which he completed in August 1931.

‘Cavalcade’ premiered on 13 October 1931, starring Mary Clare and Edward Sinclair as the Marryot parents and featuring John Mills, Binnie Barnes, Una O’Connor, Moya Nugent, Arthur Macrae, Irene Browne and Maidie Andrews in supporting roles. The performance was a big success and the play went on to become one of the year’s biggest West End hits, running for 405 performances. It closed in September 1932.

Photos

The printed text of the play contains 22 photos from the production. In the online version I read these are all of shockingly poor quality so I wasn’t tempted to include any here.

The working classes

The play is immediately different in feel from anything else by Coward I’ve read because it features working class characters, in fact it opens with working class people, instantly differentiating it from the posh people dressing for dinner ambience of all the other plays.

Somewhere I’ve read a quote from Coward saying he was born into the middle class and so felt close to, or detached from, all the others. How working class characters here strike me as every bit as stereotypical as his upper middle class characters.

Synopsis

Part 1

Scene 1: Sunday 31 December 1899. The drawing-room of a London House

It is nearly midnight on New Year’s Eve 1899. The whole vast production opens in the kitchen of the posh Marryot family where we find the married parlourmaid Ellen and the butler, Bridges, fretting about preparing supper for their lords and masters, but also about the fact that Bridges has been called up to go and fight in the Boer War.

Cut to ‘above stairs’ where the master class, Robert (35) and Jane (31) Marryot, are seeing in the New Year quietly together. Jane’s brother is besieged in Mafeking, and Robert himself will shortly be going off to serve.

Robert and Jane invite their Bridges and Ellen toast the new year. Bells, shouting, and sirens outside usher in the New Year, and Robert proposes a toast to 1900.

Hearing her two boys stirring upstairs, Jane runs up to see after them, and her husband calls to her to bring them down to join the adults. He has some droll lines:

ROBERT: How very impolite of the twentieth century to waken the children.

Scene 2: Saturday 27 January 1900. A dockside

A month later, a contingent of volunteers are leaving for the war. On the dockside Jane and Ellen have parallel parting scenes with their men, Robert and Bridges. the basic dichotomy between the master class and the rude mechanicals reminds me of Shakespeare, goes back at least 300 years…

As the men go aboard Jane comforts Ellen, who is crying and a band strikes up ‘Soldiers of the Queen’. The volunteers wave their farewells to the cheering crowd.

Scene 3: Friday 8 March 1900. The drawing-room of the Marryots’ house

The Marryot boys – Edward (aged 12) and Joe (8) – are playing soldiers with a young friend, Edith Harris. She objects to being made to play the Boers, and they begin to quarrel. The noise brings in their mothers. Joe throws a toy at Edith, and is sharply slapped by Jane, whose nerves are on edge with anxiety about her brother and her husband.

Her state of mind is not helped by a barrel-organ outside, playing ‘Soldiers of the Queen’ under the window. Ellen the maid brings tea and the women commiserate about their menfolk in danger. Margaret, friend of Jane’s and mother of young Edith, sends the organ-grinder away then suggests taking Jane out tonight, to dinner at the Cafe Royal then on to the theatre to take her mind off her worry.

But left alone, Jane is tormented by the sound of the wretched barrel organ and collapses into hysterical tears.

Scene 4: Friday 8 May 1900. A theatre

Jane and Margaret are in a stage-box watching chorus girls performing ‘The Girls of the C.I.V’. The performance of the then popular musical comedy ‘Mirabelle’ continues but the performance is interrupted when the theatre manager comes onstage to announce that Mafeking has been relieved, triggering joyous uproar breaks out, the audience clapping, cheering and singing ‘Auld Lang Syne’.

Scene 5: Monday 21 January 1901. The kitchen of the Marryots’ house

The cook, Annie the parlour maid, and Ellen’s mother Mrs Snapper are preparing a special tea to greet Bridges on his return from the war. He comes in with Ellen, looking well, and kisses his little baby, Fanny. He tells them that he has bought a public house off a chap he met in Africa and is staying out there. So he and Ellen can work for themselves in future.

The celebratory mood is dampened when Annie brings in a newspaper reporting that Queen Victoria is ‘sinking’.

Scene 6: Sunday 27 January 1901. Kensington Gardens

This scene is all in mime. Robert and Jane are walking in Kensington Gardens with their children when they meet Margaret and Edith Harris. Everyone is in black, solemn and silent, following the Queen’s death.

Made me think of the death of our Queen Elizabeth II, who had reigned as long as anyone could remember, and the deep sense of loss many many people felt.

Scene 7: Saturday 2 February 1901. The Marryots’ drawing-room

On the balcony, Jane, Margaret, their children and the servants are watching Queen Victoria’s funeral procession. Robert, who was awarded the Victoria Cross is walking in the procession. Jane tells her children to stand respectfully as the coffin passes, especially after one of the boys drops a piece of cake onto the hat of a woman in the crowd. As the lights fade, Joe comments, ‘She must have been a very little lady’.

Scene 8: Thursday 14 May 1903. The grand staircase of a London house

Jane and Robert are attending a grand ball given by the Duchess of Churt. The Major-domo announces, ‘Sir Robert and Lady Marryot’.

Part II

Scene I: Saturday 16 June 1906. The bar parlour of a London public house

Jane has brought her eldest son Edward, now 18, to see Ellen and her mother, Mrs Snapper, in the flat above the public house. They are just having tea, together with Flo who is over-dressed and embarrassingly pretentious and George, who is a greengrocer. Alf and Ellen’s daughter Fanny is now seven-years-old and has been dancing to entertain them.

Ellen and her mother make excuses for Alf’s absence, lying that he is upstairs in bed after hurting his leg in a bicycling accident.

Alf Bridges enters, clearly drunk. Jane, dismayed, makes a tactful departure. Bridges starts to bully Fanny. He sees that Fanny has a nice new doll, just given her by Jane. Furious, he snatches it from the child and throws it into the fire, shouting that he can buy his own child a doll if he wants, he doesn’t need no bloomin’ charity. Ellen goes for Alf who punches her and is grabbed and thrown out the room by George.

Scene 2: Saturday 16 June 1906. A London street (exterior of the public house)

Alf emerges from the pub into a wonderful street scene with scores of Cockneys dancing and drinking and partying to the sound of a penny-in-the-slot piano, with much singing and laughter, costermongers hawking their wares, and a Salvation Army band performing. Fanny is happily dancing with some adults. Alf sees her and makes a grab at her but the men push him away, over offstage. Moments later there’s a screaming. Flo and Ellen had emerged from the pub to look for Fanny and, hearing the shouting, Flo runs offstage to see the scene, the re-enters to tell Ellen her husband has been run over and killed.

Scene 3: Wednesday 10 March 1909. The private room of a London restaurant

The Marryots’ eldest son, Edward Marryot, is holding his twenty-first birthday party, with many smart young guests. Rose, an actress from the old Mirabelle production, proposes his health and sings the big waltz number from the show.

Scene 4: Monday 25 July 1910. The beach of a popular seaside resort

On the beach crowds of holidaymakers are listening to Uncle George’s Concert Party performing from a bandstand. Ellen and her family are there and Fanny wins a prize for a song and dance competition.

Promenading are the posh people – Jane and Margaret, and their children, Edward, Joe and Edith. Edward and Edith are now young adults and sweet for each other. They unexpectedly bump into the roles – Ellen, little Fanny, George the greengrocer and Flo.

Ellen tells them that she has kept on the pub since her husband’s death and that Fanny is now at a dancing-school and determined to go on the stage.

A couple of unknown women walk by talking about the Crippen murder and how he was spotted and caught trying to escape on a liner, July 1910.

There’s a roll of thunder and it starts to rain. The beach becomes a sea of umbrellas (must have been impressive to see) and everyone walks or runs offstage leaving ‘One fat old woman is left asleep in a deck chair.’

A tremendous roll of thunder wakes her abruptly and she struggles to get up, and falls back into the chair, which collapses.

We are in the era of the Keystone cops.

Scene 5: Sunday 14 April 1912. The deck of an Atlantic liner

Edward has married Edith Harris, and they are on their honeymoon. They speculate blithely how long the initial bliss of marriage will last.

EDWARD: How long do you give us?
EDITH: I don’t know—and Edward—(she turns to him) I don’t care. This is our moment—complete and heavenly. I’m not afraid of anything. This is our own, for ever.

As they walk off, she lifts her cloak from where it has been draped over the ship’s rail, revealing the name Titanic on a lifebelt. The lights fade into complete darkness and the orchestra plays ‘Nearer, My God, to Thee’ very quietly.

Scene 6: Tuesday 4 August 1914. The Marryots’ drawing-room

Joe asks his father if he will fight (probably) and then is frightfully keen to sign up himself. Father urges caution. A newspaper seller in the street outside shouts that war has been declared, and Robert, Joe and Margaret join a toast to victory, but Jane – who I’ve realised is the ‘moral core’ of the text – delivers an impassioned diatribe against the stupidity of war before running out.

JANE: Drink to die war, then, if you want to. I’m not going to. I can’d Rule Britannia! Send us victorious, happy and glorious! Drink, Joey, you’re only a baby, still, but you’re old enough for war. Drink like the Germans are drinking, to Victory and Defeat, and stupid, tragic sorrow. But leave me out of it, please!

Scene 7: 1914–1915–1916–1917–1918. Marching

Above the proscenium 1914 glows in lights. It changes to 1915-1916, 1917 and 1918. Meanwhile, soldiers march uphill endlessly. Out of darkness into darkness. Sometimes they sing gay songs, sometimes they whistle, sometimes they march silently, but the sound of their tramping feet is unceasing. Below, the vision of them brightly-dressed, energetic women appear in pools of light, singing stirring recruiting songs.

Scene 8: Tuesday 22 October 1918. A restaurant

Joe and Fanny – now a rising young singer and dancer – are dining in a West End restaurant. Jane is now nineteen and extremely attractive. Joe is in army officer’s uniform. He is on leave but is about to return to the Front. They discuss marriage but she imagines his family would object. She gives him a locket with her picture in.

Scene 9: Tuesday 22 October 1918. A railway station

Jane sees Joe off at the railway station. Like many of the women on the platform she is distressed. This is conveyed by a simple but effective piece of stage business: as stretchers bearing wounded men are carried past her, she lights a match to light her cigarette but is so distracted by the sight of the wounded that she lets the match burn out.

Scene 10: Monday 11 November 1918. The Marryots’ drawing-room

Ellen, now very swankily dressed, comes to visit Jane. She announces that Joe is emotionally involved with her daughter. The two mothers fall out: Ellen thinks Jane regards Fanny as beneath Joe socially.

As Ellen says a pointed goodbye they hear the guns going off outside to signal the Armistice. At that exact moment the maid brings in a telegram. Jane opens it and tells Ellen, ‘You needn’t worry about Fanny and Joe any more, Ellen. He won’t be able to come back at all, because he’s dead.’ And she faints.

Scene 11: Monday 11 November 1918. Trafalgar Square

Surrounded by the frantic revelry of Armistice Night, Jane is walking, dazed, through Trafalgar Square. With tears streaming down her face, she cheers wildly and waves a rattle, while the band plays ‘Land of Hope and Glory’.

Part III

Scene 1: Tuesday 31 December 1929. The Marryot’s drawing room

Margaret and Jane, both now elderly, are sitting by the fire. Margaret leaves, after wishing a happy New Year to Jane and Robert, who has come in to drink a New Year toast with his wife. Jane drinks first to him and then to England: ‘The hope that one day this country of ours, which we love so much, will find dignity and greatness, and peace again’.

Scene 2: Evening, 1930. A night club

Robert, Jane, Margaret, Ellen and the full company are in a night club. At the piano, Fanny sings Coward’s song ‘Twentieth Century Blues’.

Scene 3: Chaos

When the song is finished, people rise from table and dance without apparently any particular enjoyment; it is the dull dancing of habit. The lights fade away from everything but the dancers, who appear to be rising in the air. They disappear and down stage left six ‘incurables’ in blue hospital uniform are sitting making baskets. They disappear and Fanny is seen singing her song for a moment, then far away up stage a band is seen playing wildly. Then down stage Jane and Robert standing with glasses of champagne held aloft, then Ellen sitting in front of a Radio loud speaker; then Margaret dancing with a young man. The visions are repealed quicker and quicker, while across the darkness runs a Riley light sign spelling out news. Noise grows louder and louder. Steam rivets, loud speakers, jazz bands, aeroplane propellers etc until the general effect is complete chaos.

Then it all fades into darkness and silence and away at the back a Union Jack glows through the blackness. The lights come up on the massed company singing ‘God Save the King’.

Music

In addition to compositions by Coward, more than fifty popular songs, national anthems, hymns, ballads, and topical tunes relevant to the years portrayed were used in the film. Wikipedia lists just some of them. There have been numerous recordings, of all the songs, or just Coward’s songs, and a Cavalcade Suite developed from them. Here’s a record made of music from the show, with a spoken introduction by Coward himself.

The fantastical

The absurdist surreal fantasies, the mad spur-of-the-moment imaginings of Elyot and Amanda in ‘Private Lives’ has alerted me to the vein of fantasy, or flights of fancy, which pop up at unexpected moments in Coward’s plays.

Thus Edward and Edith’s moment on the Titanic is intensified by Edith’s strange flight of fantasy:

EDITH: Wouldn’t it be awful if a magician came to us and said: ‘Unless you count accurately every single fish in the Atlantic you die to-night?’

How strange but how strangely effective it is in accentuating that short scene, in giving it an extra dimension of tragedy: the idea that not just people were drowned but that the priceless gift of fantasy and imagination was drowned with them.

A few scenes later the family arrive back in the house which has been locked up for a while and has no food in. Jane asks where her husband is, and her son Joe says:

JOE: Groping about in the wine cellar like an angry old beetle. He says strong drink is essential in a crisis.
JANE: We must have something to eat, too. I wonder if there is anything.
JOE: There’s a strong bit of cold tongue in the larder. I just put my head in and it sang the Marseillaise.

!

Different histories

History in an absolute sense is the record of everything that’s ever happened i.e. is an incomprehensibly vast amount of material which is being continually added to.

History is also an academic subject with its own sub-divisions and specialities, all subject to the changes in academic and social fashion. When I was a student Marxist history was still a going concern with notables such as Christopher Hill, Eric Hobsbawm and E.P. Thompson at their peak in the post-1960s radical ’70s and ’80s. But even at the time friends who actually studied history told me they were old hat and the new fashion was for social history from the bottom up, along with a new interest in regional history. I saw all this for myself in the eclipse of Christopher Hill’s Marxist accounts of the English Revolution by the regionalist approach of John Morell and the constitutional analysis of Conrad Russell.

Since then the study of British history has been shaken by at least three newer schools of thought or interpretation. The most obvious one is feminist history, which simply wants to redress centuries of dominance by men and reclaim the history of women, showing that women had more agency and influence than previously admitted, plus simply telling the stories of women from the well-known queens to the humblest working girls.

Alongside this has gone an equal surge in interest in Black history. In a sense the core of this is a proliferation of histories of the slave trade accompanied by the contentious claim that most of Britain’s eminence and the origin of the industrial revolution ultimately stemmed from the profits from the slave trade (see Industry and Empire: From 1750 to the Present Day by Eric Hobsbawm for a classic statement). But around this central core are new works emphasising the role of Black people from across the Empire, from Africa and the Caribbean, in fighting in the two world wars, and providing manpower in less well-known places such as in the merchant navy.

Thirdly there is the rise and rise of postcolonial studies, an interdisciplinary field of academic inquiry which includes history, literature, film etc to examines the cultural, political and economic effects of colonialism and imperialism with a special emphasis on the colonised, on the victims of imperialism.

Fourthly, over the same timescale, the rise and rise of Queer studies: an interdisciplinary academic field that examines gender and sexuality, challenging traditional notions and exploring the social construction of these identities.

By now you can see where I’m going with this. It is to state the obvious fact that the political, social and cultural world in which Coward wrote this work, and the historical narrative of unquestioned, unified, white, imperial British supremacy which it unashamedly promotes, has been smashed to pieces over the last 50 years or so. That the play, the script and the movie made from it are not just a little dated, but come from a different world, far closer to the values of Queen Victoria than to us (it was only 30 years  from Victoria’s reign but is 90 years distant from us).

I feel like I just about have a vestigial contact with that world and its values, through the books and TV and films I consumed as a boy just 40 years after the play was premiered. But to my kids, the entire thing comes from another planet.

The Woolf connection

I learn from Philip Hoare’s wonderful 1995 biography of Coward that in 1928 he met and became friends with Virginia Woolf who, for a period, was awed and impressed by him, while he did everything he could to butter up to this scion of England’s intellectual set, extravagantly praising her most recent production, Orlando.

The idea of following an upper-middle-class family across several generations and dotted with key historic incidents from the period is also the plot of Virginia Wool’s 1937 novel, The Years. I wonder what she made of Coward producing something so similar in subject matter and scale while she was struggling so hard to create her book.

Upstairs, Downstairs

Interesting to learn that the 1970s television series, ‘Upstairs, Downstairs’, was to some extent based on ‘Cavalcade’.

As Karl Marx famously remarked, history repeats itself: first as tragedy, then as ITV costume drama.

The 1933 movie

‘Cavalcade’ was quickly snapped up by Hollywood which released a movie version in 1933. Directed by Frank Lloyd, the film version is an epic two hours long and won three Academy Awards, including Best Picture. Coward was still only 34. The scale of his success is breathtaking.

Philip Hoare

Cavalcade unashamedly reaffirms stereotypes: the characters seem almost Dickensian as Coward mixes comedy and tragedy… The overwhelming impression of the production was of nostalgic national introspection and sentimentality, somewhat redeemed by Coward’s handling of his material, technical skill and sense of spectacle. The result was a triumph of style over content.’ (Noel Coward: A Biography by Philip Haore, page 234)


Related reviews

Mrs Dalloway by Virginia Woolf (1925)

Why did she suddenly feel, for no reason that she could discover, desperately unhappy?

‘Mrs Dalloway’ feels like a significantly better, fuller, more complete and significant novel than ‘Jacob’s Room’. But maybe that’s because it’s much more traditional and easier to read.

I powerfully disliked ‘Jacob’s Room’ because it felt, to me, packed with barely contained unhappiness and occasional hysteria, which I found badly triggering i.e. triggered the same feelings in me. ‘Mrs Dalloway’ contains some of the same technical tricks as Jacob, but feels much, much more contained and controlled and accessible.

Continuities between Jacob and this include:

  • it’s set in London with an obsessive attention to the precise geography of the city and the exact routes taken by the main protagonists
  • a large cast of secondary characters, often passersby or people just on the streets or parks or shops of London who the main characters momentarily notice, who pop up for a brief mention then disappear forever
  • unexpected segues or jumps between scenes which neither begin nor end in a conventional way

But what makes it significantly easier than Jacob, is 1) there are far fewer lead characters, just 4 or 5 and 2) we get to know them in much, much more detail than in Jacob. Jacob went out of its way to omit any explanation of characters’ backgrounds and relationships to each other, leaving the reader in a permanent sense of frustration and bewilderment. Its extreme fragmentation and continual hopping about from one fragmented scene to another was its main artistic aim. By contrast, in ‘Dalloway’ there’s just a handful of characters and everything about their backstories is explained at great length. We get to know and walk around the characters. In this respect it is a far more conventional, ‘ordinary’ and accessible novel than its predecessor.

Main cast

The action of the novel follows one day in the life of its characters, a Wednesday in June 1923. Each of the main characters has some business to carry out and so the novel follows them going about their tasks, lightly jumping from one to another.

1. Mrs Clarissa Dalloway

Wife of Richard Dalloway, a Conservative MP. Just entering her 52nd year. Has a daughter, Elizabeth, 17 and serious. Lives in a lovely town house in Mayfair, complete with maids etc, notably Lucy. Was raised in a country house, Bourton, in Gloucestershire. When her father, old Mr Parry, Justin Parry, died, the house went to her brother, Herbert. A neighbour sees:

A charming woman, Scrope Purvis thought her (knowing her as one does know people who live next door to one in Westminster); a touch of the bird about her, of the jay, blue-green, light, vivacious, though she was over fifty, and grown very white since her illness. (p.2)

Mrs Kilman sees:

her small pink face, her delicate body, her air of freshness and fashion

She thinks of herself as having:

a narrow pea-stick figure; a ridiculous little face, beaked like a bird’s. That she held herself well was true; and had nice hands and feet; and dressed well, considering that she spent little. But often now this body she wore (she stopped to look at a Dutch picture), this body, with all its capacities, seemed nothing — nothing at all. She had the oddest sense of being herself invisible; unseen; unknown… (p.7)

When a wave of depression flows over her at not being invited to Lady Brunton’s, she feels ‘herself suddenly shrivelled, aged, breastless’ (p.26). She is essentially talentless: she has no gift for writing or talking, can’t play the piano, doesn’t follow her husband’s political campaigns, is astonishingly ignorant (she doesn’t know what the equator is) (p.107).

She knew nothing; no language, no history; she scarcely read a book now, except memoirs in bed…

Not that she was striking; not beautiful at all; there was nothing picturesque about her; she never said anything specially clever… (p.66)

She has the frigid anti-passion of her class and gender and especially of her author (I say this having read Victoria Glendinning’s biography of Leonard Woolf which shows that theirs was a sexless marriage, probably never consummated, because Virginia became hysterical every time the subject of sex was even raised, let alone moved towards.) ‘Horrible passion! she thought. Degrading passion!’ Her main activity in life is bringing disparate people together at her parties. She really enjoys doing this and enjoys her life.

In people’s eyes, in the swing, tramp, and trudge; in the bellow and the uproar; the carriages, motor cars, omnibuses, vans, sandwich men shuffling and swinging; brass bands; barrel organs; in the triumph and the jingle and the strange high singing of some aeroplane overhead was what she loved; life; London; this moment of June. (p.2)

How unbelievable death was! — that it must end; and no one in the whole world would know how she had loved it all!

Bravo to Woolf for not making her heroine a writer, poet, painter etc but a fairly ordinary upper-middle-class woman with few if any talents. She is therefore (in an admittedly narrow, upper class way) a sort of everywoman.

Task: Clarissa is organising things for a big party she’s hosting that evening.

2. Richard Dalloway

Clarissa’s husband is a conscientious Conservative MP, not top drawer material, never likely to make the Cabinet.

He was a thorough good sort; a bit limited; a bit thick in the head; yes; but a thorough good sort. Whatever he took up he did in the same matter-of-fact sensible way; without a touch of imagination, without a spark of brilliancy, but with the inexplicable niceness of his type. He ought to have been a country gentleman—he was wasted on politics. He was at his best out of doors, with horses and dog… (p.65)

He is invited to luncheon with Lady Bruton, along with their old friend, the pompous Hugh Whitbread.

3. Peter Walsh

Clarissa has known since a boy. He’s six months older than her. He was always unconventional, got kicked out of Oxford for being a Socialist. Back in the 1890s when they were young, he proposed to Clarissa who turned him down. Years later he returns from India (where he’s been for 5 years, 1918 to 1923) and turns up unannounced at the Dalloway house. He is back in London to organise a divorce from his wife because he has fallen in love with a major’s wife, Daisy, aged just 24 i.e. less than half his age. Foolish man.

Task: Walsh has an appointment to see the lawyers Messrs. Hooper and Grateley of Lincoln’s Inn about his divorce.

4. Septimus Warren Smith

The outsider, completely outside the network of Clarissa’s friends and family which mostly dominates the text. Septimus is aged about thirty, pale-faced, beak-nosed, wearing brown shoes and a shabby overcoat. He is a shell-shocked World War One veteran who talks to himself and threatens suicide to his terrified, long-suffering wife Lucrezia.

Task: at noon Septimus and Lucrezia have an appointment with the Harley Street nerve specialist Sir William Bradshaw.

Lucrezia Warren Smith

Long-suffering wife of Septimus. Looks after him all day and shepherds him to the Harley Street appointment, then back to their rented room.

Secondary characters

Sally Seton

Unconventional woman Clarissa fell in love with and kissed back in the 1890s (p.30). And turns up out of the blue at Clarissa’s party. And is changed utterly. Clarissa compares their youthful hijinks with the plump conventional woman she’s become.

She smoked cigars,… she ran down the passage to fetch her sponge bag, without a stitch of clothing on her, and Ellen Atkins asked, ‘What if the gentlemen had met her?’ But everybody forgave her. She stole a chicken from the larder because she was hungry in the night; she smoked cigars in her bedroom; she left a priceless book in the punt. But everybody adored her (except perhaps Papa). It was her warmth; her vitality — she would paint, she would write. Old women in the village never to this day forgot to ask after ‘your friend in the red cloak who seemed so bright.’ She accused Hugh Whitbread, of all people (and there he was, her old friend Hugh, talking to the Portuguese Ambassador), of kissing her in the smoking-room to punish her for saying that women should have votes. Vulgar men did, she said. And Clarissa remembered having to persuade her not to denounce him at family prayers — which she was capable of doing with her daring, her recklessness, her melodramatic love of being the centre of everything and creating scenes, and it was bound, Clarissa used to think, to end in some awful tragedy; her death; her martyrdom; instead of which she had married, quite unexpectedly, a bald man with a large buttonhole who owned, it was said, cotton mills at Manchester. And she had five boys! (p.161)

Aunt Helena

Old Mr Parry’s sister, so Clarissa’s aunt (p.28), now in her 80s and with one glass eye. A great traveller in India in the 1860s and a keen watercolorist of rare orchids (p.158).

Tertiary characters

Scrope Purvis – neighbour in Westminster.

Sir John Buckhurst – venerable judge, caught up in the traffic jam in Brook Street (p.13).

Dr Holmes – physician to Septimus Smith who insists there’s nothing physically wrong with him.

Large, fresh coloured, handsome, flicking his boots, looking in the glass, he brushed it all aside — headaches, sleeplessness, fears, dreams — nerve symptoms and nothing more, he said.

(Compare and contrast the physician who shows up to pronounce Leonard Bast dead at the end of E.M. Forster’s novel Howards End, and the useless doctor who misdiagnoses the daughter with terrible consequences in D.H. Lawrence’s story England, My England. Doctors generally get a bad rap in the fiction of this period.)

Mr Brewer – managing clerk at Sibleys and Arrowsmiths, auctioneers, valuers, land and estate agents, Septimus’s boss.

Lady Millicent Bruton – invites Richard Dalloway to lunch, but not Clarissa, upsetting her.

Miss Milly Brush (40) – Lady Bruton’s secretary, ‘knobbed, scraped, angular, and entirely without feminine charm’ (p.90).

Perkins – Lady Bruton’s servant (?) (p.91).

Miss Pym shop assistant at Mulberry’s the florists, hands always red (p.9).

Edgar J. Watkiss, a workman carrying a roll of lead piping round his arm (p.11).

Mrs Sarah Bletchley with her baby in her arms.

Mrs Emily Coates – passerby in Pall Mall.

Mr Bowley – appears in Jacob’s Room.

Maisie Johnson – freshly arrived from Edinburgh, encounters Septimus and Lucrezia in Regents Park.

Mrs. Dempster – worn-out old lady in Regents Park observes Maisie’s interaction with the Smiths.

The unknown young woman who Peter spots in Trafalgar Square, is suddenly infatuated with and follows north till she disappears into a house in Bloomsbury, leaving him feeling deflated.

The elderly nurse with a pram in Regent’s Park, sat knitting on the bench where Peter comes to rest and falls asleep.

Miss Isobel Pole – lectures about Shakespeare, Septimus attended and developed a crush on her, wrote her letters and poems and stalked her.

Mrs Filmer – older woman living in same boarding house as Septimus and Lucrezia.

Agnes the serving girl in the Smiths’ boarding house.

Sir William Bradshaw – Harley Street physician, calm recommender of a sense of proportion (p.87).

Lady William Bradshaw – wife, fusses about her son at Eton and her hobbies, namely:

Large dinner-parties every Thursday night to the profession; an occasional bazaar to be opened; Royalty greeted; too little time, alas, with her husband, whose work grew and grew; a boy doing well at Eton; she would have liked a daughter too; interests she had, however, in plenty; child welfare; the after-care of the epileptic, and photography… (p.80)

Doris Kilman – Kicked out of her school for her German ancestry during the war, Richard came across Miss Kilman and hired her as a history tutor for Elizabeth. Over 40, embarrassingly poor, ‘heavy, ugly, commonplace’, she had a mighty religious conversion 2 years and 3 months ago (109). Now when she comes Clarissa isn’t sure how much of their time is history and how much is religious zeal.

Rev. Edward Whittaker whose sermon converted Miss Kilman.

Mr Fletcher – retired, of the Treasury, ‘neat as a new pin’, worshipper in Westminster Abbey

Mrs Gorham – widow of the famous K.C., worshipper in Westminster Abbey

Mrs Burgess – a good sort and no chatterbox, who Peter confides in about his affair, advises that while he’s away in England, hopefully Daisy will come to her senses.

Old Joseph Breitkopf – a frequent guest at Bourton who liked singing Brahms but didn’t have any voice.

Events

‘Jacob’s Room’ was divided into 14 distinct chapters. ‘Mrs Dalloway’ doesn’t have any chapters or parts. From time to time there’s just a break in the text, which indicates a new scene or time:

10am

Mrs Dalloway is walking across Green Park towards the florists. She bumps into her old friend Hugh Whitbread. She walks along Piccadilly and into the shop window of Hatchards. She crosses into Bond Street and walks up to her florists, Mulberry’s. A car backfires in the street outside. Various passersby stop and notice. The road is blocked and we meet the shell-shocked war veteran Septimus Smith.

Ripple of excitement among passersby about who is inside the car (which has curtains over its windows), the Prime Minister, the Prince of Wales. The narrative takes us down the Mall to the crowd outside Buckingham Palace including, in Woolf’s usual manner, a clutch of casual bystanders who she bothers to name – shawled Moll Pratt with her flowers on the pavement, Mrs Emily Coates, Sarah Bletchley with babe in arms, little Mr Bowley.

All of them then witness something strange which is an airplane flying low over central London and emitting smoke as if writing letters in the air. In classic modernist confusion nobody can agree what the letters spell.

Cut to: Lucrezia sitting next to her depressed husband Septimus Smith in Regents Park. Her feelings of desperate loneliness now her husband is mad.

Maisie Johnson, a young woman freshly arrived from Edinburgh, asks them the way to Regents Park tube and thinks them a very strange couple. Mrs Dempster who has lunch in the park and feeds the squirrels observes their interaction. The plane eventually flies off, giving a few moments thought to a Mr Bentley mowing his lawn in Greenwich. A seedy-looking nondescript man carrying a leather bag hesitates at the entrance to St. Paul’s Cathedral. Woolf’s novels are packed with these inconsequential moments from random strangers’ lives. In fact she theorises it a bit, attributing this affinity with complete strangers to Clarissa:

Odd affinities she had with people she had never spoken to, some woman in the street, some man behind a counter… (p.135)

Presumably this flitting between snippets of random strangers’ lives was part of the modernism which discombobulated the book’s first readers. All I can say is I took it in my stride and enjoyed this bird’s eye overview of London and random people doing random activities. A hundred years later the technique is thoroughly assimilated.

Clarissa arrives home, discovers her husband has been invited to luncheon with Lady Millicent Bruton, and is jealous. This triggers a wave of memories, her childhood at the family home at Bourton, her wooing by Peter Walsh. But much more she remembers her close friendship with the unconventional Sally Seton which ended with the latter kissing her (p.30).

She is awoken from her revery when the doorbell rings and it’s Peter Walsh, out of the blue. They sit and reminisce. He tells her he’s come back to organise a divorce so he can marry a woman (unfortunately, herself married) Daisy.

Their conversation is just becoming personal, and Clarissa is allowing herself to feel something for this silly loveable man, when the door opens and her daughter, Elizabeth walks in. Walsh had been pacing up and down and now he simply says ‘Goodbye’ and leaves the room, and their densely emotional conversation simply ends.

Reeling, Peter walks along Victoria Street and into Whitehall where he sees a procession of Boy Scouts leaving memorials at the Cenotaph.

11.30am

He is in Trafalgar Square looking at the statues. In a peculiar passage, he sees an attractive woman crossing the road and ends up following her, trailing her, fantasising about starting a completely new life with her, across Piccadilly, up Regents Street, across Oxford Street, up Great Portland Street, and off into a side street where she goes into a house.

The fantasy bursts, and he continues up towards Regents Park, dawdles till he finds a park bench with a nurse sitting on it, knitting, sits down and slowly falls asleep. Starts snoring.

He wakes with a start and painfully remembers the stay at Bourton, in the early 1890s, when he declared his love to Clarissa and she not only rejected him but very visibly fell in love with another guest, simple dashing young Richard Dalloway.

These memories are interrupted when the little girl who’s with the nanny accidentally runs into Lucrezia as she walks miserably with her husband. This takes us into 4 or 5 pages describing Smith’s worsening mental illness, delusions of grandeur (the secrets of the universe), hearing voices, seeing his dead friend Evans in unexpected places.

Peter is now up and walk and walks past the miserable Smiths sitting on their park bench. He is reflecting on the ship journey back to England, being struck that women now openly apply face powder and lipstick, something nobody did in his day.

He remembers how much he dislikes Clarissa’s old friend Hugh Whitbread, an utterly conventional pompous ass who married the Right Honourable Evelyn someone and has a post at Court; how conventional Richard Dalloway is; his disapproval of Shakespeare’s Sonnets for being disreputable etc. How much he still likes Clarissa, her sense of life and comedy, her sense of duty, always running round helping people; how, now into his 50s, he just doesn’t need people any more.

Exiting the Park he hears and sees an ancient crone singing for money. She is a kind of pivot because we also see her through Lucrezia’s eyes and the narrative switches to describing Lucrezia’s story, how she met Septimus. He had fallen in love with the lecturer in Shakespeare, Miss Isabel Pole, working at Sibleys and Arrowsmiths, auctioneers, valuers, land and estate agents. He was one of the first to volunteer and served the full four years. He became very close to his officer, Evans, who was killed just before the Armistice. Now he hears Evans talking to him from behind trees and park benches.

The end of the war found Septimus in Milan, billetted with an innkeeper whose two daughters made hats. Lucrezia was the younger. They fell in love and married and came back to London, took rooms in Tottenham Court Road, and Septimus slowly became more (mentally) ill. He talks openly about killing himself and wonders how to do it most effectively.

Twelve noon (p.82)

The sound of Big Ben (which, I realise, tolls through the book on the hour, every hour). Septimus and Lucrezia have an appointment with Sir William Bradshaw, nerve specialist, in Harley Street. Woolf mocks Bradshaw and his pathetically inadequate advice to Septimus to cultivate a proper sense of ‘proportion’. To achieve this, Bradshaw says he’ll arrange for Septimus to be sent to a rest home, a care home (nobody uses the word asylum). Although presented sweetly, this obviously has a coercive element and leads onto a peculiar couple of pages where Woolf claims that, the (pathetically inadequate) concept of ‘proportion’ is accompanied by a ‘sister’ concept, ‘Conversion’. This is obscure but seems to refer to compulsion, to forcing his patients to acquiesce in his diagnoses, with the implication that he will be forced to go to this home (asylum). This sense of being forced against his will, plays a crucial role in the climax of Septimus’s story.

Like all contemporary physicians, Bradshaw knows nothing about the workings of the brain and central nervous system.

One thirty (p.90)

According to a clock in nearby Oxford Street where is walking Hugh Whitbread, 55, respected holder of a position at Court, ‘unbearably pompous’. He, too, has been invited to luncheon with Lady Bruton and arrives on the doorstep of her house in Brook Street at the same moment as Richard Dalloway.

She talks of this and that and mentions that Peter Walsh is back in England. But it turns out she has invited them both there simply because she needs their help writing a letter to The Times about her hobby horse, encouraging the emigration of the ‘surplus population’ to the colonies, specifically Canada. Hugh is a gluttonous creep in many respects but in this, writing formal letters in the style of the Establishment, he is outstanding and does a great job, developing and refining it at Lady Bruton’s instructions. Then lunch is over and the two men depart.

But a wind is blowing up Brook Street and for some indefinable reason they find it difficult to part and end up together going into a jewellers’s shop where Hugh buys a necklace for his wife, Evelyn. Talk of Peter Walsh has reminded him of his wooing of Clarissa and suddenly he wants to buy her a present. Lacking judgement of jewellery, in the blink of an eye he has bought some red and white roses and strides through Green Park towards their house, intending to give them to her and tell her he loves her.

Scholars think the Dalloways live in Great College Street, Westminster, though this is nowhere made explicit.

3pm (p.103)

Big Ben sounds the hour as Dalloway enters his house, surprising Clarissa. He gives her the roses but can’t quite bring himself to tell her he loves her. He quickly leaves to attend a committee, concerned with Armenian survivors of the genocide though Clarissa, characteristically, can’t remember whether it’s Armenians or Albanians.

Miss Kilman emerges from being cloistered with Elizabeth. She was hired as a history tutor for Elizabeth but during the war had a religious conversion. We get the story of her conversion. Now she and Elizabeth emerge to go shopping. There is a momentary standoff between Clarissa and Miss Kilman which Clarissa ends by laughing. They exit.

3.30pm (p.112)

Clarissa watches the old lady opposite laboriously climb her stairs and thinks that, that is life.

Meanwhile, Mrs Kilman is infuriated beyond measure by the way Mrs Dalloway laughed at her, seething with hatred for her dim, philistine privilege. She and Elizabeth go to the Army and Navy Story (to buy a petticoat) and then have tea and a chocolate eclair. Woolf gives us Miss Kilman’s thoughts which are almost as demented as Septimus’s in her seething anger at being ugly and poor and clumsy.

Miss Kilman goes into Westminster Abbey to share her misery with God and some other sniffling worshippers. Elizabeth, 17, loves being out in the busy streets and takes a bus down the Strand, across into Fleet Street and bravely ventures towards St Paul’s Cathedral, all the way thinking a confused, immature 17-year-old girl’s thoughts about what she might do when she grows up.

The passing backwards and forwards of omnibuses is a link to the Smiths, Septimus lying on the sofa in their lodgings while Lucrezia tries to fix a hat at their table, a hat for Mrs Filmers’ married daughter, Mrs Peters. For half an hour he comes out of his madness and actively helps Rezia design the little hat and she is deliriously happy but then Mrs Filmer’s grand-daughter arrives to deliver the paper, and Rezia gives her a sweet then accompanies her back to her flat, leaving Septimus by himself, and he has tremors of relapse.

When she comes back he suggests she gets out all his mad writings, the letters and poems and diagrams and drawings, and burns them all, but she wants to keep them, sorts them and ties them with string.

At this point the indefatigable Dr Holmes arrives downstairs and Rezia runs down to head him off but he insists on blundering up to see his ‘perfectly well’ patient, which triggers a panic attack. Because Septimus associates the doctors with Sr William’s air of polite coercion, of being confined to an asylum.

So as soon as hears Holmes’s voice, Septimus quickly considers various methods of suicide and, as Dr Holmes enters the room, throws himself out the window and down onto the area railings. So that he is impaled on the railings. Yuk.

What happens next is odd because instead of having hysterics, Rezia is given a sweet drink by the doctor and feels relaxed and has happy visions, presumably a powerful tranquilliser. And it isn’t made clear whether Septimus is dead or badly or lightly injured. Mystery.

The ambulance carrying Septimus whizzes past Peter Walsh out walking and he’s struck by how civilised the notion of the traffic pulling aside to let is pass is, after the chaos of the Orient (i.e. India). Peter reacts a bit deliriously, with a hint of the Woolf madness, which is disguised as his temperamental over-susceptibility.

6pm (p.137)

Peter arrives back at his hotel, a sad sterile place, his mind awash with memories of Clarissa on his many visits to Bourton. He is upset when these fantasies are punctured by a one-line note she’s had sent round which simply says ‘Heavenly to see you!’ So conventional, so middle-aged and disappointing. And he reflects on his affair with Daisy, her mad love for him, his jealousy, the whole thing utterly inappropriate and disreputable, as he gets dressed for Clarissa’s party. No wonder she married Richard.

He goes down to the hotel dining room where he is shy and sits at a table by himself. After dinner he gets into conversation with the Morris family, being old Mr Morris, young Charles Morris, Mrs Morris and Miss Elaine Morris.

Evening falls over the city. Peter realises he’ll go to the party simply because he wants a gossip and to hear the latest talk about the future of India. As night falls the streets light up and fill with lively young people. Peter prides himself at not being at the Oriental Club surrounded by harrumphing old bloaters, but sitting on a cane chair outside his hotel near the Tottenham Court Road enjoying the sense of youth and possibility.

He pays a penny for an evening paper, reads the cricket scores, then leaves it on the table and sets off walking through Bloomsbury, heading south and west to Westminster and a lovely description of people stepping out their houses and into cabs, of windows lighting up, the sound of gramophones through windows on this hot June evening, till he arrives at Clarissa’s house and braces himself.

The servants, Lucy bustling about front of house and Mrs Walker, the very harassed cook and old Mrs Barnett, Ellen Barnett, helping the grand ladies off with their cloaks. Mr Wilkins a sort of butler/announcer, hired specially for parties.

Clarissa is terrified that the party is not going well, people are not mingling, are standing around tutting about the draught (Peter desperately wishes he hadn’t come, he knows nobody). But then more guests arrive and it starts to go. Clarissa stands at the main door to the drawing room greeting them all as they’re announced by Wilkins. Lady Bruton has come and Clarissa is genuinely relieved. Then she is amazed that Sally Seton has gatecrashed, happened to be in London, heard about it etc. She is now Lady Rosseter with five strapping sons!

And then the Prime Minister, an amusingly non-descript little man. Peter Walsh, an outsider from India, is appalled at the snobbery of the English, and then amused to see pompous Hugh Whitbread dancing attendance like a toady. And then he is touched with how old but gracious Clarissa looks in her green dress, effortlessly managing her guests. And there’s pages of her dealing with each of these guests, maybe based on real people (?), certainly an interesting variety.

Coincidentally (it’s a small world; well it’s a big world actually, but fiction is a small world) Sir William Bradshaw arrives, with his wife. He’s the pompously expensive nerve doctor who was so fundamentally useless to Septimus, and who Lucrezia was so relieved to escape. Interestingly, Clarissa once went to him with a problem and had the same experience, being impressed by his tone and dignity, but everso relieved to escape back out onto the street. Lady B explains they are late because they were just leaving when someone rang up Sir William to tell him a sad case of his had just killed himself (p.162).

Aha. So Septimus succeeded in killing himself. I was wondering whether I’d have to look it up on the internet to find out what happened (as I had to Google it to find out what happened at the end of ‘Jacob’s Room’).

News of this death affects her badly and Clarissa withdraws into a little side room. She feels it has a special message, is meant as an act of defiance. (Surely in this we can hear Woolf defending madness and suicidal ideations as something more than just illness, but a rebellion, a defiance, suicide as a kind of treasure).

And Clarissa’s response is to find Sr William somehow, obscurely, evil. When she met him professionally she felt the evil of compulsion in him, forcing his patients at their most vulnerable time. It awakens in her a deep terror:

Then (she had felt it only this morning) there was the terror; the overwhelming incapacity, one’s parents giving it into one’s hands, this life, to be lived to the end, to be walked with serenely; there was in the depths of her heart an awful fear.

Because:

Somehow it was her disaster — her disgrace. It was her punishment… She felt somehow very like him — the young man who had killed himself. She felt glad that he had done it; thrown it away. (p.165)

Mad though this sounds, I know exactly what she means. It feels profoundly true.

Meanwhile Sally and Peter sit together and have a long chat about old times. He is 53, she is 55. This I found very moving because I’m about their age and at parties have sat and talked to friends I met at university when we were 20 and full of dreams and now look at each other, grey and middle-aged and worried about our children. That feeling comes over very well indeed.

And Peter confides that he never got over his love for Clarissa, the rest of his life was a throwing-himself-away. Sally sympathises and insists she comes to stay with him in her huge house in Manchester and meet her husband, a vastly wealthy mine owner who started out a working man himself and brought himself up by his shoestraps.

And they both watch young Elizabeth, looking radiant, walk over to her doting father who tells her how beautiful she is. Sally says she’s getting up to go and talk to them. And then the novel ends on a kind of bombshell, which I shall quote in its entirety. Sally leaves him and:

‘I will come,’ said Peter, but he sat on for a moment. What is this terror? what is this ecstasy? he thought to himself. What is it that fills me with extraordinary excitement?
It is Clarissa, he said.
For there she was.

Nothing will happen between them, we know too much about them to sentimentally think that. But it is like colour in the composition of a painting. It ends on a tremendous upbeat of something we have come to realise is much more potent than love or memory, something much deeper.

It really is about as beautiful and moving as a novel can possibly be.

Thoughts

1. ‘Mrs Dalloway’ is not at all the avant-garde, modernist text I’d been led to believe, but a remarkably conventional, normal novel, easy to read and understand.

2. Mrs Dalloway is a posh, upper-class wife of a Conservative MP, a classic lady who lunches, it’s not clear that she’s ever done a day’s work in her life, just orders around her servants and suppliers. As such she has 0% of my sympathy. My sympathies are always with people who work for a living and not the parasitic upper classes which throng so much classic bourgeois fiction. But not having much sympathy for her doesn’t at all prevent me from appreciating the craft and beauty of the novel.

3. As you know I had a severe abreaction to Jacob’s Room, a book which gave me a powerful sense of mental illness barely controlled. It is symptomatic of this book’s greater sense of control and order that the mental illness is still there but has been channelled into just one character, isolated and delimited, as it were. Still that figure is a major player, the opposite pole to Clarissa, Septimus Smith. Into this character Woolf was able to pour all her demons, the voices talking in her head, and the calm and practical planning how to kill yourself.

The whole world was clamouring: Kill yourself, kill yourself, for our sakes. But why should he kill himself for their sakes? Food was pleasant; the sun hot; and this killing oneself, how does one set about it, with a table knife, uglily, with floods of blood — by sucking a gaspipe? He was too weak; he could scarcely raise his hand. Besides, now that he was quite alone, condemned, deserted, as those who are about to die are alone, there was a luxury in it, an isolation full of sublimity; a freedom which the attached can never know. Holmes had won of course; the brute with the red nostrils had won. But even Holmes himself could not touch this last relic straying on the edge of the world, this outcast, who gazed back at the inhabited regions, who lay, like a drowned sailor, on the shore of the world.

A note in the Oxford University Press edition of ‘Mrs Dalloway’ tells me that Woolf suffered mental collapses in 1895, 1904 and 1913 to 1915; that she tried to kill herself in 1895 (aged 13) and again in 1913 (aged 31). In 1922 when she felt another attack coming on, she went to see a Harley Street specialist who was, predictably, useless.

So the novel dramatises her two states – being a posh sensitive woman in London, and being mentally ill unto making practical plans to commit suicide – in its two central characters. It is a bipolar book.

And the two halves are brought together in the climactic party in a very complex, moving, disturbing, but sympathetic way, as Clarissa sorts through her complex response to Lady William’s mention of Septimus’s suicide. It is really a wonderfully complex working of a stricken subject and her horrible experiences into a beautiful work of art.


Credit

‘Mrs Dalloway’ by Virginia Woolf was first published by the Hogarth Press in May 1925. References are to the 2004 Vintage paperback edition.

Related links

The Virginia Woolf Society holds a DallowayDay event on the Saturday before or after the third Wednesday in June.

Related reviews

The 80s: Photographing Britain @ Tate Britain

Linton Kwesi Johnson

Johnson isn’t mentioned anywhere in this exhibition but thinking about the 1980s made me dig up favourite playlists, and I ended up writing most of this review listening to his great 1979 album, ‘Forces of Victory’.

Introduction

Sometimes you wonder whether exhibitions at the Tate galleries are really about art at all any more, but aren’t more like polemically woke sociology lectures, with art, photography, sculpture and other evidence used merely as illustrations for a familiar set of well-worn, ‘radical’ themes.

This exhibition contains rooms or sections devoted to immigration, race, race riots, racism, the Black Experience, the Black Body, the Queer Black Body, feminism, identity, gender, colonialism, imperialism, immigration, sectarianism, pollution and environmentalism. As you can see, these look like the topic tabs on the Guardian website or a list of fashionable humanities subjects at any modern university.

As to the lived experiences of anyone not a left-wing activist, not a feminist, not Black or Asian, and not gay or lesbian during the 1980s, these are less in evidence than the subjects I’ve just listed and where they do appear, it’s mainly to be mocked and ridiculed.

I visited with a friend and we loved the first room because it is packed with a Greatest Hits selection of political issues from the 1980s: photos of anti-racism demonstrations (by Syd Shelton and Paul Trevor), of Rock Against Racism gigs, of the Miners Strike (by John Harris and Brenda Prince), of Greenham Common (by Format Photographers), protests about Section 28 and AIDS, all leading up to the Poll Tax riots – yes, all the usual suspects, shot in vivid black and white, which took us both back to our heady student days.

But as the exhibition progressed her enthusiasm turned to puzzlement and then irritation and, by the end, she was so fed up with being lectured about identity and gender and race and queer Black bodies that she gave up. She described it as the worst exhibition we’ve been to this year and I came to agree. If you read all the wall captions (as I’m addicted to doing), it felt like being trapped in a lift full of woke humanities lecturers all talking at the same time.

‘No title’ from the series Strictly by Jason Evans (1991) Tate © Jason Evans

The central problem with this exhibition

I naively thought the exhibition would be a portrait of the 1980s, that the curators would make an honest attempt to give a balanced account of this troubled decade and the wide range of social and cultural changes it witnessed, as captured in photography – that it would be a visual history of the decade.

Very wrong. What the curators have done is to make a personal selection of just the radical photographers from the period who covered what they think are the important issues (then, as now), the disruptors, the radicals, the subversives. And, as mentioned, although they initially touch on many of the obvious issues of the time (the Winter of Discontent, Thatcher, Miners Strike, unemployment, inequality, Greenham Common, poll tax) this is not where the curators’ hearts lie.

The curators are far more concerned with contemporary woke issues of gender and ethnicity than with genuinely trying to reach back and understand what it was like to live through the 1980s, as my friend and I (and, obviously, scores of millions of other Brits) did.

The result is an exhibition which feels top heavy with the woke curatorial concerns of our own day – gender, race, colonialism, immigration, inequality – but feels like it misses out important aspects of the decade in they’ve chosen to cover.

While the wall labels are fairly neutral and factual about the political history (Callaghan government; winter of discontent; days lost to strikes; Thatcher elected; deindustralisation; working class poverty; anti-nuclear protests) the actual exhibits are utterly one-sided, with a plethora of photos, pamphlets and posters decrying the authorities, the police, the government, for their racism, lack of concern for the poor, inequality, tax and regulation changes to benefit business and the middle classes, and so on.

While all these criticisms are true, they fail to take account of the key fact of the decade which is that Mrs Thatcher was, and continued to be, phenomenally popular with about 40% of the population. Here’s how many voted for her three Conservative administrations.

  • 1979: 13,697,923 (44%)
  • 1983: 13,012,316 (42%)
  • 1987: 13,760,583 (42%)

Lots and lots of people thought Britain had gone down the drain in the 1970s, thought the Labour governments of Wilson and Callaghan were in hock to the trade unions who, despite all their promises, seemed to be continuously on strike, while all manner of public services collapsed – that Britain was becoming a failed state or Third World country.

In this narrative, Thatcher not only saved Britain from endless decline under Labour, but went on to remodel the entire economy, letting unprofitable nationalised industries go to the wall while privatising other state monopolies in order to enable international investment (for example, modernising the dire railway network or allowing greater innovation in telecoms). The deregulation of the City of London allowed British banks and investment companies to compete more aggressively around the world and become phenomenally successful. Selling council houses to their owners (as per the 1980 Housing Act) allowed millions of poor people to feel the pride and security of owning their own home for the first time. And, on the patriotic front, her staunch attitude in the Falklands War and victory against quite daunting odds, allowed tens of millions of Brits to feel proud about their country again.

I personally disagree with a lot of this or can point out the obvious criticisms of most of these policies – but 40% of the population enthusiastically agreed with it, saw the world this way, voted for her, and hero-worshipped her.

And my point is simple: None of that is in this exhibition. This is an exhibition of radical feminists, Black and Asian civil rights marchers, gay rights activists, of campaigners against race hate and misogyny and unemployment and nuclear weapons etc. It is like a collection of all the fringe groups you find at a Labour Party conference vying for the attention of those in power who are always too busy to listen, today as 40 years ago.

The large number of people who were relieved by the breaking of union power, the end of permanent strikes, the people who made fortunes in the City or found their pay doubling in newly privatised companies or suddenly owned a home for the first time in their lives or felt the government was (unlike labour) seriously backing them in the war against the IRA, all the people who benefitted from the booming North Sea oil industries in Aberdeen or working on the rigs, all the people who were encouraged by the new spirit of entrepreneurism to set up their own business and prospered – none of them are here.

To be clear, and to bend over backwards for the curators, the main wall labels which introduce each room and give the historical facts behind each theme are broadly objective historical summaries, albeit of the predominantly leftish issues they’ve chosen to discuss. It’s the selection of photos and objects which are unrelentingly one-sided, tendentious and biased and it is, of course, these which make the main impact on the visitor.

For example, the exhibition includes a photo by Anna Fox of this jokey cutout of Mrs Thatcher which has been splattered with orange or something. But to really convey the atmosphere of the decade it should have included many more images of Thatcher, including some of the terrifying ones of her at her most domineering. Now I think about it, the show could have had an entire section devoted just to images of Mrs Thatcher, showcasing all the photographic and image manipulation styles of the day, from adoring Conservative posters to satirical photomontages by Peter Kennard or photos of the Spitting Image puppet of her. That would have been interesting, funny and thought provoking but no. Just this image of the cutout spattered with soup. Disappointing. Missed opportunity. Photos of the woman who dominated a decade.

Friendly Fire, target (Margaret Thatcher) by Anna Fox 1989 © Anna Fox

The relentlessly left-wing perspective of the curators quickly comes to feel so narrow. Can it really be true that every single photographer, photographic studio or collective during the entire 1980s was vehemently left wing, concerned only with radical causes, with ‘pushing boundaries’ and ‘subverting’ all the usual suspects (gender norms, heteronormative stereotypes, racist myths etc)? Can the entire decade‘s photographic output really have been so narrow, repetitive and obsessed with the same handful of left-wing themes and issues?

Facts about the exhibition

This is a vast show: ten rooms, 16 themes, over 70 ‘lens-based artists and collectives’ are represented by over 550 art works and archive items: lots of ‘radical’ photography magazines such as Ten.8 and Camerawork; lots of posters, leaflets, handouts, Greenham Common posters and flyers and badges, anti-racism pamphlets, posters etc. It is massive. Prepare to be overwhelmed and exhausted.

No reasonable human being can be expected to fully process and assess 550 photos and objects at one go – so the curators are either assuming people will go back a second time (probably a good idea) or will hop from one section to another, or will skim through and not give anything enough attention (all too likely).

The negative affect of this jumble-sale overcrowding is exemplified by the sections devoted to the black-and-white documentary photography of two photographers I revere, Tish Murtha and Chris Killip. I raved about their depictions of dirt-poor working class communities when I first saw them in shows at the Photographer’s Gallery entirely devoted to their work, when they had a devastating impact on me. Tish Murtha, in particular, was a photographer of genius.

But here, half a dozen of their (outstanding) photos are wedged in between 6 by someone else, 9 by someone else, 4 by someone else, 7 by someone else, a section about Asian identity, another about the Black Experience, some stuff about pollution in Devon, a sequence of seaside snaps… and so on and so on until the whole thing becomes a blur. They both deserve a better environment and more respect.

Critch’ and Sean by Chris Killip (1982) Tate © Chris Killip

It’s the difference between walking through a landscape, stopping to give every tree and plant time and attention – and driving through the same landscape in a car, noticing the occasional standout feature against the general blur.

Chronological slippage

The exhibition is so huge that it overflows its own boundaries. It is everywhere referred to as ‘The 80s’ and yet the first photo dates from 1976 and the last one from 1993. That’s a 17-year spread, not a ten-year one. It feels bloated chronologically as well as content-wise.

Exhibition structure

At one point I drafted a long section comparing my own lived experience of the 1980s (including going on protest marches as a student, then living in the Brixton depicted in some of these photos, clubbing, protesting, walking through one of the Brixton riots etc) with the depictions given here but it got too long and irrelevant. Instead here is a boiled-down version of Tate’s own exhibition guide (which you can read in full here).

As you can see, the opening sections tick all the boxes, contain interesting facts and seem set fair to give you an interesting historical overview of the decade. It’s only slowly that the curators’ obsession with race and gender become more prominent and you begin to wonder, and then become irritated by, the absence of so many other things.

First a list of what is in the exhibition. Then my list of what, in my opinion, has been omitted.

1. Documenting the decade

Protests and riots from the 1976 Grunwick strike through the Miners Strike, National Front rallies met with anti-racist demonstrations, the Clash playing their famous Rock Against Racism gig in Victoria Park, the election of Mrs Thatcher and the ideology of Thatcherism, Greenham Common (obviously), the poll tax riots.

Paul Simonon of the Clash at a Rock Against Racism concert, Victoria Park, East London, April 1978, photo by Syd Sheldon/White Riot, in The 80s: Photographing Britain at Tate Britain

2. Anti-racist movements

The 1948 British Nationality Act allowed everyone born in Britain or its Empire to become a ‘Citizen of the United Kingdom and Colonies’ and tens of thousands came to fill job vacancies. Regrettably, sometimes tragically, this triggered hostility and racial discrimination, marking the beginning of decades of racist rhetoric, rioting and civil rights activism. 1968 Enoch Powell’s river of blood speech. By the mid-1970s, the far-right, anti-immigration National Front was England’s fourth largest political party. So the show has many photos of their rallies and protests by opponents (and posters, badges and flyers), including quite a few about the so-called Battle of Lewisham which took place on 13 August 1977.

Darcus Howe addressing the anti-racist demonstrators, Lewisham, 13 August 1977 by Syd Shelton (1977) Tate © Syd Shelton

Was 1977 in the 1980s? No. Why is it in the exhibition? Because this isn’t an exhibition about the 1980s: it is an exhibition about radical causes the curators support, and which had their origins in the 1970s.

Also, a bit of digging revealed that quite a few of the black-and-white protest photos in this first room are loans from the National Portrait Gallery a mile up the road. Handy. And they’re not just dusty old photos from the archive but are, in fact, star entries in the National Portrait Gallery’s Schools Hub. This includes the Darcus Howe photo and the photo of Jayaben Desai by David Mansell.

3. The Miners’ strike

In March 1984, the National Coal Board announced plans to close 20 collieries, putting 20,000 jobs at risk. The National Union of Mineworkers, led by Arthur Scargill, responded with a series of year-long strikes. Observed across England, Scotland and Wales, the strikes put industrial issues and workers’ rights on the national agenda. Many dramatic photos including the famous one of a mounted policeman wielding a baton against photographer Lesley Boulton at the Battle of Orgreave, 1984.

4. Greenham Common

On 5 September 1981, a group of women marched from Cardiff to the Royal Air Force base at Greenham Common in Berkshire. The site was common land, loaned to the US Air Force by the British Government during the Second World War and never returned. The group called themselves Women for Life on Earth. They were challenging the decision to house nuclear missiles at the site. When their request for a debate was ignored, they set up camp and the site became a women-only space. The camp lasted for 19 years although it was after only 6 years, in 1987, that Soviet President Mikhail Gorbachev and US President Ronald Reagan signed a treaty which paved the way for the removal of cruise missiles from Greenham.

Greenham Common, 14 December 1985 by Melanie Friend (1985) reprinted 2023. © Melanie Friend, Format Photographers

I smiled when the curators proudly explained that Gorbachev subsequently paid tribute to the role ‘Greenham women and peace movements’ played in this historic agreement as if they, the curators, were partly responsible for its achievements. And I also liked the implication that you should always believe what a Russian politician says.

The massive political exhibition which filled the same Tate Britain galleries before this, Women In Revolt! Art and Activism in the UK 1970 to 1990, also featured an entire room about Greenham Common. My friend jokingly suggested that maybe every Tate exhibition should have a section devoted to Greenham Common: The Pre-Raphaelites and Greenham Common. Victorian sculpture and Greenham Common.

5. Poll Tax

The community charge, commonly known as the ‘poll tax’, was introduced by Margaret Thatcher’s Conservative government in 1989 in Scotland, and 1990 in England and Wales. This flat-rate tax on every adult replaced previous taxation based on property value. The tax was accused of benefitting the rich and unfairly targeting the poor. The national anti-poll tax movement began on the streets of Glasgow and led to a series of anti-poll tax actions across the UK. Many demonstrations saw clashes between police and protestors, and resulted in rioting. The fallout from the tax triggered leadership challenges against the prime minister and, in 1990, Thatcher resigned. In 1991, following vehement national opposition, John Major’s Conservative government announced the poll tax would be replaced by council tax.

So news photos of anti-poll tax marches, some of which turned into riots, ‘ordinary people’ carrying placards, burning cars in Trafalgar Square. Ah, those were the days.

Nidge and Laurence Kissing by David Hoffman (1990) © David Hoffman

6. The Gay Rights Movement

In 1967, the Sexual Offences Act partially decriminalised sexual acts between two men. It was the result of decades of campaigning but did nothing to address the discrimination gay and lesbian communities continued to face. So photos of LGBTQ+ people protesting for equal rights.

In 1981 the UK saw its first identified cases of AIDS. By 1987 the HIV/AIDS epidemic was a global health crisis. The public focus was largely on gay men who were being infected in much greater numbers than the general population, fuelling anti-gay rhetoric in politics and the press. Queer activists organised in opposition to the resulting homophobia, as well as Conservative ‘family values’ campaigns. Do you remember some media labelling it the gay plague? Bigotry on a national scale. Lots of photos of anti-homophobia and AIDS awareness marches.

7. (Political) Landscapes

This is the first and, as it turns out, pretty much the only section which isn’t about political protest, gender awareness and Black issues. But don’t imagine it’s pretty photos of the British Isles. It, also, takes a heavily ‘theoretical’ i.e. politicised approach to its subject.

This section points out how the entire concept of ‘landscape’ is socially, culturally and politically constructed, and how the British tendency to see the countryside as cosy and reassuring often conceals the way the land has been a battlefield for rights to common land and to roam.

Also, in line with the gloomy focus elsewhere in the show, there’s an emphasis on landscapes as places of deindustrialisation and ruins, and as degraded by pollution and fly tipping.

That said this room contained some of the best sets of images, neither part of the obvious political issues of the first few rooms nor of the gender and race obsession of the second half of the exhibition. Having walked through the whole exhibition twice I found myself gravitating towards this room for the understated, sometimes elusive quality of its photos.

For example, I liked the red river sequence by Jem Southam, a set of 12 colour photos of the country around a stream in west Cornwall. None of them individually are ‘great’ photos but the fact there’s 12 of them collectively creates a great sense of location and strangeness. And the dramatic black-and-white study of a standing stone on Orkney by Albert Watson.

Orkney Standing Stones by Albert Watson (1991) © Albert Watson. Courtesy Hamilton Gallery

But the pull of politics is unavoidable. Nearby are upsetting images from the Troubles in Northern Ireland, namely The Walls by Willie Doherty, and the disturbing series Sectarian Murder by Paul Seawright. This records the sites where murdered bodies were found, after the bodies had been removed and they had returned to their normal, litter-strewn banality.

Even this apparently bucolic image by Paul Graham contains the tiny detail of a Union Jack high up in the tree which, in its little way, throws the shadow of 800 years of history across the green fields and blue sky.

Union Jack Flag in Tree, Country Tyrone by Paul Graham (1985) © Paul Graham

8. Remodelling history

Extensive coverage of radical feminist photographers Jo Spence and Maud Sulter who set out to ‘challenge photography’s sexist and colonial past’, and its relationship to class politics.

Remodelling Photo History: Revisualization by Jo Spence (1982) Tate © The Jo Spence Memorial Archive

There’s a surprising amount about these two figures, Spence and Sulter, including a separate section on Spence’s collaboration with artist Rosy Martin to develop photo-therapy. As with other Tate exhibitions, maybe there’s so much of it simply because Tate owns their archive and needs a pretext to display a decent amount of their work. (We’ll see the same is true of the unexpected prominence given to an American photographer, Lyle Ashton Harris, at the end of the show. Tate owns them so this is a prime opportunity to dust them off and display them.)

9. Black women

There’s a separate section devoted to Maud Sulter who’s quoted as saying, ‘Black women’s experience and Black women’s contribution to culture is so often erased and marginalised’, and so set about rectifying this in series of photos of her dressed up in period costume looking like an extra from Bridgerton.

Zabat, Terpsichore, 1989 from Zabat by Maud Sulter (1989) © Estate of Maud Sulter. All rights reserved, DACS/Artimage 2023. Image courtesy of Street Level Photoworks, Glasgow

10. Image and Text

A section on the use of text in photos, texts designed to amplify or undermine the central image. There is much citing of the artist and theorist Victor Burgin who, the curators tell us, was very influential during this period. He’s represented by some of his series of large, poster-sized photos which include ironical texts, titled ‘UK 76‘. 1976? But I thought this was an exhibition of photography from the 1980s? No. As with all the photos of anti-National Front marches, the Battle of Lewisham and so on, the curators bend their own rules and boundaries when it suits them. (As with the Jason Evans photo at the top of this review, and Albert Watson’s Orkney Standing Stones, both from 1991 and so spilling over the other end of the boundary.)

This section also included some big poster-sized images of rubbish new townscapes with official-sounding quotes from brochures pasted on top (which I liked very much). And it’s the section with the satirical images of office workers by Anna Fox (with mockingly ironic text) and Kroll’s sequence of posh chaps in private clubs (with mockingly ironic text) which I’ll describe below.

10. Reflections of The Black Experience

This is the biggest room in the exhibition. It takes its name from ‘Reflections of the Black Experience’ which was an exhibition held at Brixton Art Gallery in 1986, commissioned by the Greater London Council’s Race Equality Unit. It was followed by D-MAX: A Photographic Exhibition in Bristol.

Both exhibitions played an important role in the development of the Association of Black Photographers, which is now called Autograph ABP. Established in 1988, Autograph’s mission was to advocate for the inclusion of ‘historically marginalised photographic practices’. Working from a small office in Brixton, the agency delivered an ambitious programme of exhibitions, publications and events. Autograph is now one of my favourite small galleries in London, which I’ll discuss below.

There’s lots in this big room, including photos of Brixton from the later 1980s, when I lived there. The display that made the most impact on me was the brilliant series of Handsworth self portraits. This project was set up by Derek Bishton, Brian Homer and John Reardon in which they set up a makeshift studio in Handsworth, a multicultural part of Birmingham, and invited people to take self portraits of themselves. Over 500 people took part and the joy of people messing about, as solo shots, in pairs or larger family groups, is infectious. Once again, though, as throughout the show, works are included from outside the nominal time range because, well, they’re good.

Ting A Ling, from Handsworth Self Portrait, 1979 © Derek Bishton, Brian Homer and John Reardon

11. (Political) Self portraiture

You might have thought this would feature a fascinating range of self portraits by people across society throughout the ten years of the 1980s but no, this is Tate and so only a handful of social groups really count, namely radical feminists, Black activists and LGBTQ+ people. In the curators’ words:

In the nineteenth century, photography was a valuable tool for colonial powers. Ethnographic images of Indigenous Peoples and landscapes were distributed through postcards and magazines. They ‘othered’ subjects and created racist stereotypes that legitimised the mission of empire. The photographs on display here challenge this colonial gaze. They present nuanced, multi-dimensional representations of Black and Asian British selfhood.

So the self portraits in this section are entirely concerned with subverting imperialist, colonialist stereotypes. They link up with the series in the last room by Grace Lau of him or herself dressing up as types from the decade in order to subvert gender norms etc.

From the series ‘Interiors’ by Grace Lau © Grace Lau 1986

Black activists or gender activists. Little attempt to consider the myriad other types of self portrait taken outside these areas, by anybody else, at any other part of the decade.

12. Community

This room hosts series from half a dozen photographers who went to live with communities around the UK to share their experiences and create accurate depictions. Most are in black and white with a 100% left-wing focus on poverty, crappy housing, unemployment, aggressive policing and racial stereotypical. It includes outstanding photos by Chris Killip which, for some reason, didn’t hit me as hard as when I saw his one-man show at the Photographers’ Gallery. I think being set next to the work of 3 or 4 other photographers (for example, the equally as good Sirkka-Liisa Konttinen) doing more or less the same, attenuated all of them.

13. Colour photography

A room full of big, blaring, gaudy colour photos. Apparently, Britain’s first exhibition of photography taken on colour film was Peter Mitchell’s 1979 show at Impressions Gallery in York. During the 1980s technological developments continually improved the quality of colour photography and this room brings together sequences of giant colour photographs by Martin Parr, Paul Reas and Tom Wood. Because they are almost entirely very unflattering photos of very ordinary white people I came to think of it as the Chav Room or the White Trash Room (fuller explanation below).

14. Black bodyscapes

In case you didn’t get enough Blackness in the opening room about anti-racist protests, in the room about Black women or the massive room about The Black Experience, here is a room devoted to the Black Queer Experience. The assembled photographs of Rotimi Fani-Kayode, Ajamu X and Lyle Ashton Harris ‘explore masculinity, sexuality and Blackness’.

Fani-Kayode was described by Ajamu X as ‘the most visible, out, Black, queer photographer’ of the 1980s’. Ajamu X’s desire to document ‘the whole of Black queer Britain’ has been dubbed ‘Pleasure Activism’. Harris describes his photographs as a celebration of ‘Black beauty and sensuality’. The photos of Ajamu (black and white) and Fani-Koyode (moody, shadowy colour) are, in their different ways, staggeringly impactful.

Body Builder in Bra by Ajamu X (1990) Tate © Ajamu X

15. Celebrating subculture

The final room. You might have thought that a documentary look at the ‘subcultures of the 1980s’ might have covered some of the movements closely associated with ever-changing fashions of pop music such as post-punk, industrial music, Goths, New Romantics, synthpop and, later, Madchester, acid house, raves and so on. These affected how people dressed, thought about themselves, danced, partied, affected not just styles of music but graphics, album art, posters and many other types of visual content.

But no. None of that is here. Tate curators only know two subjects, race and sex, gender and ethnicity, and so they ignore all the pop cultures I’ve listed. Instead, at the mention of ‘subculture’ their thoughts immediately go to gender issues, to LGBTQ+, and to the furore surrounding the notorious Section 28 of the Local Government Act.

The wall labels go into great detail about how Section 28 prohibited local authorities from ‘promoting homosexuality’ and triggered a wave of protest from gay and lesbian communities. They tell us how Section 28 forced many LGBT groups to disband and saw literature depicting gay life removed from schools and libraries, but that it also galvanised the Gay Rights movement. People took to the streets in a series of marches and so, with thumping predictability, the exhibition ends with lots of photographs of people protesting, marches, banners etc, very much as in the first room, or the Greenham Common room, or the Black Experience room.

If you’re maybe a little bored by the subject of gay activism, tough, because not far away there’s photos by Tessa Boffin who ‘subversively reimagines literary characters as lesbians’, while nearby Grace Lau ‘documents members of various fetishist sub-cultures’.

To be crystal clear, none of this is ‘bad’ in itself, some of it is very good. It’s just that by this stage the visitor who’s been reading all the wall labels is exhausted by the curators’ obsessive harping on just the same two or three subjects to the exclusion of everything else.

End of exhibition summary

I suppose I could stop here, having given you a good summary of what there is to see and my own negative response to it. And you might be wise to stop reading here. But several things triggered me so much I needed to work them through in print.


Omitted subjects

As explained, my friend and I got increasingly frustrated as we looked for evidence of the other, non-political, non-woke aspects of the 1980s which we and millions like us like us experienced. Without trying too hard I made a list of the domestic and international events, music, style and commercial changes which I associate the decade with.

Take sport. There’s nothing about sport at all. Apparently there was no sport during the 1980s and no sports photography. Even if you wanted to ‘keep it Tate’ and make sport as political as possible, they could have mentioned the disastrous Bradford City stadium fire, the legislation which followed forcing all football grounds to become all-seated, and the resulting accusations that the sport was losing its working class fanbase and becoming embourgeoisified. And there were lots of other sporting events, highlights and scandals. But not a hint here.

Pop music. There’s one photo of The Clash performing at a Rock Against Racism gig in Victoria Park and that’s it. Nothing else: no industrial rock, post-punk, synth pop, New Romantics, no Smiths and, at the end of the decade, no Madchester, no ecstasy, no raves, no ambient music. There’s a wall of style magazines at the end, sections on the impact of, for example, i-D magazine, but somehow the curators’ focus purely on design manages to omit the extraordinary output of a decade many consider the greatest era in British pop history. Where’s Wham for God’s sake?

This was the decade when MTV arrived in the UK (1981) and its reliance on pop videos changed the dynamic of how people consumed pop. Same with cable TV generally, and the arrival of Sky TV (1984) with its crazy aerials. I appreciate these aren’t photographic but someone must have taken photographs of them and of this huge transformation of the cultural and visual landscape. Not here.

No jazz. No classical music. None. They didn’t exist during the 1980s or if they did, no one took any photos of them. Whereas I remember in the early 1980s transitioning away from pop music altogether and listening to the likes of Courtney Pine, Loose Tubes or Andy Shepherd. OK they’re not photographers, but it felt like a big cultural shift at the time and surely someone took photos of them.

World music same. Lots of young people got fed up with boring old rock music and sought new sounds from around the world. WOMAD (World of Music, Arts and Dance) was founded in 1980 and the first WOMAD festival was held in Shepton Mallet 1982. Nothing here.

Live Aid, remember that, Saturday, 13 July 1985? Not here, not a whisper, not so much of the event itself, but as the invention of really epic mass charity events which it invented. It was based around images because of Bob Geldof’s response to Michael Buerk’s reporting of the Ethiopia famine. I know that’s TV reporting, but there were lots of photographs of it (of the famine and of the concert). Why is Greenham Common included but Live Aid, which was a vastly bigger event and, arguably, more socially transformative, not? All curators are feminists. 39 iconic photos of Live Aid at London’s Wembley Stadium

Fashion photography? No. None. There’s a wall about style magazines but this is chiefly about the magazine design itself: I saw nothing recording the drastic new looks which appeared in the early 1980s, the New Romantics, Blitz nightclub, big hair, big shoulder pads which became crazy fashionable. According to this exhibition, never happened. 38 Iconic ’80s Fashion Photos.

The royal wedding On Wednesday 29 July 1981 Prince Charles married Lady Diana Spencer. It was a huge social and media event. If you think about it, royal photography is a specialised area or genre all to itself. As with Mrs Thatcher, the curators could have done an intellectually reputable section on how royal images are created, curated, marketed and disseminated, mocked and satirised. 70 Rare Photos From Princess Diana’s Wedding.

The Brighton bombing on 12 October 1984. See the relevant photos by brilliant photojournalist John Downing.

Architecture The 1980s was the great decade of postmodernism in architecture with its flagship building, Lloyds of London. Surely there were photographers specialising in the built environment across the UK and in particular this completely new look which swept across Britain? Not according to this exhibition. A Spotter’s Guide to Post-Modern Architecture.

Foreign reporting? Live Aid was of course a response to the Ethiopian famine and, in particular, the work of photojournalist Mohamed Amin, but there is no photography of events outside the UK in this exhibition. I take the point that the curators decided to limit their scope to the UK, but images of the major foreign stories of the decade were published in the UK and many taken by British photographers. So why aren’t they included here? How Mo Amin Inspired Change in Ethiopia

Chernobyl? No. No British photography of any aspect of it.

The Mujahideen in Afghanistan? Signature images of the decade were the reports on the evening news by some BBC or ITV journalist wearing a keffiyeh or pakol hat while Islamic freedom fighters fired off a Stinger missile in the background. Did no British photographers take any photos of this ten-year war? If they did, why are they excluded from this exhibition? To take one example from hundreds, the Afghan War photos of Scottish photographer David Pratt.

The fall of the Berlin Wall, 9 November 1989. That was a massive, world historic event with photos and footage beamed into every home. The curators can quote Gorbachev when it suits their agenda, when he’s praising the Greenham women, but on none of the other vast issues of the 1980s, namely the collapse of communism and the Soviet Union in which he was the prime actor.

Photos linked to film and theatre, glitz, actors, red carpets – forget Hollywood, just here in the UK? No. Didn’t happen during the 1980s. None here.

One of the biggest domestic stories of the decade was the deregulation of the City of London, nicknamed the Big Bang, which transformed the worlds of finance, banking and insurance, and made lots of people very rich, with far-reaching consequences for the British and maybe global economies. There’s text about it in the room labels but not a single image. Surely someone took photos of the changing culture in the City of London? No? Why not?

North Sea oil? Nada. Did no British photographer take photos of oil workers, Aberdeen, the creation of the refining infrastructure in that boom town? No photographer made a project of recording all this?

And what about The Falklands War (2 April to 14 June 1982) which had a seismic impact on British society and politics – footage of ships setting sail, news photos of battles, muddy paratroopers yomping through the long grass, looking shattered after a firefight, guarding nervous Argentinian captives, the celebrations when the ships arrived back in Portsmouth or Southampton? Even, if you are a Tate curator and insist on taking a left-wing view of the war, surely there was a world of anti-war photos, posters, and what not. Here are 30 Photographs From The Falklands Conflict they could have borrowed from the Imperial War Museum. But no, nothing, zip. Zilch.

Summary

Can you see why I became increasingly dismayed, and then irritated, by how many issues, events, music and fashion styles, new industries and technological innovations that were absolutely central to the 1980s the Tate curators left out because they didn’t fit their handful of woke concerns?

Omitted ethnic groups

As I’ve shown there is plenty of stuff about Black photographers, Black resistance, Black identity, Black photographic practice, Black selfhood, Black representation and much more and yet there are other ethnic groups in the UK – where are they?

From the series Revival, London by Roy Mehta (1989 to 1993) Courtesy of the artist and L A Noble Gallery

It’s not that extensive coverage of Black issues is ‘wrong’, it’s that the curators’ monomaniacal obsession feels like it comes at the neglect of all the other issues, types of people, professions and experiences alive in 1980s UK. Here are some wall labels to recreate the experience:

Frustrated by the misrepresentation of Black people in British mainstream media of the period, Zak Ové used his camera to challenge this visual discourse.

Dave Lewis‘s photographs of Black British communities in South London emphasise the diversity of experiences within these communities.

Marc Boothe‘s photographs sought to challenge traditional documentary practices and introduce viewers to a ‘Black aesthetic’.

Suzanne Rodan‘s candid shots capture moments of everyday life within Black and South Asian communities in 1980s London.

In Impressions Passing Roshini Kempadoo manipulates photographic prints to reflect how racist imagery is perpetuated in modern media.

Ajamu‘s portrait photographic series Black Bodyscapes focuses on intimate sexual desires.

Autoportrait is a series of nine self-portraits which challenge the under-representation of Black women in British fashion and beauty magazines.

Magenta Dress with Pink Tulips by Joy Gregory (1984) Courtesy of the Artist © Joy Gregory. All rights reserved, DACS

To be fair, there’s also quite a lot in the early rooms about the Asian experience, starting with the very first photos of the 1976 Grunwick strike which was triggered by Asian women walking out of the Grunwick Film Processing Laboratories in Dollis Hill. In that first room there are photos of Asians protesting about racism, against police violence (again, from the 1970s). The ‘Representing the Black Experience’ room also contains images of many Asians. The Communities room has some quieter photos celebrating Asian communities, religious festivals and so on.

Outside police station, Bethnal Green Road, London E2, 17 July 1978. Sit down protest against police racism, 1978 by Paul Trevor © Paul Trevor

I smiled when I saw the section devoted to Indian-born Canadian photographer Sunil Gupta. Gupta also has a wall dedicated to him at the Barbican exhibition of contemporary Indian art, and had no fewer than three sections dedicated to him in the Barbican’s epic exhibition about Masculinity.

Why is Sunil Gupta so popular with art curators? Because he is Asian and gay and so ticks two boxes in the curator’s diversity and inclusion checklist. No exhibition of 1980s or ’90s photography dare be without its Sunil Guptas. Now, you may love Gupta’s work but I found the photos at the Barbican and again, here, very meh. He is represented by ‘Pretended Family Relationships which juxtaposes portraits of queer couples with the legislative wording of Section 28 in order to subvert the blah blah bah. They seemed very average to me, but they are gay activism, so he’s in!

Anyway, despite the Asian presence in many of the photos, the word ‘Asian’ appears precisely once in the exhibition guide while the word ‘Black’ appears 27 times. Draw your own conclusion.

And were they any other ethnic groups in the UK in the 1980s? Apparently not. I tell you a word which doesn’t appear anywhere in the exhibition, which is ‘Jew’. Apparently there were no Jewish photographers in Britain during the 1980s and no Jews to photograph. In the ‘Community’ room there are (inevitably) Black communities, Asian communities and working class communities, but no Jewish community. Didn’t exist or no one bothered to photograph it.

In the same spirit of omission, there are no photos by or of Chinese, Arabs or Muslims. They either didn’t take photographs during the 1980s or have been omitted by the curators. Why? Hispanic communities, all the Brazilians in Stockwell, or European immigrants like the Poles, or the Somalis of Streatham, just to mention ethnic communities I live near? No. Nada.

Because feminism, Black and queer is where the money is. It’s where the academic courses and academic careers are. When I flicked through the exhibition catalogue and saw chapters titled ‘Feminist praxis’ and ‘Challenging colonialism’ I couldn’t help laughing. That’s where the money is, kids. Specialise in those areas and you’ll never be unemployed. Unlike being a trawlerman or a steel worker, being an expert in feminist praxis or post-colonial theory is a career for life.

Underground Classic (John Taylor) by Zak Ové (1986) © Zak Ové

Why Yanks?

Remember I was irritated by the lack of coverage of central events of the 1980s like Chernobyl, Afghan War, the fall of the Berlin Wall and so on while it seemed fine to have stuff about strikes or race riots from the 1970s? You could argue that those pivotal events are omitted because they’re in some sense foreign / happened abroad – which is why I was irritated by the presence of an American photographer, Lyle Ashton Harris, in the exhibition.

Why, you might well ask, are nine photos by American photographer Lyle Ashton Harris (born and works in New York) of American subjects – including one titled ‘Miss America’ – included in an exhibition about Britain and British photographers in the 1980s? Why is one entire wall devoted to four massive self portraits of the American photographer wearing bits of ballet costume?

Constructs 10 to 13 by Lyle Ashton Harris (1989) Tate

Because 1) Harris is Black and queer and, with Tate curators, Black or Queer trumps all other considerations, including the criteria of their own exhibition.

Because 2) America is like heroin to art curators. Everything ends up being about America.

And because 3) it turns out, after a bit of digging, that Tate owns these big Lyle Ashton Harris photos and so, like the room devoted to extensive coverage of Jo Spence and Maud Sulter – whose archives Tate also owns – it’s a good example of the way exhibitions are created around what a gallery already owns, or what curators can cheaply get their hands on, rather than an accurate, objective exploration of the nominal subject matter.

Conclusion

I hope you can see now why I told you this is very much not a photographic history of Britain in the 1980s – it is a selection of ‘radical’ left-wing, feminist, politically committed Black and Asian or LGBTQ+ photographers who were working from the late 1970s through to the early 1990s, some of whose work touches on social or political issues from the time, but a lot simply doesn’t. Unless you consider gay pride or feminism or anti-racism as uniquely 1980s phenomena – which, of course, they very much weren’t and aren’t.

Photos of the white working class

Amid the radical deconstructions of colonialism and the subverting of heteronormative stereotypes and celebrations of the Black Queer Body, there are some powerful photos of British working class life. Two of the best photography exhibitions I’ve ever been to were of Tish Nurtha and Chris Killip at the Photographers’ Gallery in Soho, and both are represented here by half a dozen or so photos of supernatural power. In this vast show they were, however, swamped by so many other images along similar lines, and so neither of them had the devastating power of their Photographers’ Gallery shows.

There’s a set of vividly squalid colour photos by Paul Graham of the unemployed waiting like souls in hell in smelly 1980s job centres. Ken Grant took grim photos of working class people in and around Liverpool. There’s an excellent set of black-and-white photos of working class white people on the Meadow Wall Estate in North Shields taken by Finnish photographer Sirkka-Liisa Konttinen.

Apparently it was in the 1980s that the phrase poverty porn was first used and, somehow, having so many series of stark black-and-white photos of poor people living in squalid or sad circumstances, demonstrated the law of diminishing returns. They began to seem rather samey. Again, this feels like an example of poor curatorship.

Photos of the white middle class

And what about the middle class people, the political, cultural and demographic centre of the United Kingdom? Not just the 13 million who consistently voted for Mrs Thatcher but all the people who made up the bulk of the population: the accountants or lawyers, doctor and dentists, people running family businesses or working at big corporations, the police and fire and ambulance services, people who worked in local government, the social services, in thousands of care homes, in the hundreds of thousand of charities, ordinary people? Not Black or gay or radical feminists or horribly impoverished Brits, but run-of-the-mill, ordinary people like the hundreds I saw visiting this exhibition, people like you or me?

Well, it was hard to not to conclude that these kinds of people, what you could call the white bourgeoisie, appear in this exhibition solely to be mocked and ridiculed. Anna Fox is represented by a series titled Work Stations which satirises people working in London offices. These are horribly vivid colour shots of ordinary office workers captured in the most awkward and unflattering poses, accompanied by ironic captions pinched from business articles and magazines in order to take the piss out of them and their values. Here’s a prime example. The text under the photo reads ‘Fortunes are being made that are in line with the dreams of avarice’, from Business magazine 1987.

Work Stations, Café, the City. Salesperson by Anna Fox (1988) © Anna Fox. The Hyman Collection, Courtesy of the Centre for British Photography

Next to Fox is the Old Master of colour photodocumentary, Martin Parr, represented by works from his ‘Cost of Living’ series (1986 to 1989). Parr felt the kind of people he mixed with, the comfortably-off middle class, had been systematically under-represented by 1970s and ’80s photography, so he set out to depict them. So he simply went along to art gallery openings, garden parties, Conservative party fetes, and photographed the people he saw. Because it’s Parr deploying his customary, unforgiving colour technique, all these people come out looking extraordinarily awkward and ugly, just like the people in the Anna Fox series.

The mere fact that an expert on contemporary photography believed that this huge tranche of the British population, the middle classes, the inhabitants of Middle England, was under-represented in his medium speaks volumes about the narrow ideological focus of the photography of his day. And the way both Fox and Parr’s photos are described as ‘satirical’ confirms how this huge class of people have become, as pictorial subjects, almost an outsider group in their own country.

Installation view of the ‘satirising the white bourgeoisie’ corner at ‘The 80s: Photographing Britain’ at Tate Britain, with the Anna Fox sequence at the back, Martin Parr on the right. Photo © Tate (Jai Monaghan)

Near to the Parr ‘mocking the middle classes’ photos is a selection of 9 photos from the 26 in the famous series Gentlemen by Karen Knorr. Knorr was given permission to photograph the very posh members of the most exclusive gentlemen’s clubs in London’s St James’s district. Beautifully staged and shot, she then ironically undercut the images with texts taken from news reports and parliamentary speeches (just as Fox had done with her office workers). Again, the aim is to mock and satirise.

It’s hard to avoid the conclusion that all of the depictions of the English middle classes in this exhibition are associated with irony and satire. Now, nobody takes the mickey out of the Black or Asian or women subjects – they are all portrayed as dignified or joyous or righteously angry. But posh white people? Look at the ugly, rich, privileged wankers air kissing, answering phones, stuffing their faces!

The Colour Photography room gives interesting explanations of the technological developments which made colour photography cheaper and better – but it, also, flays its white subjects mercilessly. It includes another series by Parr, his famous seaside scenes, The Last Resort, in which everyone is captured in bright colour with unforgiving candour.

Next to them are half a dozen similarly merciless photos of very ordinary people in Welsh supermarkets by Paul Reas. Like Parr’s photos, like Fox’s series, these seem so pitilessly unflattering as to be actively cruel. The Photography of Cruelty. Or maybe just mockery. Look at the poor white chavs.

Hand of Pork, Caerphilly, South Wales by Paul Reas (1988) © Paul Reas. Martin Parr Foundation

White trash, Black gods

The humiliation of white chavs and poshos in Parr and Fox and Wood’s photos is emphasised by the way that, in the rooms directly before and after them, Black people are depicted in stylish black-and-white photos which make them look dignified, noble or even godlike.

In the room before the white chavs is this set of serious, searching portraits made by Pogus Caesar. They were taken on an Ilford HP 5 camera using 35mm film to achieve a rich grainy effect as he travelled round the country taking shots of people in the street, as far as I can see, solely Black people. They’re really good. Stylish and atmospheric, they dignify and enrich their subjects.

Installation view of ‘The 80s: Photographing Britain’ at Tate Britain showing ‘Into the Light’ by Pogus Caesar (1985 to 89) (photo by the author)

The room after the white trash room is the one titled ‘Black Bodyscapes’, the one featuring photos by Rotimi Fani-Kayode, Ajamu X and Lyle Ashton Harris, photos which ‘explore masculinity, sexuality and Blackness’. I dare say these are important issues to the curators but to the ordinary visitor what you see is a set of spectacularly buff Black male bodies. Wow! Gorgeous, hunky men in prime physical condition, what’s not to lust after?

The Golden Phallus by Rotimi Fani-Kayode (1989) © Rotimi Fani-Kayode / Autograph ABP. Courtesy of Autograph ABP

(I first encountered both Rotimi Fani-Kayode and Ajamu X at the drolly titled A Hard Man is Good to Find! exhibition at the Photographers’ Gallery, and loved them both. I dare say they’re exploring this issue and subverting that stereotype but they are also extraordinarily sexy pictures of beautiful male bodies.)

Anyway, it’s impossible to miss the stark contrast between the dignified Black people in Pogus Caesar, the stunning Black nudes of Fani-Kayode and Ajamu X, and the 15 or so images of the pale, pasty, fat, badly dressed white people captured by Wood, Parr and Reas in the Chavs Room. Step into the Black room to be thrilled. Then back into the white room to be appalled. This isn’t a contrived comparison. The two rooms are right next to each other. They make for an unavoidable and extremely powerful visual contrast.

Autograph ABP versus Tate

Autograph ABP in Hoxton specialises in photography by Black photographers from around the world and is maybe my favourite small gallery in London. Everything I’ve ever seen there has been outstanding. It is a centre of photographic excellence and I was interested to read about its history in the ‘Representing the Black Experience’ room here in this show.

But it also made me wonder, why do I love Black photography at ABP but bridle at the exact same work when it is shown here in Tate Britain? Three reasons. 1) The attitude of the curators. At ABP it is taken for granted that the work is by Black photographers. There may be some stuff about combatting racism, if relevant, but quite often the labels just explain the specifics of the particular project. The ABP curators treat their artists and visitors with respect, as if they’re grown-ups.

Whereas Tate curators can’t stop haranguing their visitors about the horrors of racism and colonialism and the white gaze, as if we’re first year arts students who need to have all the evils of the world explained to us in a tearing hurry. The photographers’ Blackness or queerness becomes the primary thing about them.

This is what I meant be saying the Tate curators treat their artists and works as specimens in extended lectures on their handful of woke topics, about the evils of capitalism and colonialism and racism and sexism, explaining all these issues in words of one syllable or less as if it’s the first time their visitors had ever heard of such things.

So I’m not bridling at the photographers or their works. In other contexts I’ve really loved many of them. I’m reacting very negatively to the patronising tone of Tate’s curators.

2) Individually, many of the works here are great but something negative happens when a load of works by different photographers are all bunched together in a room demonstrating a thesis. So, for example, when I first saw Rotimi Fani-Kayode’s photos, I read the captions about the queer sensibility and undermining stereotypes of Black male sexuality etc, but I also responded to their plain weirdness. To what they look like. These are strange, disconcerting, haunting images which trigger responses beyond the verbal or easily expressed. They did what all good art does which is take you to strange places in the imagination, open doors you didn’t know were there.

But here, lumped together in one room, they feel subservient to the curators’ concerns to lecture us all about the Black Queer Body. This is what I mean by turning art into specimens, pinned like butterflies to a board to make a point.

3) Bulk. Volume. Sheer number. Same point I made about Tish Murtha and Chris Killip. Seen by themselves, their work felt seismic. Bundled together with half a dozen photographers working on the same subject (dirt-poor white communities), and making the same point (Thatcherism, inequality, poverty = bad), a lot of the power and individuality leached out of them.

Message to the curators

  1. Less is more.
  2. If you’re going to group lots of artists together, doing it by their most obvious feature (feminists, Black, queer, working class) tends to diminish their individuality and impact. Think of more imaginative, left-field ways of arranging them. Try to create surprises.
  3. If you claim your exhibition is about a subject, please make an effort to make it fully and adequately about that subject and don’t just restrict it to the handful of woke subjects dear to your hearts plus chucking in some archives you happen to own. Make it about the world, not just the same three curator obsessions (gender, ethnicity, class).

Yet another conclusion

So you can see why, by the end, I was fed up of being lectured about the wonders of queerness and feminism and the Black body and post-colonial identity, and deeply disappointed that so much of the actual history of the 1980s, the global incidents or – just to restrict it to the UK – the key social and media events, and the changing face of technology, music and style which meant so much to me personally, had simply been left out.

This is why the friend I went with thought it was the worst exhibition we’d visited all year: because of its glaring omissions of loads of the things we liked and remembered about the 1980s, because of its systematic rewriting of cultural history to be only about radical left-wing artist-activists, because of its flagrant political bias, because of its mockery of the white middle class which (I’m afraid) I belong to (just like everyone else I saw visiting this show) but, above all, because of its terrible, terrible narrowness of vision.

Well, I’ve given you a strong flavour of my own negative reaction to the thing, but I’ve also tried to give an accurate summary of the exhibition structure, objective summaries of all the rooms, and a good selection of the images, along with the curators’ own words.

This is a massive, exhausting and deeply problematic exhibition – but there’s lots of very good stuff in it and maybe you’ll have a completely different response. Go along and make your own mind up.


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Suspended States by Yinka Shonibare @ Serpentine South

Introducing Yinka Shonibare CBE

Yinka Shonibare CBE is a British artist of Nigerian extraction. He works in both London and Lagos. He was born in London in 1962. In 2013 he was elected to the Royal Academy. In 2019 he was made a Commander of the Order of the British Empire (CBE). One of the most interesting things in the exhibition is the fact that Shonibare has made ‘CBE’ part of his name. To quote the curators:

The artist includes CBE as part of his professional name as a gesture towards his complex relationship to British honours and the systems they represent.

In 2021 Shonibare co-curated the Royal Academy Summer Exhibition. In 2004, he was nominated for the Turner Prize. In 2008 and in 2010, his first public art commission, Nelson’s Ship in a Bottle, was displayed on the Fourth Plinth in Trafalgar Square. The Tetley commissioned Shonibare’s ‘Hibiscus Rising’, a major public memorial in Leeds for David Oluwale, which opened in November 2023.

His work has been bought by collections around the world including Tate and V&A in London, the National Museum of African Art, Smithsonian Institute, Washington and the Museum of Modern Art, New York.

Some Shonibare pieces were until recently on display in the Royal Academy’s Entangled Pasts exhibition.

Installation view of ‘Woman Moving Up’ by Yinka Shonibare at the Royal Academy’s ‘Entangled Pasts’ exhibition (2023). Note 1) the human figure 2) the West African patterned fabric. Courtesy the artist and James Cohan Gallery, New York. Photo © Royal Academy of Arts, London / David Parry © Yinka Shonibare CBE RA

The Shonibare work that I’m familiar with is characterised by 1) life-size human figures, sometimes looking like mannequins, sometimes like statues and 2) bright and vibrant colours used in decorative styles.

Suspended States

This is is Shonibare’s first solo exhibition in London for over 20 years and features two new large-scale installations: Sanctuary City and War Library. The Serpentine South Gallery has been divided into four distinct rooms or spaces for the show.

1) In the foyer or first room is ‘Wind Sculpture in Bronze IV’. Then come 2) ‘The War Library’ 3) ‘Sanctuary City’ and 4) ‘Decolonised Structures’. Off to one side is a room detailing Shonibare’s extraordinarily prolific work with art charities and groups he’s set up or hosts, either in London or Nigeria, but this is more part of his biography and career than art as such. It contains a packed timeline and an interesting video but no art works. Also gathered in the first few spaces are half a dozen works from his quilt series about African birds and cowboys angels. So to take them in order:

Wind Sculpture in Bronze IV

Straightaway the visitor is introduced to Shonibare’s swirling forms and colourful designs. Wind Sculpture in Bronze IV captures a giant billowing cloth, hand-painted in turquoise, yellow and orange Dutch wax pattern.

Installation view of showing ‘Wind Sculpture in Bronze IV’ in ‘Suspended States’ 2024 by Yinka Shonibare CBE at Serpentine South (photo by the author)

The wall label gives us some interesting cultural history which is that, back in imperial times, Dutch traders copied colours and designs from batik work in their colonies in the Dutch East Indies (what is now Indonesia). They adapted the patterns for mass production and sold them in West Africa. Here they became very popular and copied by local craftsmen and manufacturers who produced their own versions for sale within the British economic sphere. Slowly these colours and patterns became associated in the Anglosphere with West Africa, as they are today. But their true history reveals the complex cultural and economic entanglements of a globalised world.

(PS: A similar work, Material (SG) IV, has just been installed in the gardens of Dulwich Picture Gallery in South London.)

Three sets of quilts

1. The African Bird Magic quilt series

Large quilts of bold design and bright colours featuring realistic portrayals of endangered birds such as the Sokoke Scops Owl, Mauritius Fody and Comoro Blue Vanga into which are inserted traditional African tribal masks.

Installation view of ‘Suspended States’ 2024 by Yinka Shonibare CBE at Serpentine South showing two of the ‘The African Bird Magic’ quilt series © Yinka Shonibare CBE 2024. Photo © Jo Underhill. Courtesy Yinka Shonibare CBE and Serpentine

I liked these because I like, and value, birds. I have birdfeeders in my garden and plant insect-friendly flowers to encourage the insects the birds eat. And anyone who knows 20th century western art has been groomed to like African masks from their inclusion in so much Modernist art.

Apparently these pieces are intended to:

explore the degradation of the African environment through colonial industrialisation and its disastrous effects on ecology

But I didn’t get that one little bit from the actual works, which are pretty and decorative.

2. Creatures of the mappa mundi

Same kind of treatment, different subject. Large framed quilts depicting mythical creatures sourced from illustrations found in the largest surviving medieval map, Hereford Cathedral’s Mappa Mundi (late 13th and early 14th century). This one depicts the Bonnacon, a bull-like creature known for defending itself with caustic excrement.

The Bonnacon from ‘Creatures of the Mappa Mundi’ (2018) by Yinka Shonibare CBE. Commissioned by Meadow Arts. Courtesy Yinka Shonibare CBE and Goodman Gallery, Cape Town, Johannesburg, London and New York; James Cohan Gallery, New York; and Stephen Friedman Gallery, London and New York. Photo © Stephen White & Co.

I like medieval art and am a big fan of Northern renaissance art, but I wasn’t particularly taken with these. They seemed clumsy next to the delicacy and care of the originals.

Again, these pieces suffer from what you could call ‘over explanation’, as Shonibare claims that they reference ‘the history of xenophobia in European history and the resulting extinction of species’.

‘The map reflects our contemporary concerns of fear of the stranger or “other” which often leads to xenophobia. The depictions of extinct creatures of legend are a reminder that we may yet become extinct if we do not take care of our environment.’

If you say so, but none of that is visible in the actual work. This heavy freight of meaning has been projected onto it.

3. The Cowboy Angels woodcut series

The Cowboy Angels woodcut series depicts cowboy tropes from the American West with the text ‘Angel’ hovering above. Each cowboy is portrayed with angel wings and an African mask superimposed over their face. The subject matter is obviously messing with the idea of ‘the cowboy’ but are also interesting technical experiments with the woodcut print medium. Shonibare creates cuts in the printed paper to reveal Dutch wax printed cotton and collages each work with Financial Times newspaper as a commentary on economic dynamics connecting countries and ‘to signify power relations.’

He made the series in 2017 partly in response to the election of Donald Trump. I wonder what he’ll do if Trump gets re-elected this year.

Installation view of ‘Suspended States’ 2024 by Yinka Shonibare CBE at Serpentine South showing one of the Cowboy Angel woodprints © Yinka Shonibare CBE 2024. Courtesy Yinka Shonibare CBE and Serpentine

This sounds like a great idea but I didn’t actually like the works which lacked something, some kind of inspirational zing.

These quilts and prints are all in alcoves or side rooms. The three main exhibition rooms are devoted to three large installations. These are (in order):

1. The War Library

Two walls of a big white gallery are entirely given over to floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, which are packed, unsurprisingly, with books. The immediately noticeable aspect of these is that a) they are all different sizes b) from what you can see of the spines, they are all decorated with Shonibare’s trademark colourful patterns and c) the title of each one is given in gleaming gold lettering.

Installation view of ‘Suspended States 2024’ by Yinka Shonibare CBE at Serpentine South, showing ‘The War Library’ © Yinka Shonibare CBE 2024 (photo by the author)

The exhibition guide booklet which you pick up at the start of the show gives more detail, telling us there are 5,270 books bound in Dutch wax print cotton and that along the spines of 2,700 books is gold lettering naming conflicts and peace treaties. Some of the books are left without lettering, indicating events that are yet to take place.

On the white table are a couple of computer monitors and keyboards where visitors are meant to access further information created by the extensive research conducted by a team of 10 specialists which informed The War Library. When I visited both monitors were being used by toddlers who, given full access to the internet, were playing video games.

All galleries have security people in every room. In big old institutions like the National Gallery these are little more than security guards to protect the pictures. In somewhere like the Serpentine these ‘gallery hosts’ are often young, well educated, sometimes art students or budding artists themselves. I always ask them what they think, since they have inside knowledge of exhibitions and their views are younger and more au courant than mine.

In this way I discovered, to my surprise, that the young women gallery hosts at the Judy Chicago exhibition up the road at Serpentine North thought that Chicago was now a corporate brand, an international business whose second-wave feminism had little or no relevance to women today. And at the Shonibare, I ended up having quite long conversations with no fewer than three of the hosts who shared their views and also the kind of things visitors asked them.

Turns out that quite a few visitors to this room asked the host whether this was an actual library and kept wanting to take the books off the shelves and read them. They had to have it explained to them that it was an art installation and, in some cases, what an art installation is. Wouldn’t do them any good as the objects are real books but bought second hand for their shape and size and the actual contents bear no relation to the covers and titles.

Also the titles are not in alphabetical order but completely random, with no sequence or meaning, which offended the obsessive-compulsive librarian in me.

As to the idea that a library of books about war is some kind of radical idea, I was genuinely puzzled. Some 26 universities in the UK offer War Studies courses, each of which will, of course, have libraries packed with books on the subject.

And as to the idea that researching these (fairly recent) wars required ten assistants, I was very puzzled since we nowadays have a thing called the internet which, at the click of a switch, will show you things like:

Hard to see how it can have taken ten assistants to go through these easy-to-find lists and extracting the ones he wanted. Would have taken me an hour or less. And which ones did Shonibare select? Well:

The War Library does not aim to provide a comprehensive list of every conflict and peace process, instead it provides an insight into the global and historic reach of colonisation and the role it has in shaping society today.

Ah. So wars where non-white peoples massacre each other are downplayed while anything involving white imperialists is foregrounded. In other words, this is a partial, biased and propagandist view of history. I wonder if such recent conflicts as the Syrian civil war, the Libyan civil war, the Yemen civil war or the Sudan civil war feature, or if they are excluded because they don’t fit the blame-imperialism-for-everything narrative.

The guide goes on to quote Shonibare:

‘We’ve had so many of these conflicts, and we’ve had so many peace treaties… Do we learn anything from them, or do we just ignore them, or do we just carry on the catastrophe?’

I was amused when the gallery host who I was chatting to herself volunteered the view that this is such a trite question it doesn’t even merit an answer. The logical problem in that statement is who is the ‘we’ he’s talking about? I think all of us progressive gallery-goers can probably agree that war is hell and that we’ve thought as much since we were at school. The trouble is that our fabulously peaceful opinions don’t stop people like the Sudanese Armed Forces (SAF) under Abdel Fattah al-Burhan and the paramilitary Rapid Support Forces under Janjaweed leader, Hemedti, from tearing their country apart for personal gain. What they know is that military force does win victories, allowing you to seize land, goods and plunder, and so is worth waging. What people who start wars know is that people do win wars and that the gains for the winner are worth the cost (for the leaders, at any rate). So it’s got nothing whatever to do with whether we have learned anything, and everything about whether Third World paramilitary leaders have learned from the past: and what they’ve learned is that war pays. Does that help explain the world a bit, Yinka?

One last point: in the same quote he says that the work ‘raises questions about human memory and amnesia’. Really? You think that our current discourse and media and conversations have forgotten about imperial wars and have been erased by some kind of amnesia? Really? I wonder whether he’s heard of the three Imperial War Museums and the National Army Museum, which fall over themselves to document and apologise for imperial wars, of the History Channel or history documentaries on the BBC, Channel 4 and Channel 5, or of the hundreds and hundreds of books, documentaries and exhibitions which pour off the presses and fill the media with accounts of British imperialism, the injustices of colonialism, the horror of slavery, and so on and so on.

Far from there being some kind of social amnesia about these issues, it seems to me that we are so oversaturated with them that, as in other European nations, the dominance of the progressive woke narrative has triggered a sizeable backlash among ordinary citizens who are fed up of being told that they or their parents are racist, imperialist exploiters and that their countries only owe their wealth to the slave trade / imperial exploitation etc.

I’m not taking sides. Just pointing out that the claim that these are forgotten issues strikes me as ludicrous.

2. Sanctuary City

The second installation is in the Serpentine’s biggest gallery which has been blacked out for the purpose. It consists of small-scale replicas of a dozen or so buildings from around the world which have acted as sanctuaries to refugees, in the historic past and the present.

Installation view of ‘Suspended States 2024’ by Yinka Shonibare CBE at Serpentine South, showing the ‘Sanctuary City’ installation © Yinka Shonibare CBE 2024. Photo © Jo Underhill. Courtesy Yinka Shonibare CBE and Serpentine

These are:

  • Arima Boys Government School, Arima, Trinidad And Tobago
  • Amnesty International, London, England
  • Basmah Shelter, Cox’s Bazar, Bangladesh
  • Beaulieu Abbey, Hampshire, England
  • Bibby Stockholm, Dorset, England
  • Cathedral Of Saint Elijah, Aleppo, Syria
  • Chinese Methodist Church, Hong Kong, China
  • Chiswick Women’s Refuge, London, England
  • Covenant House, Mexico City, Mexico
  • Hôtel Des Mille Collines, Kigali, Rwanda
  • Notre-Dame, Paris, France
  • Peter Mott House, Lawnside, New Jersey, USA
  • Pu’uhonua O Hōnaunau, Hawaii
  • St Patrick’s Cathedral, Dublin, Ireland
  • Temple Of Hephaestus, Athens, Greece
  • Tokeiji Temple, Kanagawa, Japan
  • United Nations HQ, New York City, New York, USA

They can be grouped into categories such as ‘recent buildings’ (Hotel des Mille Collines, Rwanda, and Refuge’s headquarters in London), ‘sites of worship’ (Notre Dame Cathedral, Paris and the Chinese Methodist Church, Hong Kong) and ‘ancient sites’ (Temple of Theseus, Greece and the Tokeiji Temple, Japan).

As you can see, this is an interesting and thought-provoking list but the names aren’t actually visible anywhere (the exhibition wall labels give only the installation titles with no explanations). They’re only available if you’ve picked up the 15-page exhibition booklet.

Deprived of this knowledge, what you actually see is a collection of model buildings, all painted matt black on the outside with one or two lights to illuminate the interiors which are brightly decorated in Shonibare’s characteristic colourful patterns.

Installation view of ‘Sanctuary City’ at ‘Suspended States 2024’ by Yinka Shonibare CBE at Serpentine South, showing models of Notre Dame in Paris (left) and the UN building in New York (right) © Yinka Shonibare CBE 2024 (photo by the author)

According to the earnest guidebook:

The installation highlights the basic human need for safety and shelter in a time of increasing regional conflict and socio-economic disparities. Shonibare describes shelter as ‘one of the most pressing political concerns right now.’

According to the gallery host I chatted to about it, several of the toddlers who’ve visited with their parents have asked if they are dolls’ houses. This made me chuckle and immediately wish the models had been populated with little human figures, refugees in blankets cowering inside while supporters and opponents of hosting refugees held protest marches outside, waving banners and shouting through megaphones.

Shonibare thinks he’s ‘addressing’ contemporary issues but that’s really another way of saying ‘reacting to the news’. In this respect this installation is a bit like reading newspaper headlines in the Daily Mail or the Guardian about refugees. Yes, I see the problem and I had sort of heard about it since it has indeed been one of the central subjects of British politics for the last ten years or so. Well done for spotting this. And your solution is?

3. Decolonised Structures series

Shonibare has selected seven or eight of the statues of British historical figures which can be found all around London and Shonibared them, decorating them with his trademark Dutch wax colours and patterns.

‘Decolonised Structures’ (2022 to 2023) by Yinka Shonibare CBE. Commissioned by Sharjah Art Foundation. Courtesy Yinka Shonibare CBE and Goodman Gallery, Cape Town, Johannesburg, London and New York; James Cohan Gallery, New York; and Stephen Friedman Gallery, London and New York. Photo © Stephen White & Co.

These are immediately more visually pleasing, striking and memorable than a library of books or a collection of architects models, which explains why they are used in all the promotional materials, press releases and posters for the exhibition. Also, despite the efforts of Shonibare and the curators to insist that they raise vital questions about colonialism and the legacy of empire blah blah blah, they are, essentially, comic.

They reminded me of the anti-capitalist protests of 2000 in Parliament Square (how did that go? have they overthrown capitalism yet?) whose sole outcome was that some wag cut a slice of turf and placed it on a statue of Winston Churchill so as to give him a punk Mohican. And how this image was itself taken up by street artist Banksy who made a copy of it, which he turned into prints, which can be bought for (unsigned) £10,500 to £16,000 or (signed) £70,000-100,000. There’s your artists overturning capitalism for you.

Back to the Shonibare works, the pamphlet devotes quite a lot of space to potted biographies of all these old imperial figures, including a lengthy explanation of who Queen Victoria was, for anybody who’s never heard of her before. I couldn’t help laughing when the guide carefully explained that the period of Victoria’s reign ‘is often referred to as the “Victorian Era”‘. When I read that I realised maybe the guide is for schoolchildren, a sentence like that is certainly pitched at school age. At which point it dawned on me that maybe the entire exhibition is pitched at schoolchildren: certainly the ‘messages’ are GCSE level –war is bad; we must help refugees; imperialism was dreadful. Reinforced when I read the potted biography of Winston Churchill who, it explains with the same level of condescension, was Prime Minister during the Second World War, ‘when he delivered powerful speeches’. This isn’t really BBC Bitesize level.

Installation view of ‘Decolonised Structures’ in ‘Suspended States 2024’ by Yinka Shonibare CBE at Serpentine South, showing statues of, from left to right: Clive of India, Kitchener of Khartoum and, remind me who the grumpy-looking bald guy on the right is? © Yinka Shonibare CBE 2024 (photo by the author)

I liked very much the luminous colours and patterns the statues have been covered with. Nowhere in the guide does it mention that they’re very trippy. I remember the hippy era, and then the 90s period of raves and E, when this world of swirling multicoloured patterns overlaying old statues would have gone down nicely to the accompaniment of the right medication.

I also noticed the careful way this patterning omitted a) the hilts of the swords some figures wear, which have been very carefully gilded, and b) the scrolls some figures hold, which have been carefully left a statue-sand colour. I guessed this was to draw attention to the use of Force (swords) and bogus Legality (the scrolls) by imperialists to impose imperial control over huge areas of the globe.

Detail of the statue of Sir Henry Bartle Frere showing how the scroll in his hand has been deliberately excluded from Shinobare’s flower power treatment in ‘Suspended States 2024’ by Yinka Shonibare CBE at Serpentine South (photo by the author)

Pondering this display and reflecting on all the other exhibitions and works you see these days mocking and criticising the British Empire and colonialism, I couldn’t help thinking it’s an easy subject, an open goal, like shooting turkeys in a barrel. Who’s going to object? All these figures are long dead and gone. Criticising the current rulers of Nigeria or any other African country, dwelling on the horrors of African civil wars or genocides, addressing the role of Islamic fundamentalism in Nigeria and across North Africa, the interventions of the Wagner Group, the neo-colonialism of the Chinese in Africa – all the interesting, difficult current issues in Africa, these are never the subject of contemporary art works. A lot more complicated, lot more risky. Keep it simple, keep it safe. Blame whitey.

What to do with old statues?

I got talking to the gallery host in the statue room and we had an interesting discussion about various aspects of them, for example the swords and scrolls thing I mentioned above. But she said in her opinion the most interesting question the display raises is, What should we do with these old statues of imperialist criminals / historical heroes (depending on point of view)?

She told me the work was party triggered as a response to the famous chucking into Bristol harbour of the controversial statue of Bristol slave trader Edward Colston on 7 June 2020. The Colston statue was recovered and triggered an extended debate about what to do with it. This has concluded with the damaged statue, in its graffitied state, being put on permanent display in the M Shed museum since 2021.

So what should we do with the hundreds of statues of British imperial figures which litter London, which were erected when they were heroes of British history and the British Empire, and who the public discourse, like a vast oil tanker, is slowly turning against in light of the unstoppable flood of revisionist, anti-colonial historical interpretations?

Pull them down? Hide them away? Put them in a specially-commissioned museum of imperial criminals?

The gallery host told me that Shonibare’s own opinion is that they should be left in place but given information panels which explain their true roles (i.e. Shonibare and woke progressives’ interpretation of their true roles). To take them down and store them, or even put them on display in a museum, would be to remove them from public spaces and so contribute to the general historical ‘amnesia’ which we’ve seen him deploring elsewhere.

Rorschach tests

The gallery host I chatted to about the dolls houses made the point that all three installations are like blank canvases onto which people project their own concerns, something she’s picked up from their questions and comments. Wars, refugees, imperialism are the Big Subjects of the three installations and people bring their own preconceptions and then project them onto the works. The works trigger people’s pre-existing opinions. Oh isn’t war awful. We must do something about these poor refugees. Wasn’t the British Empire dreadful.

Picking up on her point I suggested they’re like Rorschach tests, like the abstract shapes the Swiss psychologist Hermann Rorschach developed in the 1920s i.e. a hundred years ago, to detect psychological problems in patients who (he discovered) projected onto these abstract shapes the personal issues and obsessions they were suffering from. One way of thinking about them…

Venice Biennale

Shonibare will feature in the official Nigerian Pavilion at the 60th International Art Exhibition, La Biennale di Venezia, from 20 April to 24 November 2024, one of eight intergenerational artists exhibiting in the ‘Nigerian Imaginary’. This, apparently, contemplates the current moment and presents a ‘defiant future’ for Nigeria. As I read this I couldn’t help thinking that, out in the real world, while artists and art critics spin their progressive fantasies, the ‘defiant future’ is happening now.


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The Kraken Wakes by John Wyndham (1953)

The Kraken Wakes is told in retrospect, by a man living in a drowning world, when most of England is under water due to the melting icecaps, looking back over the events which slowly led up to this catastrophe [in fact the action of the book seems to cover about ten years], who tells us he is setting out to piece together an account of the events leading up to the catastrophic present.

It began so unrecognisably. Had it been more obvious – and yet it is difficult to see what could have been done effectively even if we had recognised the danger. Recognition and prevention don’t necessarily go hand in hand. We recognised the potential dangers of atomic fission quickly enough – yet we could do little about them. If we had attacked immediately – well, perhaps. But until the danger was well established we had no means of knowing that we should attack – and then it was too late. However, it does no good to cry over our shortcomings. My purpose is to give as good a brief account as I can of how the present situation arose – and, to begin with, it arose very scrappily….

Like Day of the Triffids, Kraken is a first-person narrative told by a polite and well-meaning, middle-class man, in this case named Mike Watson. He’s a journalist with the (fictitious) English Broadcasting Corporation, which, in a recurring joke, people are always mixing up with the BBC. The fact that both stories are told by very much the same kind of young middle-class man made me speculate that Wyndham probably realised he needed a different tone or register for his narrator in order to prevent the two books sounding the same.

So that’s probably the reason why, whereas Bill Masen’s account in The Day of The Triffids is consistently grim and often horrifying, the narrator of this book keeps up a chirpy, facetious tone throughout. In fact, the central feature of this book is the narrator’s relationship with his smart and sassy wife, Phyllis, herself a documentary scriptwriter, with whom he keeps up a solid stream of jokey banter and backchat and has a very 1950s kind of relationship, to the extent that it’s made jokily clear that it’s very much the wife who wears the trousers:

‘But, with a pressure of tons, and in continual darkness, and – ‘ I began, but Phyllis cut across me with that decisiveness which warns me to shut up and not argue…

‘A man of perception,’ I said. ‘For the last five or six years – ‘
‘Shut up, Mike,’ said my dear wife, briefly. (p.124)

‘Mike, darling, just shut up; there’s a love,’ said my devoted wife.

This snappy husband-and-wife banter completely differentiates the books from the rather grim, serious-minded tone of Triffids and makes this catastrophe feel much more like a bank holiday outing. This tone is established in the short prologue, or ‘Rationale’ as he calls it, which opens the book, Mike and Phyl are looking out over the English Channel, nowadays full of icebergs because the Arctic icecaps are melting and the sea-level is drastically rising, and he first suggests writing some kind of account of the disaster which has overtaken the world. Good idea, she says, and offers to help.

Plot summary

Phase one (pages 11 to 72)

Journalist Mike Watson is on a honeymoon cruise with his new wife, Phyllis, when they see five red shapes, fuzzy and gaseous, speed across their wake and crash into the sea. So he was lucky enough to be in at ‘the start’. There are other sightings, including from an RAF fighter pilot who encounters some of these flying speedballs, shoots one which promptly explodes. The years go by and Watson becomes the meteor specialist at his broadcaster, all the letters from cranks and flying saucer spotters are sent on to him. And yet reports continue to come in of groups of red dots flying at high speed across the sky and into the ocean, generally at its deepest parts.

At ECB Watson finds himself lumbered with reporting on the steady trickle of sightings of the fireballs and builds up a reputation as an expert. As such he is invited to the Admiralty where a Captain Winters shows him a map of the oceans with lines drawn showing the descent of the many fireballs reported over the past few years, which shows how they have all entered the water near the oceans’ deepest points, up to five miles deep, where the water pressure is up to five tons per square inch!

And that’s why he and Phyllis are invited aboard a Royal Navy mission to the Caribbean, where a bathysphere containing two men is lowered deeper than any such vehicle has gone into the deep sea before. It’s a tense and detailed description which leads to the inevitable – at the deepest depths where no fish are, the two men in the little metal sphere think they see some vague shape moving just out of reach of the lights. Next thing they are cut off. The cable is winched up and the hawser it was attached to hasn’t been cut, it has been fused. They try again with an unmanned sphere carrying cameras, this too gets to about the same depths, the watching crew see something, then all power is cut.

Actually they’re invited to witness this expedition because of Phyllis. She is a documentary scriptwriter (while the narrator Mike is a straight journalist). So the idea of having a husband and wife team means Wyndham gives his pair twice as many chances to be invited on expeditions or to meet and interview key figures and experts as the story unfolds.

In this respect, the solo nature of the narrator of Triffids emphasises the sense of loneliness and isolation which is one of the harrowing aspects of that book which describes how one man slowly uncovers the impact of the catastrophe; whereas the dynamic in Kraken is the exact opposite – he needs a number of sources in order to present a synoptic overview of events: and so having what are in effect two protagonists doubles the number of contacts and interviews and sources the book can use.

And a great deal of it is second-hand, in the sense that Mike and Phyllis – having been on the doomed bathyscaphe expedition – begin following every aspect of the story and scouring the news for related stories.

Thus, after another interview with Captain Winter back at the Admiralty, they go on to monitor new developments. So they meet up and interview a journo from NBC who accompanied an American version of the bathyscaphe expedition. All the hacks were on a separate ship accompanying the navy vessel and were watching their bathyscaphe via remote cameras when shouts from above brought them all up on deck in time to see some kind of electric charge surge up the cable, light up the ship like a Christmas tree, and then it exploded.

Something is down there, snipping the wires of these bathyscaphes, and then sending up enormous electric charges. The NBC guy tells them it’s not the only one. Another research ship has disappeared near the Aleutian Isles.

Time passes, three years to be precise (p.41) during which Mike and Phyllis celebrate the birth of son William and then mourn his death 18 months later. And then more reports of sinkings come in: the Americans lose a cruiser off the Marianas, the Russians east of the Kuriles, a Norwegian research ship in the Southern Ocean. I.e. the pattern extends.

When the Americans lose a destroyer their patience snaps. They invite half the world’s press along to witness an experiment with an atom bomb, which is towed out to above the deepest part of the sea off the Philippines where the destroyer was lost – it is released and allowed to sink several miles into the depths, then detonated. Mike and the other spectators see the eruption of water, the cloud forming above it and then their ship is buffeted by the wave, but little apart from that.

Back in London our pair have dinner with another couple of journos who swap theories and opinions. One of them recounts the theory put forward by a certain Bocker, which is the one the reader has figured out by now, which is that the ‘fireballs’ are some kind of spaceships carrying intelligent passengers who have evolved in a deep sea environment and now have come to colonise earth’s. They didn’t take kindly to the investigating bathyspheres, took to destroying the ships attached to them and now – they speculate – will not take kindly to having an atom bomb exploded over their heads.

In the coming months several more atom bombs are dropped into the depths with unmeasurable affect (p.53). But through the grapevine Mike and Phyllis learn that several of them failed to go off. That’s worrying (p.57). Several more research ships have disappeared.

Phyllis interviews Dr Matet, noted oceanographer and friend of Captain Winters of the Admiralty. He tells her oceanographers have begun to notice major discoloration of the oceans’ major flowstreams, as if vast amounts of the ooze on the ocean beds is being disturbed (pp.59-61).

They jointly interview Alastair Bocker, eminent geographer (pp.63-65). He has developed his theories further. If intelligent life has come from beyond earth, and if it thrives at the enormous pressures of the deep ocean, then they can be seen as settlers or colonists who will set about making the found environment more congenial to their civilisation. And if someone starts dropping massive bombs on their heads, we shouldn’t be surprised if they retaliate.

They read about a tsunami killing 60 or so people on the remote island of Esperanza. Neither of them know where that and Phyllis has never heard the word tsunami.

Phase one ends with a couple of pages of Phyllis reading out a draft script for ECB, written in amazingly purple prose about the mysterious depths of the great oceans, and bringing together all this scattered evidence to wonder what’s afoot…

Phase two (pages 73 to 182)

Part one – Ships being sunk

Years earlier they had bought a cottage in Cornwall with money left by an aunt of Phyllis’s. It has a fine view across a river, more land and to the sea beyond. I always think that, if you’re appearing in an apocalyptic end-of-the-world novel, it’s always a good idea to have a comfy country bolthole to retreat to.

In the Times is a report of a Japanese ocean liner, the Yatsushiro, which sank in moments, drowning over 700 passengers and crew. A day or two later an official statement is put out blaming it on ‘metal fatigue’. Our heroes are sceptical, sounds like a cover-up story. Phyllis imagines all those men, women and children as the freezing water gushed into their cabins, and is inconsolably upset.

Guests come to stay (Harold and is posh wife, Petunia or ‘Tuny’) and the posh wife without hesitation blames all these incidents on the Russians and lambasts Western politicians who are, she thinks, refusing to name names and, in effect, appeasing the commies. In her view Bocker is a fellow traveller propagating a Soviet cover story. General conversation, the guests go to bed and leave a few days later.

Mike works on a book commission for a history of royal love lives, Phyllis is writing a history of a stately home. A month later they hear the news on the radio that the huge British liner, the Queen Anne, has sunk. Half an hour later the head of EBC news and features rings up and says they want a half hour feature about it – why? Because rumour is going round that the Russians did it and might swell into enough of a movement to begin to pressurise the government to do something, risking escalation into, ultimately war.

Having written it they drive back up to London and arrive to hear that two more ships, American this time, have gone down. Now the Americans are angry and send a flotilla of battleships to the area loaded with high explosive and another atom bomb. But two of them are blown up as they get near the area, one was carrying the bomb primed to detonate at five miles depth, the other ships turn and flee, a few more being caught in the eventual blast, five surviving.

But now it’s official – there’s something down there. A global conference is held, at which the Russians walk out in protest. Watson is typically sarcastic about business as usual being resumed. Scientists devise anti-vibration protection and ‘dolphins’ which are supposed to spot the enemy, close in and blow up, and we get a description of an apparently successful trial. Governments declare the seas sailable again, and prematurely declare that ‘the Battle of the Deeps’ has been won (p.111). But it hasn’t. A month later a clutch more ships are sunk.

Part two – The sea tanks (pages 112 to 182)

But the real thrust or point of phase two is an entirely new development, which is the advent of the so-called sea tanks and their revolting sticky anemone weapons.

Reports start to come in from remote islands in the Pacific of some kind of attacks taking place on remote communities. A ship which investigates the next day discovers a poor shorefront settlement completely denuded of people, all the houses, trees and other objects glistening with a foul-smelling slime, and huge regular grooves running up the sand (pages 114 to 121).

As more and more reports come in, the authorities realise they are co-ordinated attacks. Bocker is consulted for his opinion. Mike is invited for a drink by EBC’s head of news and features (Freddy Whittier) who tells him that one of the stations’ sponsors is fed up with the lack of knowledge about these creatures and so is sponsoring an expedition to go and find out more. He has commissioned Bocker to lead it, since he has been right about the situation from early on. And since Bocker now holds advanced theories about the location of the enemy bases in the deepest parts of the oceans, Bocker calculates the next attacks will come in the Caribbean.

Since Phyllis and Mike have been in on it from the start, Bocker asks for them to come along as representatives of the media. So they fly to the island of Escondida and have barely arrived before there is an attack on a nearby island. (It is typical of the book’s deliberate flippancy that Mike translates Bocker’s scientific work into his own joky idiom when he says, ‘if we were disappointed, we were also impressed. It was clear that Bocker really had been doing something more than a high-class eeny meeny miney mo, and had brought off a very near miss.’ Eeny meeny miney mo 🙂 )

The team consists of Dr Bocker and two close assistants, Bill Weyman and Alfred Haig, Mike and Phyllis, Muriel Flynn, Johnny Tallton, the pilot, Leslie, Ted the cameraman, Alfred who rigs up bright stage lights down at the harbour and the streets into the square in case there’s a night attack.

In the most sustained and imaginatively intense passage in the book, they are woken one night, ten days into their stay, by an attack. They hear screams and shooting from the harbour, then see people fleeing across the main square which their hotel looks out onto. Then they finally see the ‘sea tanks’. Imagine an elongated egg, thirty or forty feet long, made of a dull, lead-like metal. Slice it along its length and place the flat surface on the ground, a bit like half an avocado, except longer than a car (p.138). Well, Mike and Phyllis watch these huge half-avocados made of dull leaden metal slowly moving forward, apparently without wheels, several of them barging through the sides of houses. They take up positions in the square, despite rifle bullets pinging off them. Then very slowly bulges begin to appear in their carapaces, turn into globes attached by spindly threads and then the globes break entirely free and hover in the air.

Then with a crack they explode and unleash scores of very long tentacles or tendrils which whip out in all directions. If they touch inanimate objects they fall to the floor but, somehow, if they touch anything human, even the clothes or shoes of a human, they stick. At the first bang Mike and Phyllis had instinctively recoiled but not fast enough and one thread attaches to Phyllis’s forearm. Almost immediately the thing starts reeling its threads back in, drawing every animate person along with them. Within seconds Phyllis is being drawn from the bedroom where she’d withdrawn, into the main room and towards the balcony. Mike grabs her round the waist and grabs the bed-leg with the other. Now it becomes a trial of strength and for a moment Mike is scared he’ll lose his grip but then Phyllis lets out a scream and the sticky tendril has torn a six-inch strip off her forearm and some of the skin from her fingers but it is withdrawing, without her.

Mike runs to the window in time to see the sequel, which is people from all parts of the square being drawn willy-nilly towards the anemone thing. There’s Muriel from their team, being pulled along by her hair, and Larrie, who seems to have broken his neck in the fall from his hotel window, and now Mike watches the disgusting sight of all these people being drawn closer and closer and finally packed and squidged into a ball of compressed flesh. Then the ball of people goes spinning away back down the street it came from, towards the sea.

Scattered firing from villagers who have rifles continues but makes no impression on the sea tanks which continue to release the anemone weapons until they’re quite done, and then slowly return backwards the way they came back into the sea. Long before that happens Mike is beside Phyllis, washing her wounds and tearing up bed sheets to dress them.

Only then do we learn, from Phyllis’s side of the dialogue, that Mike himself is crying and she is holding him in her arms (p.143). In a very understated, British way, they have both been severely traumatised.

Next day Bocker holds a conference of the survivors. The mood is grim. They speculate about the meaning of the attacks. Is it for food or sheer malice? Bocker gives one of his speeches (of which there are a number punctuating the book) in which he wonders whether man’s domain on earth might be under threat. Maybe humanity’s days are numbered…

Mike and Phyllis fly back to Britain with what film Ted the cameraman was able to take and eye witness accounts. Back in the office they discover similar attacks are proliferating all round the world and the number of sea tanks rapidly escalating into scores. Captain Winters of the Admiralty invites them in to give an eye-witness account to a senior admiral who asks them their opinion of Bocker’s theories and this is the trigger for more earnest, and strategic pondering on what ‘we’ (humanity) should do next.

They go down to the cottage in Cornwall but can’t get away from the news which brings accounts of multiple attacks all round the world. Almost as a throwaway we learn that ocean trade has all but dried up and so Britain is having to airlift in food and other essential supplies. It can be done but is very expensive and so the price of everything has shot up and rationing of some items has appeared. (When Kraken was published post-war rationing had still not completely ended.)

As news comes in of more and more attacks all round the world, Phyllis cracks. She had built herself an ‘arbour’ in the cottage’s garden, somewhere she could work outdoors on her ‘novel’, but one day Mike finds her sitting in it, slumped across the manuscript, crying her eyes out. She can’t think of anything except the state of war, and can’t get the shock of what they saw in Escondida out of her mind. For some relief they motor over to North Cornwall for some surfing and a day’s brisk activity does them good. But on the way back they make the mistake of turning on the radio, immediately hear more bad news, which takes them right back to the horror of the sea tanks, and Phyllis bursts into tears again.

Mike calls a doctor who gives Phyllis a sedative and recommends a Harley Street nerve specialist. It is only now, however, that we learn that part of her problem is that Mike has been talking about the incident on Escondida in his sleep, and makes it clear that in his dreams he sees Phyllis, not Muriel, being dragged across the town square and slowly mashed to pulp along with all the other victims. He too needs rest. And she needs a break from his nightmares and sleep-talking.

And so Mike travels by himself to stay in a room in a manor in Yorkshire, stops work, takes the phone off the hook, and devotes himself to long walks over the moors. After six weeks of rest cure he feels like a new man. Until he drops into a pub after a long hike and the radio is on and he overhears news of a massive attack on a port in north Spain where an estimated 3,000 people lost their lives.

By now the authorities all over the world are fighting back against the aliens. Ports large and small are either abandoned or heavily fortified. Tanks and artillery are deployed. And air forces put on high alert. And this has begun to pay dividends. If the sea tanks are hit by tank shells or airplane cannon shells they explode dramatically. There’s an extended passage describing the attack on Santander and how the local military called in air strikes which proved surprisingly effective. (I had to remind me that all this would have taken place under the military dictatorship of General Franco.)

His restful mood disrupted, Mike returns from his Yorkshire hotel to the cottage in Cornwall only to find Phyllis is long gone. She’s tidied up and locked up and apparently gone back up to London. When Mike arrives at their London flat he is surprised to find it deserted. He phones his pal at EBC, Freddy Whittier, and discovers that Phyllis lasted just a week in the Cornwall cottage by herself before she returned to the London flat and resumed work, writing material about the attacks. Freddy flabbergasts Mike by telling him that Phyllis has gone off with Dr Bocker to Spain, to investigate the scene of the recent Santander attacks. Bored and lonely, Mike spends the evening at his club (p.175). [His club?]

In the early hours of the next morning he gets a call from Freddy and at first panics, thinking it is bad news about Phyllis. Far from it, she’s doing fine in Spain. Freddy is ringing to say a taxi’s on its way, a plane ticket has been organised, and he’s being sent by the EBC to a small fishing village on the west coast of Ireland which has just been attacked by what people are now calling the ‘bathies’. This journey and what Mike finds are not described in any detail. It is simply the trigger for the new development that the bathies now for the first time start to attack the coastline of Britain, which quickly reverts to a spirit-of-the-Blitz state of militarisation. Ports and harbours are mined and barb-wired, military deployed, RAF put on alert.

The British government lends all military aid to the Irish. (It is an interesting sidelight on history, that Mike the narrator sees this as the Irish being prepared to forgive and forget and put ‘the past in the past’ – an interesting insight into the rockiness of Anglo-Irish relations even in 1953.) Anyway, the bathies have lost the element of surprise and large numbers are blown up by the mines they trundle over, by depth charges dropped on them, by air strikes or artillery. Their casualty rate on some raids is 100% while human populations have learned simply to flee out of range at the first warning. The only raids England suffers are in Cornwall, and the only one with any real consequences is an attack on Falmouth Harbour.

A few days after the Falmouth raid, the attacks cease, worldwide (p.179). Dr Bocker makes one of his periodic comments on the situation in a speech in which he says his early suggestions that we try and communicate with the enemy were obviously wrong. Now he recommends a policy of total annihilation, before they launch the next phase of their attack, whatever that might be.

Phase three (pages 183 to 240)

The move from phase one to phase two was relatively smooth and continued the tone of the normal world and its activities. Phase three, however, opens with a jolt, literally, as the small boat Mike and Phyllis as navigating through water at night bumps into a net. As Mike begins tampering with it a flare goes up illuminating the scene and a rifle shot goes off. Mike looks across at the sides of the flooded valley, to the parade of houses which disappears under the water, and hears a voice warning him away. Aha. As Mike fires up the engine and their little boat putters away, Phyllis asks where they are and, as Mike replies, somewhere in the Weybridge area, the reader has his or her suspicions confirmed. Yes, we are clearly in full-scale disaster mode now.

For, as the text quickly explains, the aliens did indeed launch the next phase, though it took a while for humanity to catch on. Quite simply, it was to melt the polar ice caps and flood the world, completely flood it, until it is a world of water – just the way the aliens like it!

As usual it crept up very slowly on an unsuspecting humanity, not least because most trans-ocean shipping had been suspended for some time, and the weather ships which would have noticed changes in temperature and, especially, widespread fogs, had ceased to observe things. But the fogs become increasingly apparent in Siberia and north America. Then spotter planes report back on vast numbers of icebergs being calved from the Arctic and Antarctic ice sheets. All of which leads up to another article by Bocker, this one titled The Devil and the Deeps.

Bocker and polyphony

I’ve come to realise that Bocker’s articles provide a sort of structure, or regular punctuation of the narrative, each appearance of article he writes crystallising the sequence of events to date and then making drastic suggestions, which his readers and hearers are consistently not ready to listen to.

Not only that, but they add to the multiplicity of voices in the book. As it has progressed, Bocker has emerged as a Cassandra figure, the first to speculate the fireballs were from another world, the first to theorise that the incidents of the sinking ships might not be accidents and the great flows of ooze might be more than a natural occurrence, but indicate the work of industrial intelligence in the ocean deeps. His articles have taken on a more and more Biblical tone of apocalypse and prophecy. They add to the spectrum of voices and register, which also includes:

  • the serious factual briefings from Captain Winters or the admiral
  • the scientific briefing about ocean-bottom ooze from Dr Matet
  • eye-witness accounts from the American journos in ships accompanying one of the first to be blown up
  • opinions of fellow journalists (Mallarby of The Tidings and Bennell of The Senate, p.44)
  • radio broadcasts, including the dramatic one of the ship trying to steam away from where a navy ship carrying an atom bomb went down (p.97)
  • newspaper articles and leaders (p.207)
  • even the hammy radio script which Phyllis herself writers (pp.70-72)

It’s a very polyphonic novel.

Anyway, in terms of the plot, Bocker’s article is the first one to grasp the enormity of the situation, something which he then expands on when Mike and Phyllis go to pay their by now regular visit. After some chatter it boils right down to this: the authorities will act too late because they always do; in any case, there’s probably no practical way to stop then; so the best strategy is – find a nice self-sufficient hilltop – and fortify it!

And so it comes to pass. Slowly the sea levels rise. In London the embankment is sandbagged but overflows anyway. But this is just the beginning. Bocker joins Phyllis to review the urgent work put into raising the embankment parapets by ten or 12 feet. Waste of time says baleful Bocker.

All round the world the waters continue their rise. Hundreds of thousands build levees but the smart money starts to abandon the cities and the low-lying ground and move to the country. Mike’s narration takes us through two successive years when, on each year, the spring tides broke through whatever barriers were erected. After the second flooding of London the authorities acknowledge that they’re going to have to leave.

What gives all this a frisson of familiarity is not only the fact that we now know that the ice caps are melting and the sea level is going to rise, but the shambolic response of the authorities to the gathering crisis, a make-it-up-as-you-go-along attitude which we have all seen in the British government’s response to coronavirus (COVID-19).

News comes in of refugees from flooded Holland and Denmark. When they tramped into north Germany, fighting broke out. In England, too, refugees from the drowning East found high land along the Chilterns barricaded off. In London, people moving from the riverside towards Hampstead and Highgate found roads barricaded and snipers taking potshots from windows. And then the barricades were stormed. The emergency electricity supply failed. Looting broke out.

Mike and Phyllis move their stuff through the half-anarchic, half-orderly streets to a last-ditch studio and offices which the EBC have rigged up at the top of the Selfridge’s building in Oxford Street. They hear of increasing panic flights, of cars being stopped their occupants turfed out, widespread looting. Parliament moves to Harrogate, 700 feet above sea level.

Their bosses had imagined the small crew manning the station (complete with oil and petrol reserves, power generators, and as much food as they could loot from the store beneath) would remain and carry on presenting entertaining variety radio programmes until summoned north. In reality, as the year advanced, order broke down, the streets flooded faster than expected and became the prowling ground of armed gangs of looters, who they had to fight off several times.

By spring of the following year the staff in their redoubt have been reduced from 65 to 25, most requesting to be evacuated by the helicopter which can land on the store’s roof. (Note: helicopters play a small but significant role in both Triffids and this novel.) There’s an effective scene when, one bright sunny day, Mike and Phyllis walk down to Trafalgar Square. The water is lapping against the parapet on the north side. There is a sheet of solid water down Whitehall to the half-submerged Houses of Parliament. Seagulls squawk from St Martin’s in the Fields. They are surprised to see a speedboat come roaring under Admiralty Arch and zoom away down Whitehall. Phyllis says let’s leave. Mike agrees. They’ll need a boat.

But they hang on through another season. Their old friend, Freddy Whittier and his wife, who had stayed with them in the Selfridges redoubt, take a helicopter out. A few weeks later he phones to tell Mike and Phyl not to follow them. The government area of the town is under siege. Civil war is about to break out. He promises to get the next chopper back to London but, although it leaves Harrogate it never arrives. A week or so later the Harrogate office are dictating the latest in a long line of forlorn, futile, spirit-raising announcements, denying rumours of fighting and collapse, when the phone line goes dead. It is never restored.

Another winter comes round. The streets are almost empty, though the few people you meet are carrying guns. They hear the counties surrounding London have set up miniature fiefdoms and repel refugees. They still have plenty of food and oil for the generator but when the water level reaches Oxford street and starts to drain into the basement of the Selfridge’s building, they feel it’s time to move. On bright May day Mike finds Phyllis up on the roof looking across the lake that is Oxford Street and crying. She says what all people going through tribulation say, since the time of Job and before:

Look at it, Mike! Look at it! We never did anything to deserve all this. Most of us weren’t very good, though we weren’t bad enough for this, surely. And not to have a chance! If it had only been something we could fight – . But just to be drowned and starved and forced into destroying one another to live – and by things nobody has ever seen, living in the one place we can’t get at them! (p.229)

She’s breaking down. It’s time to go. Mike finds a fibre-glass dinghy and loads it up. They say goodbye to their remaining colleagues and set off upriver. And that’s where we found them as the start of this final section. Turned back by a net and sniper and taking shelter in the top story of a flooded house.

In the middle of the night Mike hears a bumping against the wall and springs out of his sleeping bag in time to see a smaller vessel bumping against the wall before drifting away. He gives chase in the dinghy, grapples and boards it to find the body of a woman shot dead. He turfs the corpse over the side.

It’s a motorboat named the Midge. He and Phyllis transfer their goods into it and take to the coast to navigate (in an amateurish way) down towards Cornwall. In fact first they return to central London and load up with maximum provisions. The last remaining team in Selfridges think they’re crazy and try to persuade them to stay. But once they’ve loaded everything they can think of, they set off downstream towards the Thames Estuary and then round and along the Channel coast. The journey takes a month, with scattered observations of what the English landscape, coast and cliff look like under 100 feet of water.

The cottage is still there. It has been ransacked but is physically sound. Only now does Phyllis reveal that the summer several years ago when she developed an interest in bricklaying and built the arbour, supposedly to shelter and write in… well, she buried a load of stores in it. Nobody’s found them. They should be alright for a while…

Now these are the last pages. Mike tells us he began writing his account in November. Now it’s January. The rate of seawater rise has decreased. The sea tanks have been reported but don’t find many victims and all the little scattered communities post watchers, so the inhabitants know to flee. The hill their cottage sat on has become an island. People leave them alone. The winter has been bitterly cold, with howling gales. Sometimes the sea has frozen. It is becoming an Arctic climate. Soon nothing will grow. They decide to rig the Midget with a sail and dead south, presumably to France.

Two endings

Ending 1

The 1973 British Penguin paperback which I own ends thus:

Just as I was expecting the couple to sail off into the blue, there is a dramatic last-minute reversal. One day as they’re preparing the yacht Midget for her big journey, a strange sailing boat enters their backwater and hails them. The man has a message. Over what radios survive have come messages announcing a government of reconstruction. Speech given Dr Bocker (him again, right here at the end of the narrative) saying the water has ceased rising. Mike and Phyll are astounded to learn that only between a fifth and an eighth of Britain’s land remains. But the population has collapsed. Three hard winters and no medical provision has seen millions die of pneumonia and related diseases.

Now they’re going to try and organise and rebuild. The messages ended with a list of specialist personnel required. Mike and Phyll’s names were on it. They are requested to report to London. The man even tells them the boffins seem to have developed some new device to combat the bathies. A device which emits powerful ultrasonic signals. Developed by the Japanese. Already it’s been trialled by them and the Americans and seems to have cleared some of the shallower deeps. Large amounts of white jelly have floated to the surface, same as what exploded with such force from the sea tanks when they were shelled.

Suddenly, suddenly there is hope. It’s going to be hard surviving in a world changed out of recognition and yet… they will face the future bravely!

Ending 2

Intriguingly, the online version of the novel I referred to ends differently, thus:

This version begins its final section at the same moment, with Mike and Phyllis preparing the Midget for her voyage but, instead of a sailing boat coming up the creek, they are amazed to see a helicopter (Wyndham and his post-apocalyptic helicopters!). It circles their island, then hovers just above the uneven stones and heather, a briefcase is thrown out then a figure clambers down a short rope ladder and dusts himself off as the helicopter lifts off and flies away.

As they run up to him they realise it is Dr Bocker! Again! Phyllis embraces him and bursts out crying. Mike walks up and shakes his hand. He admits it has been lonely, very lonely and depressing. They help him up and down to the house, where Bocker produces a flask of whiskey! and proceeds to explain. He first flew to London where the BC crew told him Mike and Phyl had come to Cornwall and so he followed.

They are going to rebuild, The water has ceased to rise. They have lost a lot of land and a lot of people. But he estimates with what remains they can feed five million people. The population of Britain has collapsed from 46 million to just five million! Bocker says the country has disintegrated into tens of thousands of micro communities each defending their own and utterly isolated.

Step one is to break down that isolation by producing thousands of cheap battery-operated radios and dropping them on the communities, helping them get back in touch, broadcasting the new central authority’s plans. That’s where Mike and Phyll come in. He needs experienced and confident broadcasters to lead the operation.

Mike and Phyl are both stunned, above all by the revival of community, the sense that there are others out there, and they can work together. But what about the bathies, what about the evil aliens lurking in the deeps? And this is when Bocker tells them about the ultrasonics weapons which the Japanese have developed and seem to work really well. They’ve sent plans to the Americans who have started to mass produce them. (America, Bocker tells us, was hit nowhere near as badly as Britain. Britain is a cramped over-crowded place and pays badly for it when put under pressure. America is vaaaast.)

For a while, none of us spoke. I stole a sidelong glance at Phyllis; she was looking as though she had just had a beauty treatment.
‘I’m coming to life again, Mike,’ she said. ‘There’s something to live for.’

What about the Arctic cold? Bocker replies the scientific consensus is that the water will slowly warm up. Improbably, he claims the climate may end up being better than it used to be. In other words, this ending feels as if it was written to order to be significantly more upbeat than ending A. Maybe – along with the reference to America not being hit nearly so badly and about to mass produce the weapons which will save the world – maybe this version was written specially to flatter an American audience.

Thoughts

When I read this as an impressionable adolescent my imagination was fired to extraordinary heights. After H.G. Wells, Wyndham was my god when I was about 13, and the scene in the Caribbean town square where the alien globules explode into masses of sticky tentacles stayed with me for years. However, returning as a jaded adult and a man tired out from raising a family and hanging on to a demanding job, I read and experience this book completely differently.

I am now struck by the cleverness of the book’s narrative structure, and by the tone. By structure I mean two things:

1. One is the way he makes the protagonists journalists in order to allow them not only to be sent to a number of key scenes and incidents (they see the first fireballs land in the sea, they witness the first atom bomb being dropped in the deeps, they are the first Western eye-witnesses of the disgusting coelenterates) but also to interview a number of key experts, namely Captain Winters from the Admiralty and, most importantly, to really get to know Alastair Bocker, the book’s main theorist for the entire sequence of events.

2. Second aspect of structure is the way the story is told by a husband-and-wife team. Mike is the sole narrator but Phyllis gets to interview some of the experts, or they jointly meet other witnesses over dinner or drinks, and her opinions are as important as, and often sharper than, her husband’s. This dyad gives us not only gives the narrative access to more important people and eye witness, it also means the husband and wife team spend a lot of time discussing events, pondering and analysing and speculating and, of course, taking the viewer with them in their theories and speculations.

And this ‘pair structure’ is just part of the way the information about the story comes in from multiple sources. Because they are journalists working for a broadcast outlet, they sit in the nerve centre of an organisation devoted to bringing together information from every possible source, from everywhere round the world. And, after their accidental eye witnessing of some of the earliest fireballs landing in the sea, Mike finds himself early on lumbered with the task of co-ordinating other news on the subject, nobody in the early stages realising it will go on to become the story of the age.

3. But the biggest and most dominant aspect of the book for me as a married man, is the tone. The entire book is drenched in the way Wyndham conveys the relationship between Mike and Phyllis, in fast-talking, witty banter. It reminded me a bit of the Thin Man movies (1934 to 1947) based on the smart-guy, knowing banter between husband-and-wife detectives, William Powell and Myrna Loy.

Mike and Phyllis argue, they make up, she cuts across him during interviews and he knows when to shut up, they discuss ideas for stories and edit each other’s work. Thinking about it, Wyndham obviously not only wanted to differentiate the book, in structure and tone, from Triffids, but possibly also from standard science fiction, of the kind he’d been writing with so little success since the 1930s.

In the 1960s critics came to unkindly dismiss this approach as ‘cosy catastrophe’, but you can turn that critique on its head and point out that Wyndham was trying to take science fiction tropes away from the wide-eyed, boys-own-adventure world of the American SF magazines, and situate it, instead, precisely among the urban, middle-class bourgeoisie. To see what happens when you take characters who could come from a respectable drawing-room drama, who drink sherry before dinner and are oh-so-blasé about news reports and government statements – and then drop them into the middle of a world-shattering catastrophe.

I thought it was a telling moment when Mike and Phyllis are lounging by the pool on the island of Escondida and Phyllis jokingly says she feels as languid as a character in one of Somerset Maugham’s stories from the Far East (p.127). Maugham’s stories (which I have comprehensively reviewed elsewhere in this blog) are set among the pukka, public school-educated, colonial classes, and this passing reference is a reminder of the broader world this story is meant to be set in, and of the class Mike and Phyllis don’t really belong to, but certainly can relate to. What would happen to these pukka sahibs and memsahibs if catastrophe struck their world? Of course they’d carry on talking and acting the same, right up till the bitter end.

So from the point of view of the ‘radical’ 1960s, maybe The Kraken Wakes can be seen as a cosy catastrophe (as Brian Aldiss jokingly dismissed it). But maybe it’s also by way of being an experiment in mixing genres, of applying bubble gum disaster science fiction to drawing room drama characters and seeing what happens.

4. Loneliness I will now compare and contrast Kraken and Triffids. And I’ve already mentioned it, but the lasting impression of The Day of The Triffids is of intense and soul-harrowing loneliness. It’s a book with multiple levels of isolation and aloneness:

  • the protagonist is isolated when the rest of the world is struck blind
  • the entire world’s media (meaning, in those days, the radio and newspapers) ceases to function, so everyone becomes isolated, with no way at all of knowing what’s going on except by world of mouth
  • thus the protagonist has to find out what’s going on utterly by himself
  • and no sooner has he met a potential soul-mate who he can share his feelings with than she is kidnapped and taken off he knows not where, thus redoubling his sense of isolation and abandonment

But the fundamental metaphor at the centre of the narrative – blindness – is itself about eternal isolation from the visual understanding of the world, a theme which is rammed home on numerous occasions, when he either sees the blind in pitiful operation or reflects on the essential isolation which blindness imposes on its sufferers. There’s a searing moment when Masen comments on how quiet a blind world is because everyone is forced to listen to try and figure out what is happening. The only sound is the quiet shuffling of shoes along pavements and the sobbing of the newly blind in their infinite misery.

In the depth to which these tropes extend, in the multiple levels the story taps, Triffids approaches fable or allegory, and I found the totality and intensity of its vision truly terrifying.

So Kraken comes as an extraordinary contrast: it couldn’t be more the opposite, the jokey flippant, knowing, media-savvy tone of the two protagonists meaning the book is buoyed on a tone of knowing flippancy.

‘I wish,’ said Phyllis, ‘that I had been kinder and tried to pay more attention to dear Miss Popple who used to try to teach me geography, poor thing. Every day the world gets fuller of places I never heard of.’

Even when it becomes clear that the incident on Escondida has caused them both some kind of post-traumatic stress disorder, this emerges only obliquely, and all the more movingly because of it. And in the later stages, even when Mike has to go to a rest home and Phyllis goes down to the cottage to recover: the stress and psychological impact is strongly hinted at and sort of described –but in this book the reader is never really as psychologically involved as I felt I was in Triffids.

Cold War references

I’ve mentioned some of the examples as they arise in the text, but it’s worth emphasising how strongly present Cold War themes are throughout the story. This operates at multiple levels.

At a ‘serious’ level, some of the experts, the men from the Admiralty or Bocker, discuss the possibility that the whole thing is a Russian ploy, some kind of new-fangled Russian attack.

In a different way, both Mike and Phyllis make jokey, ironic references throughout the novel to ‘our Russian friends’, ‘the other side’, ‘the Soviets’ and so on. Again and again they invoke, satirise and ridicule the Cold War rhetoric which the Russians had perfected about their ostensible quest for ‘peace’ (despite the obvious fact that they had occupied and continued to oppress all the nations of Eastern Europe).

Here’s an example of Wyndham pastiching Cold War rhetoric when, early on, the American government makes a formal complaint to Russia about the fireballs encroaching US airspace.

The Kremlin, after a few days of gestation, produced a rejection of the protest. It proclaimed itself unimpressed by the tactics of attributing one’s own crime to another, and went on to state that its own weapons, recently developed by Russian scientists for the defense of peace, had now destroyed more than twenty of these craft over Soviet territory, and would, without hesitation, give the same treatment to any others detected in their work of espionage…

The fact that Mike is a journalist allows Wyndham to give satirical swipes at the rhetoric of the press releases and communiques the Soviets perfected during this era, which managed to combine a pious wish for peace with barely disguised threats of retaliation and, always, the comic opera boasting that, whatever new technology the West developed, the Russians thought of it first and had already made it bigger and better.

Mr. Malenkov, interviewed by telegram, had said that although the intensified program of aircraft construction in the West was no more than a part of a bourgeois-fascist plan by warmongers that could deceive no one, yet so great was the opposition of the Russian people to any thought of war that the production of aircraft within the Soviet Union for the Defense of Peace had been tripled. Indeed, so resolutely were the Peoples of the Free Democracies determined to preserve Peace in spite of the new Imperialist threat, that war was not inevitable – though there was a possibility that under prolonged provocation the patience of the Soviet Peoples might become exhausted.

Then there’s the level of public opinion – because it’s a global phenomenon, Wyndham’s journalist protagonists regularly discuss the impact on public opinion of each stage of the ‘invasion’ and part of this public opinion is concern about ‘the other side’, and a predisposition to blame everything bad on the Reds.

This aspect – popular opinion – is actually embodied in one of the characters, Tuny, the self-important, pukka woman from Kensington who is the partner of Harold, an old friend of Mike’s. The pair come down to stay at Mike and Phyl’s Cornish cottage and, over dinner, Tuny leaves no-one in any doubt that she knows the entire thing is a Russian plot and that our government is refusing to say so out of fear. In her florid opinion, it’s appeasement all over again.

Quite distinct from the novel’s ostensible subject matter, all this is fascinating social history. At the end of the day The Kraken Wakes is a middle-brow work of fiction (i.e. has no particular aspiration to purely literary merit) but that makes all the more revealing the kinds of thoughts, conversations, opinions about world politics which Wyndham considered typical of the day (and of his likely readership).

The ‘two intelligent species’ problem

Having now read all of Wyndham’s four great novels, I can see that there is a strong unifying thread or impulse underlying all of them, namely the question: ‘Can two intelligent but completely different species cohabit on the same planet?’

Hitherto Homo sapiens has regarded itself as unquestionably the most intelligent species on earth and, probably, anywhere, and swanked and lorded it over creation. In Wyndham’s big four novels, humanity is suddenly confronted with creatures which present an existential threat: in Day of the Triffids, it’s the triffids; in Kraken, the deep sea invaders from space; in Chrysalids, the post-apocalyptic survivor communities are confronted by a new superspecies of human whose leaders treat old-style humans as animals to be eliminated; and in Midwich it is the alien children whose hive mind begins to present a threat to humanity.

All of these novels dramatise the plight of a planet divided into two opposing camps, two types of intelligent species who live in an uneasy balance of peace which, in all four novels, is knocked off kilter and in which our side is put on the back foot.

The point I’m driving at is that you could argue that the deep structure of all four novels embodies or reflects the Cold War rivalry between two highly intelligent, highly armed, aggressive camps – the capitalist and communist worlds – who live in an uneasy peace which could, at the slightest incident, be toppled over into catastrophic conflict.

In other words, that John Wyndham’s novels are Cold War novels not just by an accident of history or in incidental details or in the opinions of some of the characters, but in their deepest structure reflect the challenge of how two utterly opposed types of intelligence can inhabit the same planet without wiping each other out.


Credit

The Kraken Wakes by John Wyndham was published by Michael Joseph in 1953. All references are to the 1973 Penguin paperback edition.

Related link

John Wyndham reviews

Other science fiction reviews

Late Victorian

1888 Looking Backward 2000-1887 by Edward Bellamy – Julian West wakes up in the year 2000 to discover a peaceful revolution has ushered in a society of state planning, equality and contentment
1890 News from Nowhere by William Morris – waking from a long sleep, William Guest is shown round a London transformed into villages of contented craftsmen

1895 The Time Machine by H.G. Wells – the unnamed inventor and time traveller tells his dinner party guests the story of his adventure among the Eloi and the Morlocks in the year 802,701
1896 The Island of Doctor Moreau by H.G. Wells – Edward Prendick is stranded on a remote island where he discovers the ‘owner’, Dr Gustave Moreau, is experimentally creating human-animal hybrids
1897 The Invisible Man by H.G. Wells – an embittered young scientist, Griffin, makes himself invisible, starting with comic capers in a Sussex village, and ending with demented murders
1899 When The Sleeper Wakes/The Sleeper Wakes by H.G. Wells – Graham awakes in the year 2100 to find himself at the centre of a revolution to overthrow the repressive society of the future
1899 A Story of the Days To Come by H.G. Wells – set in the same future London as The Sleeper Wakes, Denton and Elizabeth defy her wealthy family in order to marry, fall into poverty, and experience life as serfs in the Underground city run by the sinister Labour Corps

1900s

1901 The First Men in the Moon by H.G. Wells – Mr Bedford and Mr Cavor use the latter’s invention, an anti-gravity material they call ‘Cavorite’, to fly to the moon and discover the underground civilisation of the Selenites, leading up to its chasteningly moralistic conclusion
1904 The Food of the Gods and How It Came to Earth by H.G. Wells – scientists invent a compound which makes plants, animals and humans grow to giant size, prompting giant humans to rebel against the ‘little people’
1905 With the Night Mail by Rudyard Kipling – it is 2000 and the narrator accompanies a GPO airship across the Atlantic
1906 In the Days of the Comet by H.G. Wells – a comet passes through earth’s atmosphere and brings about ‘the Great Change’, inaugurating an era of wisdom and fairness, as told by narrator Willie Leadford
1908 The War in the Air by H.G. Wells – Bert Smallways, a bicycle-repairman from Kent, gets caught up in the outbreak of the war in the air which brings Western civilisation to an end
1909 The Machine Stops by E.M. Foster – people of the future live in underground cells regulated by ‘the Machine’ – until one of them rebels

1910s

1912 The Lost World by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle – Professor Challenger leads an expedition to a plateau in the Amazon rainforest where prehistoric animals still exist
1912 As Easy as ABC by Rudyard Kipling – set in 2065 in a world characterised by isolation and privacy, forces from the ABC are sent to suppress an outbreak of ‘crowdism’
1913 The Horror of the Heights by Arthur Conan Doyle – airman Captain Joyce-Armstrong flies higher than anyone before him and discovers the upper atmosphere is inhabited by vast jellyfish-like monsters
1914 The World Set Free by H.G. Wells – A history of the future in which the devastation of an atomic war leads to the creation of a World Government, told via a number of characters who are central to the change
1918 The Land That Time Forgot by Edgar Rice Burroughs – a trilogy of pulp novellas in which all-American heroes battle ape-men and dinosaurs on a lost island in the Antarctic

1920s

1921 We by Evgeny Zamyatin – like everyone else in the dystopian future of OneState, D-503 lives life according to the Table of Hours, until I-330 wakens him to the truth and they rebel
1925 Heart of a Dog by Mikhail Bulgakov – a Moscow scientist transplants the testicles and pituitary gland of a dead tramp into the body of a stray dog, with disastrous consequences
1927 The Maracot Deep by Arthur Conan Doyle – a scientist, an engineer and a hero are trying out a new bathysphere when the wire snaps and they hurtle to the bottom of the sea, where they discover unimaginable strangeness

1930s

1930 Last and First Men by Olaf Stapledon – mind-boggling ‘history’ of the future of mankind over the next two billion years – surely the vastest vista of any science fiction book
1938 Out of the Silent Planet by C.S. Lewis – baddies Devine and Weston kidnap Oxford academic, Ransom, and take him in their spherical spaceship to Malacandra, as the natives call the planet Mars, where mysteries and adventures unfold

1940s

1943 Perelandra (Voyage to Venus) by C.S. Lewis – Ransom is sent to Perelandra aka Venus, to prevent Satan tempting the planet’s new young inhabitants to a new Fall as he did on earth
1945 That Hideous Strength by C.S. Lewis – Ransom assembles a motley crew of heroes ancient and modern to combat the rise of an evil corporation which is seeking to overthrow mankind
1949 Nineteen Eighty-Four by George Orwell – after a nuclear war, inhabitants of ruined London are divided into the sheep-like ‘proles’ and members of the Party who are kept under unremitting surveillance

1950s

1950 I, Robot by Isaac Asimov – nine short stories about ‘positronic’ robots, which chart their rise from dumb playmates to controllers of humanity’s destiny
1950 The Martian Chronicles – 13 short stories with 13 linking passages loosely describing mankind’s colonisation of Mars, featuring strange, dreamlike encounters with vanished Martians
1951 Foundation by Isaac Asimov – the first five stories telling the rise of the Foundation created by psychohistorian Hari Seldon to preserve civilisation during the collapse of the Galactic Empire
1951 The Illustrated Man – eighteen short stories which use the future, Mars and Venus as settings for what are essentially earth-bound tales of fantasy and horror
1951 The Day of the Triffids by John Wyndham – the whole world turns out to watch the flashing lights in the sky caused by a passing comet and next morning wakes up blind, except for a handful of survivors who have to rebuild human society while fighting off the rapidly growing population of the mobile, intelligent, poison sting-wielding monster plants of the title
1952 Foundation and Empire by Isaac Asimov – two long stories which continue the future history of the Foundation set up by psycho-historian Hari Seldon as it faces attack by an Imperial general, and then the menace of the mysterious mutant known only as ‘the Mule’
1953 Second Foundation by Isaac Asimov – concluding part of the  Foundation Trilogy, which describes the attempt to preserve civilisation after the collapse of the Galactic Empire
1953 Earthman, Come Home by James Blish – the adventures of New York City, a self-contained space city which wanders the galaxy 2,000 years hence, powered by ‘spindizzy’ technology
1953 Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury – a masterpiece, a terrifying anticipation of a future when books are banned and professional firemen are paid to track down stashes of forbidden books and burn them – until one fireman, Guy Montag, rebels
1953 The Demolished Man by Alfred Bester – a fast-moving novel set in a 24th century New York populated by telepaths and describing the mental collapse of corporate mogul Ben Reich who starts by murdering his rival Craye D’Courtney and becomes progressively more psychotic as he is pursued by telepathic detective, Lincoln Powell
1953 Childhood’s End by Arthur C. Clarke one of my favourite sci-fi novels, a thrilling narrative describing the ‘Overlords’ who arrive from space to supervise mankind’s transition to the next stage in its evolution
1953 The Kraken Wakes by John Wyndham – some form of alien life invades earth in the shape of ‘fireballs’ from outer space which fall into the deepest parts of the earth’s oceans, followed by the sinking of ships passing over the ocean deeps, gruesome attacks of ‘sea tanks’ on ports and shoreline settlements around the world and then, in the final phase, the melting of the earth’s icecaps and global flooding
1954 The Caves of Steel by Isaac Asimov – set 3,000 years in the future when humans have separated into ‘Spacers’ who have colonised 50 other planets, and the overpopulated earth whose inhabitants live in enclosed cities or ‘caves of steel’, and introducing detective Elijah Baley who is tasked with solving a murder mystery
1954 Jizzle by John Wyndham – 15 short stories, from the malevolent monkey of the title story to a bizarre yarn about a tube train which goes to hell, a paychiatrist who projects the same idyllic dream into the minds of hundreds of women around London, to a dry run for The Chrysalids
1955 The Chrysalids by John Wyndham – hundreds of years after a nuclear war devastated North America, David Strorm grows up in a rural community run by God-fearing zealots obsessed with detecting mutant plants, livestock and – worst of all – human ‘blasphemies’ – caused by lingering radiation; but as he grows up, David realises he possesses a special mutation the Guardians of Purity have never dreamed of – the power of telepathy – and he’s not the only one, and soon he and his mind-melding friends are forced to flee to the Badlands in a race to survive
1956 The Naked Sun by Isaac Asimov – 3,000 years in the future detective Elijah Baley returns, with his robot sidekick, R. Daneel Olivaw, to solve a murder mystery on the remote planet of Solaria
Some problems with Isaac Asimov’s science fiction
1956 They Shall Have Stars by James Blish – explains the invention, in the near future, of i) the anti-death drugs and ii) the spindizzy technology which allow the human race to colonise the galaxy
1956 The Stars My Destination by Alfred Bester – a fast-paced phantasmagoria set in the 25th century where humans can teleport, a terrifying new weapon has been invented, and tattooed hard-man, Gulliver Foyle, is looking for revenge
1956 The Death of Grass by John Christopher – amid the backdrop of a worldwide famine caused by the Chung-Li virus which kills all species of grass (wheat, barley, oats etc) decent civil engineer John Custance finds himself leading his wife, two children and a small gang of followers out of London and across an England collapsing into chaos and barbarism in order to reach the remote valley which his brother had told him he was going to plant with potatoes and other root vegetables and which he knows is an easily defendable enclave
1957 The Midwich Cuckoos by John Wyndham – one night a nondescript English village is closed off by a force field, all the inhabitants within the zone losing consciousness. A day later the field disappears and the villagers all regain consciousness but two months later, all the fertile women in the place realise they are pregnant, and nine months later give birth to identical babies with platinum blonde hair and penetrating golden eyes, which soon begin exerting telepathic control over their parents and then the other villagers. Are they aliens, implanted in human wombs, and destined to supersede Homo sapiens as top species on the planet?
1959 The Triumph of Time by James Blish – concluding novel of Blish’s ‘Okie’ tetralogy in which mayor of New York John Amalfi and his friends are present at the end of the universe
1959 The Sirens of Titan by Kurt Vonnegut – Winston Niles Rumfoord builds a space ship to explore the solar system where encounters a chrono-synclastic infundibula, and this is just the start of a bizarre meandering fantasy which includes the Army of Mars attacking earth and the adventures of Boaz and Unk in the caverns of Mercury
1959 The Outward Urge by John Wyndham – a conventional space exploration novel in five parts which follow successive members of the Troon family over a 200-year period (1994 to 2194) as they help build the first British space station, command the British moon base, lead expeditions to Mars, to Venus, and ends with an eerie ‘ghost’ story

1960s

1960 Trouble With Lichen by John Wyndham – ardent feminist and biochemist Diana Brackley discovers a substance which slows down the ageing process, with potentially revolutionary implications for human civilisation, in a novel which combines serious insights into how women are shaped and controlled by society and sociological speculation with a sentimental love story and passages of broad social satire (about the beauty industry and the newspaper trade)
1961 A Fall of Moondust by Arthur C. Clarke a pleasure tourbus on the moon is sucked down into a sink of moondust, sparking a race against time to rescue the trapped crew and passengers
1961 Consider Her Ways and Others by John Wyndham – Six short stories dominated by the title track which depicts England a few centuries hence, after a plague has wiped out all men and the surviving women have been genetically engineered into four distinct types, the brainy Doctors, the brawny Amazons, the short Servitors, and the vast whale-like mothers into whose body a twentieth century woman doctor is unwittingly transported
1962 The Drowned World by J.G. Ballard – Dr Kerans is part of a UN mission to map the lost cities of Europe which have been inundated after solar flares melted the worlds ice caps and glaciers, but finds himself and his colleagues’ minds slowly infiltrated by prehistoric memories of the last time the world was like this, complete with tropical forest and giant lizards, and slowly losing their grasp on reality.
1962 The Voices of Time and Other Stories – Eight of Ballard’s most exquisite stories including the title tale about humanity slowly falling asleep even as they discover how to listen to the voices of time radiating from the mountains and distant stars, or The Cage of Sand where a handful of outcasts hide out in the vast dunes of Martian sand brought to earth as ballast which turned out to contain fatal viruses. Really weird and visionary.
1962 A Life For The Stars by James Blish – third in the Okie series about cities which can fly through space, focusing on the coming of age of kidnapped earther, young Crispin DeFord, aboard space-travelling New York
1962 The Man in the High Castle by Philip K. Dick In an alternative future America lost the Second World War and has been partitioned between Japan and Nazi Germany. The narrative follows a motley crew of characters including a dealer in antique Americana, a German spy who warns a Japanese official about a looming surprise German attack, and a woman determined to track down the reclusive author of a hit book which describes an alternative future in which America won the Second World War
1962 Mother Night by Kurt Vonnegut – the memoirs of American Howard W. Campbell Jr. who was raised in Germany and has adventures with Nazis and spies
1963 Cat’s Cradle by Kurt Vonnegut – what starts out as an amiable picaresque as the narrator, John, tracks down the so-called ‘father of the atom bomb’, Felix Hoenniker for an interview turns into a really bleak, haunting nightmare where an alternative form of water, ice-nine, freezes all water in the world, including the water inside people, killing almost everyone and freezing all water forever
1964 The Drought by J.G. Ballard – It stops raining. Everywhere. Fresh water runs out. Society breaks down and people move en masse to the seaside, where fighting breaks out to get near the water and set up stills. In part two, ten years later, the last remnants of humanity scrape a living on the vast salt flats which rim the continents, until the male protagonist decides to venture back inland to see if any life survives
1964 The Terminal Beach by J.G. Ballard – Ballard’s breakthrough collection of 12 short stories which, among more traditional fare, includes mind-blowing descriptions of obsession, hallucination and mental decay set in the present day but exploring what he famously defined as ‘inner space’
1964 Dr. Strangelove, or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb by Peter George – a novelisation of the famous Kubrick film, notable for the prologue written as if by aliens who arrive in the distant future to find an earth utterly destroyed by the events described in the main narrative
1966 Rocannon’s World by Ursula Le Guin – Le Guin’s first novel, a ‘planetary romance’ or ‘science fantasy’ set on Fomalhaut II where ethnographer and ‘starlord’ Gaverel Rocannon rides winged tigers and meets all manner of bizarre foes in his quest to track down the aliens who destroyed his spaceship and killed his colleagues, aided by sword-wielding Lord Mogien and a telepathic Fian
1966 Planet of Exile by Ursula Le Guin – both the ‘farborn’ colonists of planet Werel, and the surrounding tribespeople, the Tevarans, must unite to fight off the marauding Gaal who are migrating south as the planet enters its deep long winter – not a good moment for the farborn leader, Jakob Agat Alterra, to fall in love with Rolery, the beautiful, golden-eyed daughter of the Tevaran chief
1966 – The Crystal World by J.G. Ballard – Dr Sanders journeys up an African river to discover that the jungle is slowly turning into crystals, as does anyone who loiters too long, and becomes enmeshed in the personal psychodramas of a cast of lunatics and obsessives
1967 The Disaster Area by J.G. Ballard – Nine short stories including memorable ones about giant birds and the man who sees the prehistoric ocean washing over his quite suburb.
1967 City of Illusions by Ursula Le Guin – an unnamed humanoid with yellow cat’s eyes stumbles out of the great Eastern Forest which covers America thousands of years in the future when the human race has been reduced to a pitiful handful of suspicious rednecks or savages living in remote settlements. He is discovered and nursed back to health by a relatively benign commune but then decides he must make his way West in an epic trek across the continent to the fabled city of Es Toch where he will discover his true identity and mankind’s true history
1966 The Anti-Death League by Kingsley Amis
1968 2001: A Space Odyssey a panoramic narrative which starts with aliens stimulating evolution among the first ape-men and ends with a spaceman being transformed into a galactic consciousness
1968 Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? by Philip K. Dick – in 1992 androids are almost indistinguishable from humans except by trained bounty hunters like Rick Deckard who is paid to track down and ‘retire’ escaped ‘andys’ – earning enough to buy mechanical animals, since all real animals died long ago
1968 Chocky by John Wyndham – Matthew is the adopted son of an ordinary, middle-class couple who starts talking to a voice in his head who it takes the entire novel to persuade his parents is real and a telepathic explorer from a far distant planet
1969 The Andromeda Strain by Michael Crichton – describes in retrospect, in the style of a scientific inquiry, the crisis which unfolds after a fatal virus is brought back to earth by a space probe and starts spreading uncontrollably
1969 Ubik by Philip K. Dick – in 1992 the world is threatened by mutants with psionic powers who are combated by ‘inertials’. The novel focuses on the weird alternative world experienced by a group of inertials after they are involved in an explosion on the moon
1969 The Left Hand of Darkness by Ursula Le Guin – an envoy from the Ekumen or federation of advanced planets – Genly Ai – is sent to the planet Gethen to persuade its inhabitants to join the federation, but the focus of the book is a mind-expanding exploration of the hermaphroditism of Gethen’s inhabitants, as Genly is forced to undertake a gruelling trek across the planet’s frozen north with the disgraced native lord, Estraven, during which they develop a cross-species respect and, eventually, a kind of love
1969 Slaughterhouse-Five by Kurt Vonnegut – Vonnegut’s breakthrough novel in which he manages to combine his personal memories of being an American POW of the Germans and witnessing the bombing of Dresden in the character of Billy Pilgrim, with a science fiction farrago about Tralfamadorians who kidnap Billy and transport him through time and space – and introduces the catchphrase ‘so it goes’

1970s

1970 Tau Zero by Poul Anderson – spaceship Leonora Christine leaves earth with a crew of fifty to discover if humans can colonise any of the planets orbiting the star Beta Virginis, but when its deceleration engines are damaged, the crew realise they need to exit the galaxy altogether in order to find space with low enough radiation to fix the engines – and then a series of unfortunate events mean they find themselves forced to accelerate faster and faster, effectively travelling forwards through time as well as space until they witness the end of the entire universe – one of the most thrilling sci-fi books I’ve ever read
1970 The Atrocity Exhibition by J.G. Ballard – Ballard’s best book, a collection of fifteen short experimental texts in stripped-down prose bringing together key obsessions like car crashes, mental breakdown, World War III, media images of atrocities and clinical sex
1971 Vermilion Sands by J.G. Ballard – nine short stories including Ballard’s first, from 1956, most of which follow the same pattern, describing the arrival of a mysterious, beguiling woman in the fictional desert resort of Vermilion Sands, the setting for extravagantly surreal tales of the glossy, lurid and bizarre
1971 The Lathe of Heaven by Ursula Le Guin – thirty years in the future (in 2002) America is an overpopulated environmental catastrophe zone where meek and unassuming George Orr discovers that his dreams can alter reality, changing history at will. He comes under the control of visionary neuro-scientist, Dr Haber, who sets about using George’s powers to alter the world for the better, with unanticipated and disastrous consequences
1971 Mutant 59: The Plastic Eater by Kit Pedler and Gerry Davis – a genetically engineered bacterium starts eating the world’s plastic, leading to harum scarum escapades in disaster-stricken London
1972 The Word for World Is Forest by Ursula Le Guin – novella set on the planet Athshe describing its brutal colonisation by exploitative Terrans (who call it ‘New Tahiti’) and the resistance of the metre-tall, furry, native population of Athsheans, with their culture of dreamtime and singing
1972 The Fifth Head of Cerberus by Gene Wolfe – a mind-boggling trio of novellas set on a pair of planets 20 light years away, the stories revolve around the puzzle of whether the supposedly human colonists are, in fact, the descendants of the planets’ shape-shifting aboriginal inhabitants who murdered the first earth colonists and took their places so effectively that they have forgotten the fact and think themselves genuinely human
1973 Crash by J.G. Ballard – Ballard’s most ‘controversial’ novel, a searingly intense description of its characters’ obsession with the sexuality of car crashes, wounds and disfigurement
1973 Rendezvous With Rama by Arthur C. Clarke – in 2031 a 50-kilometre-long object of alien origin enters the solar system, so the crew of the spaceship Endeavour are sent to explore it in one of the most haunting and evocative novels of this type ever written
1973 Breakfast of Champions by Kurt Vonnegut – Vonnegut’s longest and most experimental novel with the barest of plots and characters allowing him to sound off about sex, race, America, environmentalism, with the appearance of his alter ego Kilgore Trout and even Vonnegut himself as a character, all enlivened by Vonnegut’s own naive illustrations and the throwaway catchphrase ‘And so on…’
1973 The Best of John Wyndham 1932 to 1949 – Six rather silly short stories dating, as the title indicates, from 1932 to 1949, with far too much interplanetary travel
1974 Concrete Island by J.G. Ballard – the short and powerful novella in which an advertising executive crashes his car onto a stretch of wasteland in the juncture of three motorways, finds he can’t get off it, and slowly adapts to life alongside its current, psychologically damaged inhabitants
1974 Flow My Tears, The Policeman Said by Philip K. Dick – America after the Second World War is a police state but the story is about popular TV host Jason Taverner who is plunged into an alternative version of this world where he is no longer a rich entertainer but down on the streets among the ‘ordinaries’ and on the run from the police. Why? And how can he get back to his storyline?
1974 The Dispossessed by Ursula Le Guin – in the future and 11 light years from earth, the physicist Shevek travels from the barren, communal, anarchist world of Anarres to its consumer capitalist cousin, Urras, with a message of brotherhood and a revolutionary new discovery which will change everything
1974 Inverted World by Christopher Priest – vivid description of a city on a distant planet which must move forwards on railway tracks constructed by the secretive ‘guilds’ in order not to fall behind the mysterious ‘optimum’ and avoid the fate of being obliterated by the planet’s bizarre lateral distorting, a vivid and disturbing narrative right up until the shock revelation of the last few pages
1975 High Rise by J.G. Ballard – an astonishingly intense and brutal vision of how the middle-class occupants of London’s newest and largest luxury, high-rise development spiral down from petty tiffs and jealousies into increasing alcohol-fuelled mayhem, disintegrating into full-blown civil war before regressing to starvation and cannibalism
1976 The Alteration by Kingsley Amis – a counterfactual narrative in which the Reformation never happened and so there was no Enlightenment, no Romantic revolution, no Industrial Revolution spearheaded by Protestant England, no political revolutions, no Victorian era when democracy and liberalism triumphed over Christian repression, with the result that England in 1976 is a peaceful medieval country ruled by officials of the all-powerful Roman Catholic Church
1976 Slapstick by Kurt Vonnegut – a madly disorientating story about twin freaks, a future dystopia, shrinking Chinese and communication with the afterlife
1979 The Unlimited Dream Company by J.G. Ballard – a strange combination of banality and visionary weirdness as an unhinged young man crashes his stolen plane in suburban Shepperton, and starts performing magical acts like converting the inhabitants into birds, conjuring up exotic foliage, convinced he is on a mission to liberate them
1979 Jailbird by Kurt Vonnegut – the satirical story of Walter F. Starbuck and the RAMJAC Corps run by Mary Kathleen O’Looney, a baglady from Grand Central Station, among other satirical notions, including the news that Kilgore Trout, a character who recurs in most of his novels, is one of the pseudonyms of a fellow prisoner at the gaol where Starbuck ends up serving a two year sentence, one Dr Robert Fender

1980s

1980 Russian Hide and Seek by Kingsley Amis – set in an England of 2035 after a) the oil has run out and b) a left-wing government left NATO and England was promptly invaded by the Russians in the so-called ‘the Pacification’, who have settled down to become a ruling class and treat the native English like 19th century serfs
1980 The Venus Hunters by J.G. Ballard – seven very early and often quite cheesy sci-fi short stories, along with a visionary satire on Vietnam (1969), and then two mature stories from the 1970s which show Ballard’s approach sliding into mannerism
1981 The Golden Age of Science Fiction edited by Kingsley Amis – 17 classic sci-fi stories from what Amis considers the ‘Golden Era’ of the genre, basically the 1950s
1981 Hello America by J.G. Ballard – a hundred years from now an environmental catastrophe has turned America into a vast desert, except for west of the Rockies which has become a rainforest of Amazonian opulence, and it is here that a ragtag band of explorers from old Europe discover a psychopath has crowned himself ‘President Manson’, revived an old nuclear power station to light up Las Vegas and plays roulette in Caesar’s Palace to decide which American city to nuke next
1981 The Affirmation by Christopher Priest – an extraordinarily vivid description of a schizophrenic young man living in London who, to protect against the trauma of his actual life (father died, made redundant, girlfriend committed suicide) invents a fantasy world, the Dream Archipelago, and how it takes over his ‘real’ life
1982 Myths of the Near Future by J.G. Ballard – ten short stories showing Ballard’s range of subject matter from Second World War China to the rusting gantries of Cape Kennedy
1982 2010: Odyssey Two by Arthur C. Clarke – Heywood Floyd joins a Russian spaceship on a two-year journey to Jupiter to a) reclaim the abandoned Discovery and b) investigate the monolith on Japetus
1984 Empire of the Sun by J.G. Ballard – his breakthrough book, ostensibly an autobiography focusing on this 1930s boyhood in Shanghai and then incarceration in a Japanese internment camp, observing the psychological breakdown of the adults around him: made into an Oscar-winning movie by Steven Spielberg: only later did it emerge that the book was intended as a novel and is factually misleading
1984 Neuromancer by William Gibson – Gibson’s stunning debut novel which establishes the ‘Sprawl’ universe, in which burnt-out cyberspace cowboy, Case, is lured by ex-hooker Molly into a mission led by ex-army colonel Armitage to penetrate the secretive corporation, Tessier-Ashpool, at the bidding of the vast and powerful artificial intelligence, Wintermute
1986 Burning Chrome by William Gibson – ten short stories, three or four set in Gibson’s ‘Sprawl’ universe, the others ranging across sci-fi possibilities, from a kind of horror story to one about a failing Russian space station
1986 Count Zero by William Gibson – second in the ‘Sprawl trilogy’: Turner is a tough expert at kidnapping scientists from one mega-tech corporation for another, until his abduction of Christopher Mitchell from Maas Biolabs goes badly wrong and he finds himself on the run, his storyline dovetailing with those of sexy young Marly Krushkhova, ‘disgraced former owner of a tiny Paris gallery’ who is commissioned by the richest man in the world to track down the source of a mysterious modern artwork, and Bobby Newmark, self-styled ‘Count Zero’ and computer hacker
1987 The Day of Creation by J.G. Ballard – strange and, in my view, profoundly unsuccessful novel in which WHO doctor John Mallory embarks on an obsessive quest to find the source of an African river accompanied by a teenage African girl and a half-blind documentary maker who films the chaotic sequence of events
1987 2061: Odyssey Three by Arthur C. Clarke – Spaceship Galaxy is hijacked and forced to land on Europa, moon of the former Jupiter, in a ‘thriller’ notable for Clarke’s descriptions of the bizarre landscapes of Halley’s Comet and Europa
1988 Memories of the Space Age Eight short stories spanning the 20 most productive years of Ballard’s career, presented in chronological order and linked by the Ballardian themes of space travel, astronauts and psychosis
1988 Running Wild by J.G. Ballard – the pampered children of a gated community of affluent professionals, near Reading, run wild and murder their parents and security guards
1988 Mona Lisa Overdrive by William Gibson – third of Gibson’s ‘Sprawl’ trilogy in which street-kid Mona is sold by her pimp to crooks who give her plastic surgery to make her look like global simstim star Angie Marshall, who they plan to kidnap; but Angie is herself on a quest to find her missing boyfriend, Bobby Newmark, one-time Count Zero; while the daughter of a Japanese gangster, who’s been sent to London for safekeeping, is abducted by Molly Millions, a lead character in Neuromancer

1990s

1990 War Fever by J.G. Ballard – 14 late short stories, some traditional science fiction, some interesting formal experiments like Answers To a Questionnaire from which you have to deduce the questions and the context
1990 The Difference Engine by William Gibson and Bruce Sterling – in an alternative version of history, Victorian inventor Charles Babbage’s design for an early computer, instead of remaining a paper theory, was actually built, drastically changing British society, so that by 1855 it is led by a party of industrialists and scientists who use databases and secret police to keep the population suppressed
1991 The Kindness of Women by J.G. Ballard – a sequel of sorts to Empire of the Sun which reprises the Shanghai and Japanese internment camp scenes from that book, but goes on to describe the author’s post-war experiences as a medical student at Cambridge, as a pilot in Canada, his marriage, children, writing and involvement in the avant-garde art scene of the 1960s and 70s: though based on  his own experiences the book is overtly a novel focusing on a small number of recurring characters who symbolise different aspects of the post-war world
1993 Virtual Light by William Gibson – first of Gibson’s Bridge Trilogy, in which cop-with-a-heart-of-gold Berry Rydell foils an attempt by crooked property developers to rebuild post-earthquake San Francisco
1994 Rushing to Paradise by J.G. Ballard – a sort of rewrite of Lord of the Flies in which a number of unbalanced environmental activists set up a utopian community on a Pacific island, ostensibly to save the local rare breed of albatross from French nuclear tests, but end up going mad and murdering each other
1996 Cocaine Nights by J. G. Ballard – sensible, middle-class Charles Prentice flies out to a luxury resort for British ex-pats on the Spanish Riviera to find out why his brother, Frank, is in a Spanish prison charged with murder, and discovers the resort has become a hotbed of ‘transgressive’ behaviour – i.e. sex, drugs and organised violence – which has come to bind the community together
1996 Idoru by William Gibson – second novel in the ‘Bridge’ trilogy: Colin Laney has a gift for spotting nodal points in the oceans of data in cyberspace, and so is hired by the scary head of security for a pop music duo, Lo/Rez, to find out why his boss, the half-Irish singer Rez, has announced he is going to marry a virtual reality woman, an idoru; meanwhile schoolgirl Chia MacKenzie flies out to Tokyo and unwittingly gets caught up in smuggling new nanotechnology device which is the core of the plot
1999 All Tomorrow’s Parties by William Gibson – third of the Bridge Trilogy in which main characters from the two previous books are reunited on the ruined Golden Gate bridge, including tough ex-cop Rydell, sexy bike courier Chevette, digital babe Rei Toei, Fontaine the old black dude who keeps an antiques shop, as a smooth, rich corporate baddie seeks to unleash a terminal shift in the world’s dataflows and Rydell is hunted by a Taoist assassin

2000s

2000 Super-Cannes by J.G. Ballard – Paul Sinclair packs in his London job to accompany his wife, who’s landed a plum job as a paediatrician at Eden-Olympia, an elite business park just outside Cannes in the South of France; both are unnerved to discover that her predecessor, David Greenwood, one day went to work with an assault rifle, shot dead several senior executives before shooting himself; when Paul sets out to investigate, he discovers the business park is a hotbed of ‘transgressive’ behaviour i.e. designer drugs, BDSM sex, and organised vigilante violence against immigrants down in Cannes, and finds himself and his wife being sucked into its disturbing mind-set
2003 Pattern Recognition by William Gibson – first of the ‘Blue Ant’ trilogy, set very much in the present, around the London-based advertising agency Blue Ant, founded by advertising guru Hubertus Bigend who hires Cayce Pollard, supernaturally gifted logo approver and fashion trend detector, to hunt down the maker of mysterious ‘footage’ which has started appearing on the internet, a quest that takes them from New York and London, to Tokyo, Moscow and Paris
2007 Spook Country by William Gibson – second in the ‘Blue Ant’ trilogy
2008 Miracles of Life by J.G. Ballard – right at the end of his life, Ballard wrote a straightforward autobiography in which he makes startling revelations about his time in the Japanese internment camp (he really enjoyed it!), insightful comments about science fiction, but the real theme is his moving expressions of love for his three children

Landseer’s The Monarch of the Glen @ the National Gallery

The National Gallery uses room 1 to focus on particular works. (To get there go into the main Trafalgar Square entrance of the gallery, then turn immediate left up the steps, and left again at the landing). These exhibitions, small and thoughtful, are always free.

At the moment they’re displaying one of the world’s best-known animal paintings, Edwin Landseer’s The Monarch of the Glen, alongside fourteen other paintings and drawings, to set the picture in the context of Landseer’s own technical and psychological development, showing how he developed his distinctive approach to the representation of the stag as hero.

The Monarch of the Glen (1851) by Edwin Landseer © National Galleries of Scotland

The Monarch of the Glen (1851) by Edwin Landseer © National Galleries of Scotland

The double doors take up most on one wall so there are in effect three walls in the room:

  • the left-hand wall indicates some of the intellectual and artistic preparation
  • straight ahead is the monarch himself, magnificent, flanked by two other Landseer oil paintings of stags
  • the right-hand wall is devoted to the lion sculptures in Trafalgar Square

1. Preparation

Landseer (1802 to 1873) was one of the most famous and successful artists of his time. Immense painterly talent, charm and good looks helped Landseer achieve early success and he was knighted by Queen Victoria in 1850. I didn’t know that, even this young, he was struggling with alcoholism and mental illness.

Landseer had a deep knowledge of earlier painters, such as Rubens, and experimented with large scale complex compositions in the style of the Old Master.

The half dozen drawings and paintings here include a copy of the head of Christ on the Cross, taken from a painting by Rubens. In 1840 Landseer had had a breakdown, and, for his recovery, his doctors suggested a change of scene, so he went on the tour of Europe. He made this very evocative copy on a visit to Antwerp. We know that Rubens compositions lay behind some of Landseer’s earliest representations of horses and dogs, but the head of Christ powerfully introduces the idea of nobility and sacrifice. More, the Rubens Christ suggests a vision of a lone animal struggling against a hostile universe.

Christ on the Cross after Rubens (1840s) by Edwin Landseer. Royal Collection Trust © Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II

Christ on the Cross after Rubens (1840s) by Edwin Landseer. Royal Collection Trust © Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II

Unexpectedly, there’s a drawing by George Stubbs, with a story behind it. Stubbs (1724 to 1806) was of course the great painter of horses. In the 1750s he made hundreds of detailed anatomical drawings of horses for his revolutionary book, The Anatomy of Horses, published in 1766. Amazingly, Landseer acquired the entire collection in around 1817 (i.e. still a boy) and they provided crucial inspiration for the young Landseer’s own studies of animal anatomy.

Next to it is a detailed (and rather gruesome) study by Landseer of the flayed leg of a dog. This kind of detailed study of the weaving of muscle and tendon over bone was and is still referred to as an écorché. This is just one of countless écorchés which Landseer made the better to understand the anatomy of the animals he wanted to pain.

Nearby a pencil study of a dead stag combines some of these themes, Landseer’s staggering draughtmanship, based on detailed study of anatomy, underpinned by profound pathos at the fate of a noble animal cruelly, tragically struck down.

A Dead Stag by Edwin Landseer. Black and white chalk on paper © National Galleries of Scotland

A Dead Stag by Edwin Landseer © National Galleries of Scotland

2. Monarch and other stags

The Monarch of the Glen is hung on the wall facing the visitor, flanked by two other paintings featuring stags. It is by far Landseer’s most famous painting and one of the most famous paintings of an animal in the world.

It was undertaken for the Parliamentary Fine Arts Commission as one of three paintings showing ‘the chase’ i.e. hunting deer. It was originally commissioned to hang above panelling in the dining room of the House of Lords. What a grand location, a constant reminder to the Lords of their nobility and the striking scenery of one of the constituent parts of Great Britain! However, in a typically British fashion, when the time came to pay, the House of Commons refused to grant the £150 promised for the commission, and so the painting went on public sale in the National Gallery and was sold to a private owner. Since then it has passed through about ten sets of hands before the Scottish National Gallery successfully ran a public campaign to buy it for £4 million from the British multinational alcoholic beverages company, Diageo.

The Monarch of the Glen (1851) by Edwin Landseer © National Galleries of Scotland

The Monarch of the Glen (1851) by Edwin Landseer © National Galleries of Scotland

It was intended to be hung above head height. In other words we are looking up, while the stag is painted serenely looking over our heads into an imagined distance.

Knowing what we now do about Landseer’s mental problems and having Rubens’ Christ fresh in our minds we at least understand Landseer’s intention, if it is in practice difficult to put into words, of conveying the idea of nobility, the idea of a kind of superior spirituality which retains its dignity even in a hostile world.

The commentary points out how Landseer gives tints of light to the tips of the stag’s antlers. This subtly conveys the idea of a band of sunlight breaking through clouds to reflect on the antlers, which we cannot see but which the stag can. It sees the view our backs to. It sees – and knows something which we cannot.

There’s a lot more to be said, about the fantastic painting of the deer’s skin and pelt and fur, the way Landseer captures its variations and shimmer – and of course about the violet colouring of the distant crags, a bringing to perfection of the romantic vision of the Scottish Highlands which was to become iconic.

It comes, then, as an amusing surprise to discover that Landseer painted the entire picture in his studio in St John’s Wood where he kept an extensive menagerie, including deer. And he had, of course, been undertaking regular trips to Scotland, sketching and painting, since 1824,

3. Lions

In 1858 Landseer accepted a prestigious commission to create four sculptures of lions to flank Nelson’s column, directly outside the National Gallery, in Trafalgar Square, completing William Railton’s original design for the monument. Landseer’s appointment proved controversial because he was not a sculptor, however his widespread fame as a painter of animals outweighed reservations.

Landseer prepared by, among other things, spending several years doing detailed drawings of the lions at London Zoo. This all contains four drawings and oil sketches, plus a portrait of Landseer working on the actual sculptures in his studio. This is one of two large oil sketches that Landseer made at the London Zoological Gardens which wonderfully captures the menace and power of a pacing lion.

Study of a Lion (about 1862) by Edwin Landseer © Tate, London

Study of a Lion (about 1862) by Edwin Landseer © Tate, London

There are several more sketches and the painting of him working on one of the clay sculptures which were then cast in bronze, done by John Ballantyne.

it was not immediately obvious why four pictures of lions were in an exhibition devoted to the Monarch of the Glen, except that they are further proof of Landseer’s stunning skill at painting animals and the even simpler fact that the results are there for all visitors to go and visit, after they’ve exited the gallery into the square outside.

Curators talk

I really praise the National Gallery for not only hosting extended talks or lectures or discussions about their exhibitions, but for going to the trouble of filming them and posting them on YouTube.

If you have the time, this is a really good way to enter the world of the art or exhibition being discussed.

Here are Susan Foister, curator of Landseer’s The Monarch of the Glen, and Daniel F. Herrmann, National Gallery curator, discussing the Landseer display.


Related links

Reviews of other National Gallery exhibitions

A Clergyman’s Daughter by George Orwell (1935)

She did not reflect, consciously, that the solution to her difficulty lay in accepting the fact that there was no solution; that if one gets on with the job that lies to hand, the ultimate purpose of the job fades into insignificance; that faith and no faith are very much the same provided that one is doing what is customary, useful, and acceptable. (p.295)

Orwell’s second novel, published in March 1935, is an oddity. A decade later he wrote it off as a potboiler and he even prevented it from being republished when the original print run sold out.

Along with its fellows Keep the Aspidistra Flying (1936) and Coming Up For Air (1939), A Clergyman’s Daughter is generally overlooked because readers in a hurry prioritise his world-class classics, Animal Farm and Nineteen Eighty-Four, and the reportage of Down and Out in Paris and London, The Road to Wigan Pier, and Homage to Catalonia, and the brisk, no-nonsense clarity of his numerous political and literary essays.

Are these neglected novels worth reading?

A Clergyman’s Daughter

A Clergyman’s Daughter is divided into five distinct parts and, once you’ve finished the book, you realise they don’t fully hang together, both stylistically and in terms of plot.

Part one

Introduces us to Dorothy Hare, the only child of the Reverend Charles Hare, Rector of St Athelstan’s Church, Knype Hill, a large village in Suffolk. Dorothy is pushing 28, plain and honest, wakes up every morning around 6am to light the kitchen fire and heat the water for her father to shave in, and makes breakfast for him. They have a lacklustre live-in servant, Ellen, but the atmosphere is of extremely run-down, shabby-genteel poverty. Dorothy is continually berating herself for failing her own religious ideals – exemplified by her habit of sticking her hat pin into her forearm every time her mind wanders off during Holy Communion or she has a wicked thought. Consequently, her arm is a rash of little red marks.

In among a detailed account of her daily routine (visiting the rural poor, shopping with her meagre allowance and trying to manage the rector’s debts with the numerous town merchants) we learn she is sort of friends with the shamelessly immoral local ‘artist’ (who never paints anything), Warburton, who has a mistress and three illegitimate children. Warburton invites Dorothy to dinner to meet a novelist friend and his wife.

The novelist couple never turn up. In fact, they don’t even exist: fat (always the worst crime for tall, skinny Orwell), bald (another no-no) middle-aged Warburton invented them solely to lure Dorothy to his house under a false sense of security so he can seduce her. This consists of standing behind the after-dinner chair she’s sitting in, placing his hands on her shoulders and then running them up and down her bare arms. Dorothy leaps to her feet and tells him to stop, insists on putting on her coat and leaving. At the gate to his garden he tries to kiss her but she averts her mouth, wriggles free of his grasp and walks home to the rectory. Here, as chastisement to herself for getting into such a ridiculous situation, Dorothy carries on preparing costumes for the children’s village play, though it’s midnight and she keeps dozing off…

Part two 

Opens with a surprising piece of experimental prose describing a human being slowly waking to consciousness of themselves, as a mind, as a series of sensations, as a body and then of a unified person. It is the nearest Orwell gets to acknowledging the influence of James Joyce or Virginia Woolf among the many other modernist novelists who were experimenting with stream of consciousness prose and other attempts to describe non-normal states of mind.

Dorothy has lost her memory. She slowly comes to awareness, standing on a street in London dressed in shabby black outfit, with no idea who she is or how she got there. If a sympathetic helper had taken her to a police station she might have quickly regained her past, but instead she is almost immediately taken up by three street people, two young lads and a girl, who are off to Kent to pick hops.

Confused and dazzled by their patter (specially when they discover she is the proud owner of half a crown), she finds herself inveigled into the shattering process of walking the thirty or more miles into Kent, which takes three days of hunger and begging. This ordeal is followed by even more penurious traipsing round Kent farms looking for work. Finally they get ‘lucky’ and Dorothy spends a month or so in the extremely demanding and badly-paid work of picking hops by hand, alongside a community of other hop pickers, beggars from London, and bands of gypsies.

The introduction to the modern Penguin edition I’m reading refers to the fact that in Orwell’s original conception of the novel, at the end of part one Warburton successfully seduces or rapes Dorothy, before bundling her into a car and driving her to London, there – presumably – to dump her and abandon her on the street, as we find her in part two. This is in fact the account given to everybody, including the press, by the village gossip, Mrs Semprill, who claims to have seen Warburton driving off at speed in his car, with a scantily-clad woman in the passenger seat. However, apparently due to the risk of prosecution, the whole rape scene had to be dropped and replaced with the weird non-sequitur we now have – in the text as we have it Dorothy resists the seduction and goes safely home to the rectory where she dozes off and then… mysteriously appears in London.

Eventually, right at the end of the hop-picking sequence she comes across a newspaper giving salacious account of ‘Scandal of Rector’s Daughter’, complete with photo, which repeats Mrs Semprill’s salacious account – and Dorothy undergoes the physical shock of realising it is her in the newspaper – this is her name and identity and story!

But even with her memory back, she can’t make sense of the account the newspaper gives of her being seen sitting in a car being driven by Warburton. Did he get her drunk and persuade her to elope with him? That’s certainly not what happens at the end of part one as we have it. Of course, Dorothy’s version – resisting seduction, cycling home, falling asleep – could be explained away as a kind of ‘fake memory’ she concocts to repress the brutal truth, as sometimes happens to trauma victims. But then the third-person narrator who described her cycling home would have been deliberately misleading us, which seems unlikely because part one is narrated in Orwell’s sensible, matter-of-fact voice.

If in doubt, I simply go with what is in the text – so many novels, plays, and especially movies and TV series, have mucked about with time and consecutive narrative, with shock reversals, ‘it was all a dream’ scenarios, that we 21st century readers are very used to all kinds of tricks and sleights of hand. She fell asleep in her rectory. She wakes up in London nine days later having lost her memory. OK. I’ll buy that.

Meanwhile, the detailed description of going ‘on the tramp’ down to Kent, of begging and scrounging on the road, and then of the hard outdoors life of the hop picker, are quite obviously straight from Orwell’s personal experience. It has the scrupulous attention to detail of his other works of reportage, right down to the appearance of individual pickers, details of conditions on the farm, the disadvantages of sleeping in straw as opposed to hay, the slang of the various tramps and beggars, the songs sung by the pickers and the gypsies, and much much more. If you skip part two’s ‘experimental’ woman-with-amnesia opening section, this long passage of reportage could easily have been added into Down and Out in Paris and London.

So: by the end of part two Dorothy has remembered her identity and quit the hop-picking (which was drawing to its end anyway). She makes her way back to London where she pawns her last belongings and spends the money rooming for a week in a filthy, damp room in a run-down lodging house for prostitutes off the Cut, behind Waterloo Bridge. She had written to her father from the hop camp hoping he’d reply, forgive her and take her back. But no reply comes. She writes again from London, but no reply.

Dorothy spends her one week with a roof over her head in public libraries copying out adverts for servants and then traipsing all over London to apply for them. But she finds that a single woman, with an educated accent and no luggage, is instantly perceived as what she in fact is (is she?) – a woman who’s been seduced and dumped. An immoral woman. Her predicament is an opportunity for a characteristic outburst of Orwell’s love of social ‘types’ (and studied dislike of health cranks).

She trudged enormous distances all through the southern suburbs: Clapham, Brixton, Dulwich, Penge, Sydenham, Beckenham, Norwood – even as far as Croydon on one occasion. She was was haled into neat suburban drawing-rooms and interviewed by women of every conceivable type – large, chubby, bullying women, thin, acid, catty women, alert, frigid women in gold pince-nez, vague rambling women who looked as though they practised vegetarianism or attended spiritualist seances. (p.147)

Dorothy can find no work. At the end of the week she is forced out of the lodging house and onto the street.

Part three

Continues the vein of stylistic experimentation – confirming the sense from the opening of part two that Orwell is dipping his toe into contemporary modernist techniques. For part three is written entirely in script format, giving brief location settings and then extended passages of the dialogue of various characters. He uses the format to convey the incessant and inane chatter of the down-and-outs, hobos and tramps among whom Dorothy has fallen, congregated one bitter night in Trafalgar Square – namely Charlie, Snouter, Mr Tallboys, Deafie, Mrs Wayne, Mrs Bendigo, Ginger and The Kike.

I find scripts difficult and boring to read and Orwell seems to agree. This is by far the shortest section, making up only 30 pages of this 300-page novel, with a few passages of prose scattered in it to explain the few bits of action, and it soon gets tiresome. I can, however, see that the script format emphasises the way that:

a) Nothing happens; the tramps mostly just lie or sit around near benches in Trafalgar Square in a kind of Samuel Beckett-like stasis.
b) Also, they are each stuck within their own stories and so don’t converse, don’t talk to each other: each one is like a robot or the proverbial cracked gramophone record – the old lady cursing her husband for kicking her out, mad Deafie singing an obscene song over and over, Ginger complaining about how he was set up to organise a robbery where he was caught and sent to prison. Each one is a prisoner of their own consciousness and life story.

Around midnight, Charlie starts stamps up and down giving a rousing performance of the bawdy ballad, ‘Rollicking Bill The Sailor’, evidently a song Orwell has heard, and which I tracked down on YouTube. It certainly is as bawdy as Orwell claims (again, due to publishing law, Orwell doesn’t include any of the lyrics):

Thus we are to imagine the chaste and devout rector’s daughter among this company of obscene automatons, a picture of human misery.

DOROTHY [starting up]: Oh, this cold, this cold! I don’t know whether it’s worse when you’re sitting down or when you’re standing up. Oh, how can you all stand it? Surely you don’t have to do this every night of your lives?
MRS WAYNE: You mustn’t think, dearie, as there isn’t SOME of us wasn’t brought up respectable.
CHARLIE [singing]: Cheer up, cully, you’ll soon be dead! Brrh! Perishing Jesus! Ain’t my fish-hooks blue! [Double marks time and beats his arms against his sides.]
DOROTHY: Oh, but how can you stand it? How can you go on like this, night after night, year after year? It’s not possible that people can live so! It’s so absurd that one wouldn’t believe it if one didn’t know it was true. It’s impossible!

In the end, she is arrested for vagrancy by the – it must be said – not unfriendly policeman who patrols the Square.

Part four

After these experimental episodes the narrative reverts to a traditional third-person voice for a refreshingly humorous passage going back to Knype Hill and describing how the rector was awoken by Ellen the servant, on the morning of Dorothy’s disappearance, and was more shocked by the fact that he had to prepare his own breakfast than by the news that his daughter had eloped.

Being completely hopeless, the rector hands the task of tracking Dorothy down over to his cousin, Sir Thomas Hare, from the moneyed part of the family, who lives in London and so is assumed to have ‘contacts’.

The Sir Thomas sections are done in broad humour for he is a caricature of a Sir Bufton-Tufton type, all ‘what what’ and tugging on his moustachios, while continually forgetting what he is saying.

Sir Thomas Hare was a widower, a good-hearted, chuckle-headed man of about sixty-five, with an obtuse rosy face and curling moustaches. He dressed by preference in checked overcoats and curly brimmed bowler hats that were at once dashingly smart and four decades out of date. At a first glance he gave the impression of having carefully disguised himself as a cavalry major of the ‘nineties, so that you could hardly look at him without thinking of devilled bones with a b and s, and the tinkle of hansom bells, and the Pink ‘Un in its great ‘Pitcher’ days, and Lottie Collins and ‘Tarara-BOOM-deay’. But his chief characteristic was an abysmal mental vagueness. He was one of those people who say ‘Don’t you know?’ and ‘What! What!’ and lose themselves in the middle of their sentences. When he was puzzled or in difficulties, his moustaches seemed to bristle forward, giving him the appearance of a well-meaning but exceptionally brainless prawn. (Chapter 4.1)

He has a manservant, Blyth, who speaks so softly you have to watch his lips carefully to make out what he is saying. This character feels directly descended from Dickens, as Sir Thomas descends from a long line of titled buffoons sprinkled throughout English fiction. The rector sends Sir Thomas some money and asks him to find out Dorothy’s whereabouts. Sir Thomas passes this request onto the silkily efficient Blyth (reminiscent, maybe, of the legendary Jeeves and a thousand other silently capable butlers of popular fiction) who commences his task the day after Dorothy had been arrested and bailed for vagrancy. Blyth swiftly locates Dorothy, approaches her in the street and invites her back to Sir Thomas’s Mayfair house. Astonished at this turn of events, Dorothy goes with him, washes, buys a new outfit of clothes and is transformed.

Kindly Sir Thomas is flabbergasted by how impressive she looks and speaks. What to do next? Somehow it is assumed by everyone that she can’t go back to Knype Hill – ‘the shame my dear’ – and so Sir Thomas’s solicitor suggests she gets a job as teacher in a suburban prep school. Within days it is arranged and she departs for Ringwood House Academy for Girls in Southbridge, ‘a repellent suburb ten or a dozen miles from London’.

There follows a long chapter satirising the shortcomings of minor private schools in the 1930s, reminiscent of Evelyn Waugh’s debut, Decline and Fall (1930). Most of the public school authors of this generation (Auden, Waugh, Greene, Orwell himself) did a spot of private school teaching, Orwell in 1932 and 1932 at a private school in Hayes, West London – an experience this chapter is very much indebted to.

Ringwood House turns out to be a scandalous scam, run by the scheming, bitter, joyless Mrs Creevy who’s made a living dunning money from the uneducated local shopkeeper parents of fifteen or so girls from age 8 or so to 15, who have remained scandalously uneducated. The previous teacher had been sacked for getting paralytically drunk in class. Initially daunted at the responsibility of being ‘a teacher’, Dorothy finds out on the first morning that the children know nothing, have been taught nothing. Their lessons consisted solely of hours practicing their hand-writing – forced to write out over and over a trite ‘essay’ about the joys of spring – of learning a handful of French phrases, and the bare minimum of ‘sums’ i.e. some adding and subtracting.

We remember from part one the love and attention Dorothy lavished on the school play back at Knype Hill and so are not surprised that, first chance she gets, she goes into London to buy a decent atlas, some mathematical tools, some plasticine and a bunch of copies of Macbeth. She sets the girls to building a map of the world out of the plasticine, pins up a frieze of paper round the wall to create a timeline of British history onto which they pin pictures cut out from magazines of historical characters, and so on. The children love her.

But, ‘of course’, it can’t last. The children love their daily joint reading of Macbeth but in the last scene, when MacDuff explains that he was from his mother’s womb untimely ripped, many of the children end up going back home that night and ask their puritanical non-conformist parents what a ‘womb’ is. This causes a rebellion of outraged parents who the next day storm into Ringwood House and subject Dorothy to a humiliating inquisition which brings her close to tears.

That isn’t all. Even when they’ve left, Mrs Creevy starts on Dorothy in her own right, carefully and cynically explaining the situation: the children are not to be educated; they are to be rote taught to perform the basic tricks which their parents expect of them – fancy handwriting, a handful of French phrases, enough maths to be able to help out in the shop. Mrs Creevy throws away the plasticine map of the world, burns the timeline of British history and sells the copies of Macbeth.

Dorothy, in complete misery, has to abandon any hope of genuinely teaching her children: she needs this job; the memory of the nights in Trafalgar Square rises up before her; she has no choice but to obey wretched Mrs Creevy. When the new Dorothy appears before them, the children’s attitude turns from disbelief to devastation to sullen bitter resentment. They taunt her, play up, act rebellious. She has abandoned them; they take every opportunity to rub it in. In the climax of her humiliation, Dorothy finds herself taunted one step too far by the most vicious child and hits her. She has become her own worst nightmare.

She submits to Mrs Creevy’s every whim. She completely abases herself up to and including faking the children’s end-of-year school reports. They have all made ‘outstanding progress’. Dorothy receives small indicators from frosty old Mrs Creevy that she is warming to her. It is a recurrent joke that Mrs Creevy half starves Dorothy but in the last weeks before the end of term she allows her slightly more food and – in a solemnly comic moment – even (reluctantly) allows her access to the marmalade jar at breakfast.

However, it is only the more effectively to trick her. On the very last day of term, when Dorothy expects to have her contract renewed, Mrs Creevy summarily sacks her. A wizened old crone from another wretched private school has agreed to decamp to Mrs Creevy’s establishment, bringing with her half a dozen paying pupils. This is a financial boost Mrs Creevy cannot ignore and so – despite having humiliated herself and stomped all over her better nature and principles in order to please her – Dorothy finds herself out on her ear again. Mrs Creevy turns the screw by promising to forward her luggage once Dorothy is established somewhere – but for a fee of five shillings!

Part five

BUT there is to be a fairy-tale ending, worthy of Charles Dickens whose spirit hovers over so much of Orwell’s writing.

Just as Oliver Twist spends 400 pages enduring life among thieves and beggars on the streets of London, only to be magically revealed as the heir to a fortune in the final pages – so Dorothy is walking down the street when who should draw up in a taxi but – a beaming chuckling Warburton!

Immediately we are swept out of the world of powerless poverty and into the calm confidence of the amiable man-of-the-world. When he hears that Mrs Creevy has gouged the five shillings out of Dorothy, he turns the cab round and he and the cabman go and retrieve the money – just like that. ‘What a hole’, Warburton comments of the school, calmly and confidently, and away he whisks her.

For the reader, who has accompanied Dorothy on her knees through so many valleys of humiliation, it is an astonishing psychological transformation to be lifted into the bright sunlight. It is also striking that it is effected by a man. There is a sense of re-entering a kind of virile world of power and activity. Warburton, in his way, is every bit as nonchalantly confident and effective as the equally caddish Verrall, in the previous novel, Burmese Days. Maybe this is:

  1. an unconscious prejudice on Orwell’s part – that the feminine is helpless victim and the masculine bold and decisive
  2. or is a deliberate piece of feminist satire, highlighting how helpless and downtrodden a woman can be by patriarchal society
  3. or is simply the structural requirement that there had to be some kind of ‘salvation’ from Dorothy’s apparently endless plight, and ‘poetic justice’ makes it come from the very man who apparently caused it all in the first place
  4. or a combination of all the above

In short order Warburton tells Dorothy that Mrs Semprill’s salacious account of their elopement has been disproved, she is redeemed not only with the good gossips of Knype Hill but with her father, who wants her to return home immediately. He takes her for a slap-up meal and then they catch a train to Suffolk. The topic of conversation turns to Dorothy’s ‘loss of faith’, Warburton disputes that she was ever a Christian, but could never actually face it. Hence her loss of memory  -it was a psychological route out of an impossible situation:

He saw that she did not understand, and explained to her that loss of memory is only a device, unconsciously used, to escape from an impossible situation. The mind, he said, will play curious tricks when it is in a tight corner. Dorothy had never heard of anything of this kind before, and she could not at first accept his explanation.

Neither can we. Why did this tight corner suddenly occur on that night rather than any other? And how did she get to London?

Meanwhile, the train journey turns into a long discussion of faith and its absence i.e. living in a meaningless universe. This is no problem for Warburton, who is an amused hedonist: everything boils down to pleasure. But Dorothy tries to express the strangeness of the feeling she’s experiencing, living in a world newly devoid of faith. Imperceptibly, by steps, Warburton manoeuvres Dorothy into a mood wherein he suddenly takes off his hat (revealing his pink bald head) and proposes marriage to her. The reader is as startled as Dorothy. He follows up by spending two pages painting an extremely biting portrait of what the rest of her life will be like as a skivvy to her increasingly impoverished and gaga father, and then how she’ll be left penniless at his death and have to take a job as a governess or return to school-teaching. This is the fate of the spinster woman in the 1930s.

It is a hypnotically awful prospect and allows Warburton to take Dorothy’s hand, lift her to her feet, and then he’s begun to embrace her and is moving to kiss her before the spell is broken. Dorothy realises it was all yet another attempt of the revolting bald fat old man to seduce her.

a) It’s a strikingly slow-building scene b) It tends, yet again, to completely refute the rape notion.

Dorothy leaps back, revolted. Warburton subsides into his seat, amused and cynical: oh well, it was worth a try. The rest of the journey continues in trivial chat.

Dorothy is delivered back to her father who is delighted that his breakfasts will now be served on time. He accepts her explanation that she ‘lost her memory’ though she sees that he doesn’t really believe her. The final section of the book is a fairly long meditation on Dorothy’s loss of faith. What does it mean to live in a world without God? How can she continue to go through the motions of helping out at communion and other services, of officiating over semi-religious works with the Girl Guides and so on? She is back in the scullery making fancy dress costumes, this time for the big pageant she is organising, on her knees cutting and pasting just as she did when she ‘fell asleep’ in part one. She prays for help, for guidance in her Unbelief – and is suddenly brought back to the present by the smell of the glue heating on a pot on the stove. The glue brings her back to the world of projects and tasks. She really must get on with the costumes. Then there are the village bills to be paid. Dinner tonight to organise. And so on.

She has discovered one of the great truths – that happiness or contentment, ‘meaning’ or ‘purpose’ aren’t things in themselves – they are the by-products of absorption in a task.

She did not know this. She did not reflect, consciously, that the solution to her difficulty lay in accepting the fact that there was no solution; that if one gets on with the job that lies to hand, the ultimate purpose of the job fades into insignificance; that faith and no faith are very much the same provided that one is doing what is customary, useful, and acceptable. She could not formulate these thoughts as yet, she could only live them. Much later, perhaps, she would formulate them and draw comfort from them. (p.295)

And this makes sense of the epigraph to the book, a quote from Hymns Ancient and Modern:

The trivial round, the common task

from the hymn New every morning is the love written by John Keble in 1827. Read as autobiography, the opening and especially the close of the book suggest Orwell’s strong, unbreakable roots within the Anglican tradition.

Conclusion

Rape or memory loss?

There’s a lot to consider and mull over in this book: the biting portraits of poverty among the down-and-outs and the back-breaking work of the hop-pickers; the long section exposing the scandal of fourth-rate private schools; the decision to use ‘experimental’ techniques; the final meditation on the meaning of life. But the central question is, How effective or believable is the character of the clergyman’s daughter – Dorothy – herself?

Certainly Orwell’s aim is to be sympathetic to women. The book is a sort of rake’s progress through 1930s England except the central character is deliberately a woman in order to show the hundred small humiliations as well as a couple of huge central injustices, to which women of his day were liable to be victim.

Nonetheless, there are scores of problems. The whole novel is predicated on the notion that Dorothy is hopelessly shamed by being seduced and dumped – exactly as in the cheesiest Victorian melodrama. But in this bowdlerised/confused narrative, she isn’t raped or seduced, she went home to work on the school play costumes and then… then what? We never really find out why she ends up a week later in London in strange clothes with no memory. In chapter 5 Dorothy herself appears to give the reason to Warburton:

‘And do you think that’s really the end of it? Do you think they honestly believe that it was all an accident — that I only lost my memory and didn’t elope with anybody?’

As to why she lost her memory, there’s Warburton’s explanation that it was something to do with mental conflict, with her realising she was not a Christian — but there had been absolutely no indication of that in the previous text. And anyway, none of this explains how she came to be standing in a London street in someone else’s clothes eight days later.

Lacking this central motor for the plot, all the ancillary circumstances seem forced and gratuitous. Why can’t she go back to her father? Why doesn’t she contact the police and ask them to intervene? Or any other family members? Why doesn’t she go to the nearest church and explain the situation?

It’s hard to work out, but she fails to take any of these steps due to her sense of shame. Isn’t this all a very Victorian motivation for an entire novel? Isn’t it a bit out of place in a woman of the 1930s? It’s difficult to judge.

It is traditional to expect some kind of psychological ‘development’ in a literary novel. It’s not really clear that Dorothy changes at all. For example, if she had been raped or even seduced, lost her virginity and dumped, you’d have expected this to have left quite a psychological mark, but it doesn’t. Maybe Orwell dropped the rape idea not only because it might have led to prosecution, but because he knew he wasn’t up to imagining or describing the psychological consequences.

2. Loss of faith

Similarly, Dorothy is described as ‘having lost her faith’ during her trials and tribulations. A reasonable enough development and Orwell describes it in persuasive terms which probably apply to lots of people throughout the long decline of the Church of England:

There was never a moment when the power of worship returned to her. Indeed, the whole concept of worship was meaningless to her now; her faith had vanished, utterly and irrevocably. It is a mysterious thing, the loss of faith – as mysterious as faith itself. Like faith, it is ultimately not rooted in logic; it is a change in the climate of the mind. But however little the church services might mean to her, she did not regret the hours she spent in church. On the contrary, she looked forward to her Sunday mornings as blessed interludes of peace; and that not only because Sunday morning meant a respite from Mrs Creevy’s prying eye and nagging voice. In another and deeper sense the atmosphere of the church was soothing and reassuring to her. For she perceived that in all that happens in church, however absurd and cowardly its supposed purpose may be, there is something — it is hard to define, but something of decency, of spiritual comeliness — that is not easily found in the world outside. It seemed to her that even though you no longer believe, it is better to go to church than not; better to follow in the ancient ways, than to drift in rootless freedom. She knew very well that she would never again be able to utter a prayer and mean it; but she knew also that for the rest of her life she must continue with the observances to which she had been bred. Just this much remained to her of the faith that had once, like the bones in a living frame, held all her life together.

Good, eh? Insightful into the feel of losing religious faith – but he doesn’t really show its impact on her personality. There’s no real change in perception or thought between the woman who pricked herself with pins for having the slightest unreligious thought and the woman who doesn’t think about God for weeks on end and has completely stopped praying. She’s just a bit sadder, that’s all (as described on page 273).

Something had happened in her heart, and the world was a little emptier, a little poorer from that minute. On such a day as this, last spring or any earlier spring, how joyfully, and how unthinkingly, she would have thanked God for the first blue skies and the first flowers of the reviving year! And now, seemingly, there was no God to thank, and nothing — not a flower or a stone or a blade of grass — nothing in the universe would ever be the same again.

Maybe that’s enough. Maybe this is what ‘loss of faith’ amounts to. Warburton and Dorothy discuss what ‘loss of faith’ means to her on the train to Suffolk but it’s an oddly inconsequential conversation with no real outcome. There’s plenty more at the end of the book, but the whole theme seems very dated, very Victorian.

The meaningless of life in a world without God was exercising many continental writers, of whom Albert Camus (whose first work Christian Metaphysics and Neoplatonism was published the same year as Orwell’s book) and Jean-Paul Sartre (whose first novel Nausea, was published in 1938) spring to mind as the most obvious.

But they were starting from emptiness and then trying to build meaning. Orwell starts from deep within the comforting bosom of the Church of England and, although his heroine goes far beyond its bounds in her physical adventures, the novel shows that she never really leaves its imaginative realm in her mind.

This may or may not present a persuasive imaginative journey, depending on your temperament. I was certainly glad that she didn’t marry Warburton, but chose a life of integrity to herself and of service to religious customs, even if her faith had died. More interesting.

3. Sexual coldness

Another ‘issue’ is the way Dorothy is described early on as being averse to men. After Warburton has met her in the street and managed to kiss her cheek, Dorothy finds a quiet corner and wipes it off so fiercely she draws blood. She hates being mauled and pawed. She is repulsed by the touch of men, ‘like some large furry beast that rubs itself against you’ (p.81), and nauseated at the thought of sex (the word sex appears nowhere in the book, Dorothy refers to it as ‘all that’).

Orwell goes out of  his way to explain that her revulsion was due to witnessing, at age eight, certain scenes between her mother and father. Later, still a child, she was horrified by prints of nymphs and hairy goatish satyrs. For months afterwards she was terrified of going through the woods in case a satyr leaped out on her. Now, on the one hand this seems to me a sympathetic imagining into the mind of a child and then into the mind of the woman the scared child has become. Where Orwell crosses a line which we nowadays would consider reprehensible is where he judges her ‘sexual coldness’ to be ‘abnormal’.

It was her especial secret, the especial, incurable disability that she carried through life. (p.80)

This may or may not have been the way women of the 1930s thought about their aversion to sex, as some kind of ‘abnormality’. It is plausible in the context of the book and the general setting. It echoes how my mother, born in 1932, talked about the attitude to sex of her mother, aunts and other relations.

Then Orwell takes the matter further and makes one of the many generalisations-cum-jibes which litter the book. He concludes of Dorothy’s sexual coldness that the psychological impact of her childhood experiences is too deep to be changed:

It was a thing not to be altered, not to be argued away. It is, moreover, a thing too common nowadays, among educated women, to occasion any sort of surprise. (p.83)

Is Orwell saying that many of the educated women of his day are ‘frigid’? Controversial. (And see my point about Orwell’s sweeping generalisations, below.)

At the end of the book, when Warburton proposes marriage, Dorothy recoils.

She took it for granted that he ‘knew why she couldn’t’, though she had never explained to him, or to anyone else, why it was impossible for her to marry. Very probably, even if she had explained, he would not have understood her.

I don’t understand her. Is this is a continuation of her sexual coldness or – as hovers over the whole subject – is Orwell hinting that she’s a lesbian? Or is that too crude and too modern an interpretation? Discuss…

Recap

To recap: I think the lack of Dorothy’s psychological development – or the way it is described but not really dramatised – is tied up with the massive hole at the centre of the plot i.e. the motivation for her flight and descent into the netherworld. Both undermine the book’s claim to literature or even coherence. However, neither problem prevented me in the slightest from really enjoying reading it.

The hop-picking section is a brilliant piece of reportage which will record for all time in fascinating detail the exact nature of this type of work. My next-door-neighbour in London is an old man, just turned 80, who several times has talked about going hop-picking in Kent as a boy. He loved it. Obviously, if you were a penniless adult and it was your only source of income it was different, and this long section deserves to go into any collection of sociological reporting from the era.

Same for the script-format account of One Night In Trafalgar Square, which really conveys the cold, lack of sleep and insistent presence of other smelly, half-mad humans, the sense of abasement and humiliation, horribly well.

Sitting down, with one’s hands under one’s armpits, it is possible to get into a kind of sleep, or doze, for two or three minutes on end. In this state, enormous ages seem to pass. One sinks into a complex, troubling dreams which leave one conscious of one’s surroundings and of the bitter cold. The night is growing clearer and colder every minute. There is a chorus of varying sound–groans, curses, bursts of laughter, and singing, and through them all the uncontrollable chattering of teeth. (Chapter 3)

And also, although looking at the big picture, the character of Dorothy doesn’t quite add up, there are literally hundreds of details which Orwell describes very persuasively about Dorothy’s thoughts and hopes and feelings and experiences, which do make for very compelling reading. Her daily round in the Suffolk village is extremely believable and so is her sense of daily misery and failure in the school.

So, despite its ‘failure’ as a coherent work of literature (if you like to judge novels in those terms) it is still a brilliant and compelling read. As usual with Orwell, the vividness and immediacy of his prose makes you want to reread entire sections for the pure pleasure of their accuracy and incisiveness.

Some stylistic features

Of course and etc

Orwell often gives the impression of being too impatient to be a novelist. By the 1930s he had very settled opinions and these involved very much seeing people as types, who all conform to type and speak according to type. An Anglican vicar will of course say X, a non-conformist will say Y, a Socialist will reply with Z. Mrs Creevey is the type of head mistress, the philistine parent who criticises Dorothy is the type of half-educated blustering bully, Ellen is the type of the feeble live-in servant. Orwell’s text is full of descriptions of ‘one of those sort of people or schools or days…’

  • Like every Anglo-Catholic, Victor had an abysmal contempt for bishops. (p.66)
  • He was one of those people who say ‘Don’t you know?’ and ‘What! What!’ and lose themselves in the middle of their sentences.
  • She was one of those people who experience a kind of spiritual orgasm when they manage to do somebody else a bad turn. (p.218)
  • It was one of those schools that are aimed at the type of parent who blathers about ‘up-to-date business training’, and its watch-word was Efficiency; meaning a tremendous parade of hustling, and the banishment of all humane studies.
  • It was one of those bright cold days which are spring or winter according as you are indoors or out. (p.271)

This reduction of people (and situations) to types who always say the same kind of thing explains Orwell’s frequent usage of the phrase ‘of course’ and ‘etc etc’.

‘Of course’ indicates that, yes, of course and predictably enough, this is the same old situation and the same old thing happens and the same old person does the same old kind of thing.

And Orwell’s use of ‘etc etc’ at the end of people’s dialogue indicates that he is bored, and he expects the reader to be bored, by listening to the same old predictable rigmarole.

It is an odd attitude for a novelist to take towards his own creations.

Etc

The constant singing round the bins was pierced by shrill cries from the costerwoman of, ‘Go on, Rose, you lazy little cat! Pick them ‘ops up! I’ll warm your a– for you!’ etc., etc.

Some mornings he had orders to ‘take them heavy’, and would shovel them in so that he got a couple of bushels at each scoop, whereat there were angry yells of, ‘Look how the b–‘s ramming them down! Why don’t you bloody well stamp on them?’ etc.

THE POLICEMAN [shaking the sleepers on the next bench]: Now then, wake up, wake up! Rouse up, you! Got to go home if you want to sleep. This isn’t a common lodging house. Get up, there! [etc., etc.]

YOUTHS VOICES FROM THE REAR: Why can’t he —- open before five? We’re starving for our —- tea! Ram the —- door in! [etc., etc.]
MR WILKINS: Get out! Get out, the lot of you! Or by God not one of you comes in this morning!
GIRLS’ VOICES FROM THE REAR: Mis-ter Wil-kins! Mis-ter Wil-kins! BE a sport and let us in! I’ll give y’a kiss all free for nothing. BE a sport now! [etc., etc.]

There was an essay entitled ‘Spring’ which recurred in all the older girls’ books, and which began, ‘Now, when girlish April is tripping through the land, when the birds are chanting gaily on the boughs and the dainty flowerets bursting from their buds’, etc., etc.

Various of the coffee-ladies, of course, had stopped Dorothy in the street with ‘My dear, how VERY
nice to see you back again! You HAVE been away a long time! And you know, dear, we all thought it such a SHAME when that horrible woman was going round telling those stories about you. But I do hope you’ll understand, dear, that whatever anyone else may have thought, I never believed a word of them’, etc., etc., etc.

Of course

The tell-tale phrase ‘of course’ is liberally scattered throughout the text, indicating the author’s rather tired sense of the inevitability of his own story and the predictability of his own characters.

  • After that, of course, his heart was hardened against Dorothy for ever.
  • Of course, the Rector denied it violently, but in his heart he had a sneaking suspicion that it might be true.
  • But several more days passed before this letter was posted, because the Rector had qualms about addressing a letter to ‘Ellen Millborough’ – he dimly imagined that it was against the law to use false names – and, of course, he had delayed far too long. Dorothy was already in the streets when the letter reached ‘Mary’s’.
  • It was very little use, of course, telling him that she had NOT eloped. She had given him her version of the story, and he had accepted it.
  • Mrs Creevy watched Dorothy’s innovations with a jealous eye, but she did not interfere actively at first. She was not going to show it, of course, but she was secretly amazed and delighted to find that she had got hold of an assistant who was actually willing to work.

But the instance which made me stop and really notice this mannerism comes in the middle of the private school section. After describing at length the steps Dorothy takes to genuinely educate her charges, the text reads:

But of course, it could not last.

Why ‘of course’? Why write ‘of course’? Only if you assume you are sharing with your readers a fatalistic sense that things always turn out for the worse. ‘Of course’ used like this assumes a kind of matey familiarity with stories of this type. I can’t quite put it into words but it is more the approach of a journalist in a newspaper who assumes that everyone shares his or her prejudices. ‘Of course the sexists did this or the racists did that or the wicked imperialists did the other’, if you’re reading the Guardian. Or ‘Of course health and safety did this, or red tape stifled the other, or EU bureaucrats imposed the other’, if you’re reading The Daily Mail. It evinces a long-suffering exasperation at the sheer bloody predictability of most people.

Orwell describes the scene where Dorothy reluctantly explains to the girls who’ve asked her, what a ‘womb’ is, and then editorialises:

And after that, of course, the fun began.

You feel the author coercing your responses. He assumes the odds are stacked against his heroine and expects you simply to fall in with his prejudices about people and life in general. Sometimes the reader bridles at being pushed.

Generalisations

Orwell’s prose is dotted with sweeping generalisations, which I thoroughly enjoy for their air of man-of-the-world confidence, even if I don’t in the slightest agree with them or sometimes even understand them.

  • It is a curious fact that the lure of a ‘good investment’ seems to haunt clergymen more persistently than any other class of man. Perhaps it is the modern equivalent of the demons in female shape who used to haunt the anchorites of the Dark Ages. (Chapter 1.2)
  • It is a fact – you only have to look about you to verify it – that the pious and the immoral drift naturally together. The best brothel-scenes in literature have been written, without exception, by pious believers or impious unbelievers…
  • It is fatal to flatter the wicked by letting them see that they have shocked you. (Chapter 1.3)
  • Like all abnormal people, she was not fully aware that she was abnormal. (p.82)
  • No job is more fascinating than teaching if you have a free hand at it.
  • It was the fourth of April, a bright blowy day, too cold to stand about in, with a sky as blue as a hedgesparrow’s egg, and one of those spiteful spring winds that come tearing along the pavement in sudden gusts and blow dry, stinging dust into your face.
  • Nothing in the world is quite so irritating as dealing with mutinous children.

The generalisations are linked to the ‘of courses’ and ‘etcs’. They all indicate how much the novelist understands and comprehends human nature: he is familiar with all human types and the boring predictability with which they come out with the same old kind of speeches and arguments, and from this lofty vantage point he is able to dispense weighty-sounding generalisations about human nature and the world at large.

  • There are two kinds of avaricious person – the bold, grasping type who will ruin you if he can, but who never looks twice at twopence, and the petty miser who has not the enterprise actually to make money, but who will always, as the saying goes, take a farthing from a dunghill with his teeth. (Chapter 4)
  • Like most ‘educated’ people , she knew virtually no history. (p.207)
  • In these country places there’s always a certain amount of suspicion knocking about. Not suspicion of anything in particular, you know; just generalized suspicion. A sort of instinctive rustic dirty-mindedness.
  • Do you know that type of bright — too bright — spinster who says “topping” and “ripping” and “right-ho”, and prides herself on being such a good sport, and she’s such a good sport that she makes everyone feel a little unwell? And she’s so splendidly hearty at tennis and so handy at amateur theatricals, and she throws herself with a kind of desperation into her Girl Guide work and her parish visiting, and she’s the life and soul of Church socials, and always, year after year, she thinks of herself as a young girl still and never realizes that behind her back everyone laughs at her for a poor, disappointed old maid? (p.281)
  • The fact is that people who live in small country towns have only a very dim conception of anything that happens more than ten miles from their own front door. (p.288)

Although Orwell overtly and explicitly in his writings describes himself as a Socialist and takes every opportunity to ridicule the rich, the exploiters etc, although in other words the content of all his writing is left-wing – its manner and tone are the result of intensive training at Britain’s premier school for its managerial elite, Eton, and then of five years as an officer in the British Empire’s Military Police.

The sweeping generalisations, the bored descriptions of every social type and their oh-so-predictable speeches, all indicate the supreme confidence of the classic public school product. And it is this essentially patrician manner which, ironically, partly accounts for his popularity among his many left-wing fans.

Comedy

Orwell can be very funny, specially when in broad, humorous Dickensian mode. Take the description of Sir Thomas as an ‘exceptionally brainless prawn’. The long section about Dorothy’s humiliations in the school is essentially downbeat and grim but contains comic touches which prevent it being really despairing.

The district pullulated with small private schools; there were four of them in Brough Road alone. Mrs Creevy, the Principal of Ringwood House, and Mr Boulger, the Principal of Rushington Grange, were in a state of warfare, though their interests in no way clashed with one another. Nobody knew what the feud was about, not even Mrs Creevy or Mr Boulger themselves; it was a feud that they had inherited from earlier proprietors of the two schools. In the mornings after breakfast they would stalk up and down their respective back gardens, beside the very low wall that separated them, pretending not to see one another and grinning with hatred. (Chapter 4)

Comedy is itself often rooted in the predictability of social ‘types’. This bitter feud is funny because it is in fact a familiar trope – the embittered neighbours feuding over long-forgotten trivialities. Similarly, Sir Thomas waffling on for so long that he constantly forgets what he set out to say. Or the sly, almost silent man-servant, Blyth. Or Dorothy’s own father’s immense selfishness, more concerned about his late breakfasts than his missing daughter. These are all stock types with expected attributes, which could almost come from a Restoration comedy, certainly from an 18th century comic novel. What lifts them above the level of stereotype is Orwell’s genuinely imaginative turns of phrase.

Mrs Creevy got up from the table and banged the breakfast things together on the tray. She was one of those women who can never move anything without banging it about; she was as full of thumps and raps as a poltergeist. (page 204)

Even in small details Orwell reveals his debt to Dickens’s genius for anthropomorphising objects and giving them a character which slyly contributes to the scene or story. At Mrs Creevy’s penny-pinching school:

In honour of the parents’ visit, a fire composed of three large coals was sulking in the grate.

Pinching

An oddity in Orwell’s novels is the ubiquity of pinching. Apparently men signalled their sexual overtures to a woman by pinching her, particularly her arms and elbow. Thus Elizabeth, in Burmese Days, has to fight off the unwanted attentions of her employer.

  • The bank manager whose children Elizabeth taught was a man of fifty, with a fat, worn face and a bald, dark yellow crown resembling an ostrich’s egg. The second day after her arrival he came into the room where the children were at their lessons, sat down beside Elizabeth and immediately pinched her elbow. The third day he pinched her on the calf, the fourth day behind the knee, the fifth day above the knee. Thereafter, every evening, it was a silent battle between the two of them, her hand under the table, struggling and struggling to keep that ferret-like hand away from her. (Chapter 7)
  • She had come out of her bath and was half-way through dressing for dinner when her uncle had suddenly appeared in her room – pretext, to hear some more about the day’s shooting – and begun pinching her leg in a way that simply could not be misunderstood. Elizabeth was horrified. This was her first introduction to the fact that some men are capable of making love to their nieces. (Chapter 15)
  • Mr Lackersteen was now pestering Elizabeth unceasingly. He had become quite reckless. Almost under the eyes of the servants he would waylay her, catch hold of her and begin pinching and fondling her in the most revolting way. (Chapter 23)
  • Her aunt would be furious when she heard that she had refused Flory. And there was her uncle and his leg-pinching – between the two of them, life here would become impossible. (Chapter 24)

Pinching bums I heard of in the 1960s and ’70s but pinching a woman’s legs or arms or elbow? Anyway, the practice crops up here again, when the cad Warburton, supposed artist and bohemian, bumps into Dorothy in the village High Street.

  • He pinched Dorothy’s bare elbow – she had changed, after breakfast, into a sleeveless gingham frock. Dorothy stepped hurriedly backwards to get out of his reach – she hated being pinched or otherwise ‘mauled about’. (Chapter 1.3)
  • Dorothy was all too used to it – all too used to the fattish middle-aged men, with their fishily hopeful eyes, who slowed down their cars when you passed them on the road, or who manoeuvred an introduction and then began pinching your elbow about ten minutes later. (Chapter 3.6)

Pinching your elbow?

Social history

So this is the kind of shabby genteel squalor in which a 1930s vicar lived – big cold empty church, a dwindling congregation, a sprawling vicarage he can’t afford to heat or run, gloomy rooms lined with mouldering wallpaper and rickety furniture. So this is what a flophouse in the Cut looked and smelt like – peeling wallpaper, damp sheets, unspeakable toilets. So this is what rural poverty looked like, 70-year-old men and women still having to labour for money, living in small filthy cottages whose windows and doors don’t close, drawing water by hand from a deep well.

Lots of the detail reminds us how very long ago 1935 was. The rectory has no hot water, no electricity, no radio or TV, no shower, no fridge or freezer, washing machine, tumble dryer or dishwasher. All household chores are hard, bloody work which have to be done by hand. Early in the morning and after dark the house is lit only by candlelight. What a life! In many, many ways Orwell’s world is closer to Dickens’s than to ours, and this helps explain the lingering influence of Dickens in his writing, not least in the juxtaposition of brutal social realism with broad humour.

Beauty

And yet, in the midst of all the squalor and poverty, the down-trodden humiliation of shabby-genteel life or plain beggary, Orwell is also capable of noticing and describing beauty.

Dorothy caught sight of a wild rose, flowerless of course, growing beyond the hedge, and climbed over the gate with the intention of discovering whether it were not sweetbriar. She knelt down among the tall weeds beneath the hedge. It was very hot down there, close to the ground. The humming of many unseen insects sounded in her ears, and the hot summery fume from the tangled swathes of vegetation flowed up and enveloped her. Near by, tall stalks of fennel were growing, with trailing fronds of foliage like the tails of sea-green horses. Dorothy pulled a frond of the fennel against her face and breathed in the strong sweet scent. Its richness overwhelmed her, almost dizzied her for a moment. She drank it in, filling her lungs with it. Lovely, lovely scent — scent of summer days, scent of childhood joys, scent of spice-drenched islands in the warm foam of Oriental seas!

Her heart swelled with sudden joy. It was that mystical joy in the beauty of the earth and the very nature of things that she recognized, perhaps mistakenly, as the love of God. As she knelt there in the heat, the sweet odour and the drowsy hum of insects, it seemed to her that she could momentarily hear the mighty anthem of praise that the earth and all created things send up everlastingly to their maker. All vegetation, leaves, flowers, grass, shining, vibrating, crying out in their joy. Larks also chanting, choirs of larks invisible, dripping music from the sky. All the riches of summer, the warmth of the earth, the song of birds, the fume of cows, the droning of countless bees, mingling and ascending like the smoke of ever-burning altars. Therefore with Angels and Archangels! She began to pray, and for a moment she prayed ardently, blissfully, forgetting herself in the joy of her worship. Then, less than a minute later, she discovered that she was kissing the frond of the fennel that was still against her face. (Chapter 1)

This celebration of the natural world is not what most people associate with Orwell, but it is there, along with lots of other unexpected qualities in this strange, uneven, unfinished, wildly uneven but compellingly readable book.

To answer the question I asked myself at the start, Yes, I think it is definitely worth reading, for all sorts of reasons.


Credit

‘A Clergyman’s Daughter’ was published by Victor Gollancz in 1935. All quotes are from the Penguin Classics paperback edition of 2000.

Related links

All Orwell’s major works are available online on a range of websites. Although it’s not completely comprehensive, I like the layout of the texts provided by the University of Adelaide Orwell website.

Related reviews

Funeral In Berlin by Len Deighton (1964)

‘What I’d like is an interest-free loan of eight hundred quid to buy a new car’, I said.
Dawlish gently packed tobacco into the bowl of his pipe with a match. He put the pipe into his mouth before looking up at me.
‘Yes,’ he finally said.
‘Yes I want it or yes I can have it?’ I said.
‘Yes, everything they say about you is true,’ said Dawlish. ‘Go away and let me work.’
(Funeral in Berlin, Chapter 13)

‘You live only once,’ said Stok.
‘I can make once do,’ I said.
(p.37)

There is no point in just wondering about the things that puzzle us. (p.105)

It’s O.K. to have soft feelings knowing that years of training preclude one from obeying them. (p.217)

‘You are a terrible tease,’ said Hallam. ‘I never know when you’re serious.’ (p.230)

Funeral In Berlin, the third novel of the Ipcress File tetralogy, strikes me as being more relaxed and funnier than its predecessors.

‘Do you ever imagine what it would be like to be on the moon?’ Sam said.
‘Nearly all the time,’ I said. (Ch 15)

The humour works better and the disconnected, angular style is, initially at least, less impenetrable than in The Ipcress File. Several times I even thought I knew what was going on although, no, it was as murky and rifted by double meanings, ambiguities and uncertainties as the first two. Even when things are made (relatively clear) in a brief explanation in chapter 44, it turns out this explanation needs further explanation in chapter 49, pages 245-6.

‘I never joke, Chico. The truth is quite adequately hilarious.’ (Ch 13)

Street smart

It’s set just slightly before the Swinging Sixties, when people still talked about ‘beatniks’ and hung out in Soho coffee bars and the most raucous sounds seem to come from loud jazz. A world where the nameless Narrator is keen to demonstrate his street smarts, his cool, his savvy.

Charlotte Street runs north from Oxford Street and there are few who will blame it. By mid-morning they are writing out the menus, straining yesterday’s fat, dusting the plastic flowers and the waiters are putting their moustaches on with eyebrow pencils. (Ch 13)

The colour and detail of ‘pads’ which are about to feature in colour supplements about Jean Shrimpton or Burt Bacharach.

I walked into the lounge. It was about thirty foot of ankle-high carpeting from silk wall to silk wall. The cocktail cabinet was in the corner. I opened it and was socked in the head by pink neon. (Ch 14)

And yet, as I’ve noted before, the cool of Deighton (b. 1929) is combined with what later generations, or even the Beatles generation (b.1940), would think of as still very high-brow intellectual pursuits: when he wines and dines the sexy American girl he’s picked up – or who’s picked him up – they agree to go to a concert at the South Bank which includes the music of Charles Ives, Berg and Schoenberg. In fact the Schoenberg piece – Variations for Wind band – appears three times, in different places, like a leitmotiv. Maybe its recurrence is a hint that the novel itself is made out of a theme and variations, as the Schoenberg piece is, with the same recurring motifs given different treatment, seen from different angles (and, in an innovation for Deighton, we are given the points of view of several characters, see below).

Security Service savvy

Deighton does a very good job of conveying how we imagine the Security Services to actually be i.e. not at all glamorous jetsetting but a pettifogging bureaucratic cross between the Army and the Civil Service, snowed under with paperwork, its employees fussing about pay and pensions and expenses, thrilling to little perks like luxury lunches at the club – except that the petty jealousies and rivalries which plague all bureaucracies in this context overlap with very real plots and conspiracies to frame each other (as in Ipcress) or to hamstring each other’s projects to double-cross or treble-cross the Russian, or German, or Israeli secret services.

Textual apparatus

The security savviness is reinforced by more of the larky apparatus surrounding the text that was deployed in Ipcress and Horse Under Water:

  • in the classic spy manner, each short chapter has a date stamp (e.g. Berlin, Monday, October 7th – since Bonfire Night, November 5th, is a Tuesday, it must be set in 1963)
  • there are, again, numerous footnotes explicating Security Service acronyms or military practice, specialist knowledge such as what a D notice is, 18 in the first 60 pages alone
  • there are half a dozen appendices at the end of the text giving longer explanations of aspects of the story (poisonous insecticides; Gehlen Organisation; the Abwehr; Soviet security systems; French security systems; Official Secrets Act 1911)
  • as Ipcress File had horoscopes at the head of each chapter, and Horse Under Water had crossword clues, so each of Funeral‘s 52 chapters has an epigraph which is a rule or tip about chess. I play chess pretty well so was mildly interested in some of them, but they added nothing to my enjoyment and, as far as I could see, nothing to the meaning of the story so, like the horoscopes, I learned to ignore them
  • right at the end we learn that throughout the adventure, the Narrator has been doing an ‘It pays to increase your word power’ game. His rating is ‘fair’

The Narrator

The greatest tribute you can pay to a secret agent is to take him for a moron. All he has to do is to make sure he doesn’t act too exactly like one. That was my concern now. (p.109)

Funeral has the same unnamed, first-person Narrator as The Ipcress File, working for the same obscure intelligence unit (W.O.O.C.(P.)) and the same boss – Dawlish – as in Horse:

Dawlish and I have a perfect system. It is a well-known fact that I am an insolent intractable hooligan over whom Dawlish has only a modicum of control. Dawlish encourages this illusion. One day it will fail. Dawlish will throw me to the wolves. (p.170)

He has the same secretary (Jean Tonnesson) and staff (Alice Bloom, Chico), working out of the same dingy Charlotte Street office. As in Horse, it is emphasised that the Narrator owes his position to his specialist knowledge of finances:

The system upon which we ran the department was that I took responsibility for all financial problems, although what might be called ‘accounts’ were seen by Alice and I merely initialled them. It was my special knowledge of finance which had brought me into W. O. O. C.(P) and compelled them to put up with me. (p.225)

He wears spectacles. He smokes Gauloise cigarettes. He is knowledgeable about modern classical music. He lives in a flat in Southwark, although he tells old General Borg ‘I live behind Waterloo Station’.

And he’s getting fat. There are half a dozen references to him ‘throwing caution to the wind’ when he eats out, just casual throwaway moments like:

The steak was O.K. and I was strong-willed enough not to hit the sweet-trolley too hard.

These hints are reinforced in the sequel, Billion Dollar Brain.

Plot

The novel follows a series of trips the Narrator makes to Cold War Berlin (under the pseudonym Edmond Dorf) and starts off being about the defection of a Russian scientist, Semitsa, reputedly an expert on enzymes used in pesticides and so useful to the West, the deal being arranged by ‘our’ Berlin fixer and chancer, Johnnie Vulkan.

Slowly it emerges that this is a red herring and that the plot is really about the legacy of the war, about the fate of a German murderer who was in a concentration camp during the Nazi era and who has survived into post-War Berlin, although wanted by both the Communists and the Israelis.

The progress of the plot and of the Narrator’s efforts are closely monitored by the Russian General Stok, who pops up throughout the book, initially hinting that he himself wants to defect and that Semitsa’s passage will be a dry run for him. Later on, Stok admits that he just wants to keep an eye on everything. Stok is a broadly comic character, forever making toasts with vodka and caviare, engaging in witty banter with the wryly understated Narrator. Though there are a couple of sinister moments when the Narrator is pulled over by police in East Germany, then in Czechoslovakia, and thinks he might be about to be arrested – only for Stok to emerge from the shadows with a big grin and a bottle of vodka!

In Ipcress the Narrator says plots aren’t as easy to define or tie up as writers of spy fiction would have you expect. He claims to have some 600 files open at any one time, each of which is highly complex and may not even be a definite ‘case’, may just be an accidental overlapping of circumstances, while real ‘cases’ i.e. interconnected purposeful events, are going undetected.

All three novels dramatise this sense of uncertainty. It’s difficult to know what’s going on because in the ‘real world’ which the spy inhabits, everyone is lying, everyone has multiple identities and concealed agendas, you’re not even certain what your ‘own’ side wants, let alone the other official agencies, let alone the numerous freelancers you continually meet and who are continually making dubious offers and suggestions.

Thus for most of the novel it’s difficult to know whether this is:

  • a true case of a Russian scientist defecting
  • something to do with the Gehlen Bureau or Organisation, a branch of German Intelligence – creepy Teutonic types we meet a couple of times and who offer to help facilitate the smuggling of Semitsa through the wall – or are they up to something more?
  • a dummy run for General Stok’s own plan to defect. In the end it turns out he doesn’t want to and is interested in something else completely

The main love interest is the gorgeous Samantha Steele, who seduces the Narrator while posing as an American agent. In the final quarter she is revealed to be an Israeli agent (for the Shin Bet) and for a while it seems the plot might be about the Israelis tracking down a concentration camp guard who was responsible for murders in the death camps, and is still alive, and therefore deserves punishing…

At one point is seems as if Johnnie Vulkan has taken British money to facilitate the smuggling of the Russian scientist Semitsa, across the Berlin Wall hidden in a coffin – hence the title – but plans to double cross the Narrator and the British by selling Semitsa on to Sam and Israeli Intelligence.

But when Vulkan and the Narrator open the coffin as delivered to them in a West Berlin garage, they find no scientist, just a load of propaganda pamphlets. It seems this is a joke the ubiquitous Colonel Stok has played on them; not only did he never intend to defect himself, he never intended to supply any Russian scientist either – all along he simply wanted to poke and pry into British Intelligence methodology, and also entrap the members of the Gehlen Bureau who had been helping, five of whom mysteriously disappear.

But in any case it then turns out that Vulkan doesn’t give a damn about Semitsa or the Israelis – all along Vulkan had insisted the papers for the ‘corpse’/coffin be made out in the name of one Paul Louis Broum. For a while it seemed to be merely a coincidence that, upon deeper investigation, this Broum had been a real person who had survived for a while in Treblinka concentration camp before being murdered on the long walk West escaping the advancing Russians – it was just a useful name to put on the documentation covering the smuggling of Semitsa through the wall.

But slowly this Broum figure becomes more important: could it be that he had lived on and that his murder was really a story and Broum was in fact Vulkan or one or other of his dodgy underworld contacts?

The Narrator probes this murky history on a vividly described trip to Prague where he meets two ageing Jews (Jan-im-Gluck and Josef-the-gun) who survived the camps and knew the real Broum, and claimed to witness his murder. It is typical of the novel (and of ‘reality’?) that they give sharply differing accounts of Broum’s character and fate…

the novel builds up to an extended set-piece wherein a hearse navigates the security checks and concrete traffic blocks at Checkpoint Charlie, carrying a dead Berliner who wants to be buried in the West, which passes through unhindered and drives on to an abandoned warehouse.

Here the Narrator and Vulkan open the coffin and discover it contains no Russian scientist but is packed with propaganda pamphlets – this is Colonel Stok’s little joke. Thinking the Narrator has double crossed him Vulkan turns nasty and pulls a gun, demanding the Narrator hands over all the Broum paperwork. Through sheer (bad) luck the Narrator knocks Vulkan backwards onto a rack of drills and Vulkan dies a horrible agonising death from a punctured lung.

The Narrator promptly takes out the pamphlets and packs Vulkan’s body into the coffin in time for the Israeli agents to arrive and collect it at gunpoint. This team is led by his brief one-time lover Sam Steele whose real name is now revealed as Hannah Stahl, who explains to the Narrator that they need Semitsa because his innocent-sounding work on enzymes is a cover for research into deadly nerve gases, and this information will be vital for Israel when the next Arab-Israeli War breaks out (as it, of course, did, three years after this novel was published).

Boy, is she in for a surprise when she opens the coffin and finds no Russian scientist, just the embarrassing corpse of a Berlin playboy and chancer (with whom, incidentally, she had also had a fling; the chapter giving her point of view has her comparing Vulkan and the narrator as lovers, and potential fathers) – although we are not shown this scene, Deighton leaves her and the truck carrying the coffin as it drives through West Germany, so leaving the revelation to our imagination.

And then there’s the departmental politics back in dear old London, where the narrator can never be sure whether his boss is backing him up or framing him, or whether other departments like the War Office or Foreign Office or Home Office are helping whatever it is he’s trying to do, or are playing completely different games in which he is only a pawn.

Explanation 1

It’s only right at the end that, in two conversations with his boss, the Narrator finally explains everything:

  • ‘In a concentration camp there is a very wealthy man named Broum. Broum’s family left him about a quarter of a million pounds in securities in a Swiss bank. Anyone who can prove he is Broum can collect a quarter of a million pounds. It’s not hard to understand; Vulkan wanted those papers to prove that he was Broum. All the other things were incidental. Vulkan made Gehlen’s people ask us for the papers to make it appear more genuine.’
  • Sam the Israeli intelligence agent wanted Semitsa for the Israeli scientific programme.
  • ‘Vulkan wanted to give Semitsa to the Israeli Government. In exchange for this they would endorse his claim to the Broum fortune. The Swiss banks are very sensitive to the Israeli Government. It was a brilliant touch.’

Explanation 2

Goes into more detail:

‘Vulkan existed all right,’ I said. ‘He was a concentration-camp guard until a wealthy prisoner (who had been an assassin for the Communist Parties) arranged to have him killed. This man was Broum, and an S.S. medical officer named Mohr… ‘
‘The one in Spain now. Our Mohr.’
I nodded. ‘… made a deal. The S.S. officer staged a death scene and made sure that Broum was believed dead by all the prisoners. Broum meanwhile dressed as a German soldier and disappeared. In 1945 even being a German soldier was better than being a murderer. What’s more Broum (or Vulkan) got along very well financially even without the £250,000, but it was nice to think it was there waiting. Perhaps he intended to leave it to someone. Perhaps on his death-bed, beyond the reach of the guillotine, he was going to say who he really was. No. It was this new law about unclaimed property that made him suddenly start to move. What he needed was a way of proving he was Broum and then of not being Broum just as quickly.’
‘It’s astonishing,’ said Dawlish, ‘to think of a Jewish prisoner who had suffered so much going all through his life saying that he had been a Nazi guard in a concentration camp.’
‘He didn’t know whether he was up or down,’ I said. ‘He came to the conclusion that if you throw enough money around you don’t have enemies. Vulkan, Broum, whatever you want to call him, his final allegiance was to cash.’

The new law referred to had just been passed by the Swiss government and allowed any descendants of Jews murdered by the Nazis to apply for Nazi money which had been deposited in Swiss banks. As per explanation 1, ‘Broum’s family left him about a quarter of a million pounds in securities in a Swiss bank. Anyone who can prove he is Broum can collect a quarter of a million pounds.’ So the man who had been passing himself off as Johnny Vulkan for so long, wanted the paperwork in the name of his own actual, real identity, Broum, so as to apply for the money. He only arranged ‘the defection of Semitsa to the West’ with a view to immediately handing him over to the Israelis to help their war effort, in exchange for their ratifying his claim for the Swiss money. In doing so he was planning to completely double-cross the Narrator and British Intelligence. In the event they were all double-crossed by Colonel Stok who had the last laugh by stringing everyone along without the slightest intention of helping a Russian scientist defect. In a bid to make the smuggling look genuine, Vulkan had the Gehlen Group ask the British security services for paperwork in the name of Broum as if it was plucked at random, and to throw them off the scent, when in fact the paperwork was all he wanted out of the whole complicated scenario. And so the trajectory of the novel is us following the Narrator as he slowly pieces together the true history of this Broum/Vulkan, and piecing together the motivation of the various players.

To recap: the entire scientist-smuggling operation was, for Vulkan, purely a pretext to get his hands on a set of British government-authenticated identity papers in the name of Broum. He would then use these to reclaim Broum’s fortune. It was a straightforward criminal scam.

The Hallam connection

As with the previous novels, the plot felt like it was over with the failure of the Semitsa defection and the death of Vulkan but there is one last act. This is where the homosexual official in the Home Office, Hallam, who had commissioned the documents in Broum’s name which were given to the Narrator to hand over to Vulkan, turns nasty. He takes the Narrator to a fireworks night display in a bombed-out vacant lot near Gloucester Road. Here, amid the bangs and crashes, and in an impenetrably thick London fog, Hallam tries to shoot the Narrator, confirming the Narrator’s hunch that he was in on Vulkan’s scam and is now after the Broum documents (which he knows are worth quarter of a million pounds).

Only in the Narrator’s final wind-up conversation with his boss, Dawlish, does it emerge that they both knew that Hallam was on the verge of being sacked for his ‘homosexual tendencies’. This is what drove him to throw in his lot with Vulkan and then to make a rather panicky attack on the Narrator. In this dramatic scene, the Narrator avoids Hallam’s shots while throwing fireworks at him until Hallam’s long flamboyant scarf catches fire then ignites the bottle of booze in his pocket, so that he goes up like a Roman candle. Nasty.

What gives the novel its peculiarly Deightonesque quality – apart from the vivid descriptive passages, zippy similes and elliptical dialogue – is that the narrator – who holds all the cards i.e. has his suspicions and is calculating the angles on all the scenarios mentioned above – does not share this knowledge with the reader. In this novel, as in Ipcress, it is only at the very, very end that any kind of order or pattern emerges from the events described, and then only in laconic conversations with his secretary or boss – and even this ‘final roundup’ still leaves holes in the narrative and motivation. Like, is any of this long complicated farrago actually remotely believable?

Cast

  • Narrator
  • Jean Tonnesson – his secretary and girlfriend
  • Dawlish – his boss, Hallam disrespectfully calls him ‘Granny’ Dawlish – is cultivating English wildflowers (also known as hedgerow flowers) at home
  • Hallam – gay, corrupt, upper-class Home Office civil servant – owner of two cats, Confucius and Fang – dies horribly after a shooutout at a Bonfire Night party (chapter 2 is told from his point of view)
  • Johnny Vulkan – freelance agent in Berlin: on the payroll of British Intelligence, but doesn’t work only for them, not for ‘a lousy two grand a month’ – ‘Growing older seemed to agree with him. He didn’t look a day over forty, his hair was like a tailored Brillo pad and his face tanned’ – according to Stok, the best chess player in Berlin – the novel turns out to centre on his secret identity, a Jew, Broum, who escaped from a Nazi concentration camp
  • Colonel Stok – Soviet intelligence officer who offers to help Semitsa defect to the West – ‘He was a big-boned man, his hair was cropped to the skull and his complexion was like something the dog had been playing with. When he stood up to greet us his huge hands poked out of a bright red silk smoking-jacket with gold-braid frogging’ (chapter 34 is told from his point of view)

‘It’s not my job to think,’ said Stok. ‘I employ youngsters to do that; their minds aren’t so
cluttered up with knowledge.’ (p.150)

  • the Gehlen Bureau – Later the B.N.D. or Federal German Intelligence Service, but still generally referred to as the ‘Gehlen Bureau’, it has an appendix devoted to it
  • Semitsa – Soviet scientist, enzyme specialist, we never meet him, might be completely fictional
  • Sam Steele – 5 foot 10, sexy American young woman the Narrator starts an affair with – he thinks she’s an American agent then realises she’s working for The Shin Bet, or Israel Security Agency, real name Hannah Stahl (chapter 43 is told from her point of view)

She combed her hair through her fingers. It was soft and young; fine silky hair. She let it fall against her neck like murmurs of love.

  • Austin Butterworth aka ‘Ossie’ – professional burglar who the Narrator pays to break into and ransack Sam’s flat, cover for searching for clues to her real identity
  • Grenade – French agent working for Direction de la Surveillance du Territoire (DST)
  • Harvey Newbegin – US State Department man in Prague; takes the Narrator out to a rural pub to meet…
  • Jan-im-Gluck (Lucky Jan) – Jewish, the dark vole-like old man Harvey takes him to see in a peasant restaurant outside Prague who tells him about the character of Paul Louis Broum, a charismatic figure in Treblinka concentration camp, the last days of the camp, the death march, how Broum was strangled that night, how in the morning several prisoners were shot point blank for his murder
  • Josef-the-gun – so named because of his stutter, Jan-im-Gluck’s brother, ‘they hate each other’ – at the Pinkas synagogue in Prague he stuns the Narrator by telling him the man who murdered Broum on the death march from Treblinka was named Vulkan!
  • Paul Louis Broum – Czech German Jew who, according to the brothers, was killed on the death march from Treblinka (Alice christens the Broum report Death’s-head hawk moth) – only late in the novel do we realise that Johnny Vulkan is this Broum who arranged his own ‘death’ on the march from Treblinka, took the identity of a German guard and disappeared, has been concealing his identity for 20 years, but has organised the entire defection scenario solely to get his hands on UK government paperwork for Broum, in order to present it to the Swiss government and claim the £250,000 left him by relatives in a Swiss bank
  • Colonel-General Erich Borg, Commander Panzer Group ‘Borg’ – ‘General Borg was a tall thin man. Sitting low in the ancient armchair, all knees and elbows, he looked as delicate as a stick insect. His face was very white and very wrinkled like a big ball of string’ – the Narrator visits him to confirm details of Broum’s fate because he has kept ‘one of the best collections of military records in the whole of Germany’ – assisted by his daughter, Heidi
  • Heidi Borg – daughter and secretary for the above
  • Dr Ernst Mohr – Nazi doctor who helped arrange Broum/Vulkan’s escape, identified thanks to a photo taken at the camp – survived the war and now a successful businessman in Spain, where Vulkan goes to visit him – Vulkan blackmails Mohr into keeping silent about his true identity by claiming Sam and Shin Bet are after him but he’ll throw her off the trail

Multiple points of view

In a narrative development over the previous two novels, some of the chapters in Funeral take the perspective of characters other than the main narrator. These chapters are told by an omniscient third-person narrator who allows us into these other characters’ thoughts. This is a small mercy and makes Funeral easier to enjoy, if not exactly to follow, than Ipcress, which is so dominated by the concealing, allusive style of the narrator. Deighton relaxes (slightly) and draws extended pen portraits of other key characters and these are enjoyable in their own right.

It’s in two of these alternative POV chapters that we learn about the Narrator’s coming from Burnley. In chapter 2 Hallam the homosexual gives us a brief and much-quoted description of the anonymous narrator:

An upstart from Burnley – a supercilious anti-public school technician who thought he was an administrator.

While, towards the end, in chapter 43, Samantha Steel, now revealed to be Hannah Stahl, reflects on her brief fling with the Narrator:

She wished she had known him many years ago when he was at his red-brick university, this provincial boy wandering through the big city of life. She envied him his simplicity and briefly wished she had been the girl next door in Burnley, Lancs – wherever that was! (p.218)

Smart similes

In this slightly more forgiving book the similes also seem less incongruous, more of a piece with the humour. Similes, like metaphors are, after all, a kind of joke, a revelation of incongruous similarities.

‘Ha ha ha,’ said Stok, then he exhaled another great billow of cigar smoke like a 4.6.2 pulling out of King’s Cross. (Ch 6)

Damp leaves shone underfoot like a million newly struck pennies. (Ch 15)

Now the powdery skin [of his face], sun-lamped to a pale nicotine colour, was supported only by his cheek-bones, like a tent when the guy ropes are slackened. (Ch 16)

Though some of the comparisons, as in Ipcress, strain a little harder than others.

From underfoot the sweet smell of damp grass rose like perfume. Birds were still singing in the trees that stood across the major surgery of sunset like massed artery forceps. (15)

Inside the semi-precious light of the stained glass softly dusted the smooth, worn pews, and a complex of brass candlesticks glinted like a medieval oil refinery. (15)

These last two indicate the fundamentally anti-Romantic, unsentimental stance of his no-nonsense Narrator: he dumps his secretary-girlfriend of the first book, Jean in order to have an affair with the leggy American agent, Sam Steele; then arranges for her flat to be burgled to establish who she really is, confirming his hunch that she is an Israeli agent. He mistakenly beats up an elderly messenger in the street in Berlin and has no regrets (Ch 19). He kills two more major – and rather sympathetic – characters (Johnnie Vulkan and Hallam). And this hard, metallic attitude extends all the way down to small descriptions and casual phrases.

In Horse Guards Avenue and right along the Thames Embankment, hollow tourist buses were parked and double-parked. The red-cloaked Horse Guards sat motionless clutching their sabres and thinking of metal polish and sex. In Trafalgar Square pigeons were enmeshed in the poisonous diesel gauze. (Ch 17)

I walked out along the moonlit sea front. The phosphorescent breakers crumbled into shimmering lacework and the moon was an overturned can of white paint that had spilled its contents across the sea. (Ch 24)

This tough but humorous tone is the distinctive feature of the novel’s worldview and of its prose. Tough but humorous also characterises Raymond Chandler’s innovative style in the detective genre, and it is probably this elliptical humour – along with the impenetrable plots – which are Deighton’s big contribution to the spy novel. A tone of underplayed humour which is perfectly captured by Michael Caine’s performance in the movie adaptations of these books. It’s full of dryly humorous quips.

‘I wish you would try to understand,’ said Stok. ‘I am really sincere about giving you my allegiance.’
‘Go on,’ I said. ‘I bet you say that to all the great powers.’ (Ch 5)

Russian sayings

Deighton enjoyed littering Horse Under Water with Portuguese proverbs. Proverbs, like similes, are related to the kind of pithy, gnomic puzzles that appeal to him (like the books’ crossword puzzles and chess rules). In the same spirit Colonel Stok is given a few entertaining Russian sayings:

  • ‘In my country we have a saying, “a man who trades a horse for a promise ends up with tired feet”.’
  • In Russia we have a proverb, “Better a clever lie than the foolish truth”.’ (p.38)

Jokes

And jokes:

‘I heard a very good joke the other day.’ He [Stok] was speaking very softly now as though there was a chance of us being overheard. ‘Ulbricht is going about incognito testing his own popularity by asking people if they like Ulbricht. One man he asks says, “Come with me.” He takes Ulbricht on a train and a bus until they are deep in the Saxon hills near the Czechoslovak border. They walk in the country until they are many kilometres from the nearest house and then they finally stop. This man looks all around and whispers to Ulbricht, “I personally,” the man says, “don’t mind him at all.” ‘ Stok roared with laughter again. ‘I don’t mind him at all,’ said Stok again, pointing at his own chest and laughing hysterically.

Stok was bubbling over with gaiety. He prodded Harvey and said, ‘I tell you a joke. The factory workers say that it’s impossible to do anything right. If you arrive five minutes early you are a saboteur; if you arrive five minutes late you are betraying socialism; if you arrive on time they say, “Where did you get the watch?” ‘ Stok laughed and spilled his drink. (p.144)

‘Another,’ said Stok. ‘Capitalism is the exploitation of man by man. Yes? Well socialism is exactly the reverse.’ Everyone laughed and swilled down another drink. (p.145)

Later, in the chapter devoted to his point of view, as he shares a drink with the humourless Czech apparatchik Vaclav, Stok is more cynical.

‘We are policemen, Vaclav; and policemen can’t get mixed up with justice. It’s bad enough being mixed up with the law.’ Vaclav nodded but did not smile. (p.154)

The anxiety of influence

By 1964 there was already quite a boom of spy novels, TV shows and movies:

  • Danger Man started in 1960, with Patrick McGoohan playing John Drake, an American NATO investigator.
  • The Avengers TV series started in January 1961.
  • The Bond movies – Dr No (1962), From Russia With Love (1963), Goldfinger (1964)
  • The Modesty Blaise cartoon strip started appearing in the Evening Standard in May 1963.
  • The Man From UNCLE TV series started in September 1964.

And all this is reflected in the text’s arch self-awareness. When the Narrator is arrested in East Berlin and taken to a police station, he reflects:

I knew there must be a way out. None of those young fellows on late-night TV would find it any sort of dilemma. (p.34).

The Narrator gets a bit riled when ordered to give Hallam some money to establish his identity:

Who the hell is he going to think I am if I don’t give him four half-crowns – James Bond?’ (p.57)

Then his employee, upper-class twit Chico, comes in.

‘I’ve got a file from A.E.A.S.D.’
‘What?’ I said.
‘Atomic Energy Authority, Security Department,’ Chico said.
‘That’s better,’ I said. ‘You’ve been watching those spy films on TV again.’ (p.68)

When he mistakenly beats up Stok’s messengers, he reflects:

These were no B-picture heavies, just two elderly messengers.

In the early 1960s spy fictions went from a minority genre to becoming big business in books, films and TV so that by the late 1960s, TV schedules were packed with special agents and the cinemas bulged with Bond lookalikes. Why? Is it as simple as that the genre is desperately romantic? Handsome capable men defeat baddies, bed willing dollybirds, get to drive fast cars, and play with guns? Fulfilling every adolescent boy’s fantasies?

Google AI suggests something a bit more cunning. It was an era of genuine Cold War tension, marked by the 13 tense days of the Cuban Missile Crisis, 16 to 28 October 1962, when the world held its breath. So it was a period of genuine geopolitical stress. The spy boom transformed a terrifying geopolitical reality into fashionable, fast-paced, sexy, stylish media products. It was a form of sublimation. And then it just became another fashion, a cultural wave, with everyone – authors, producers, film makers – trying to capitalise on the trend.

Foreign locations

  • London
  • Berlin
  • the France-Spain border
  • Prague

One aspect of spy fiction’s glamour was that the boom coincided with the advent of jet airliners and the Sunday supplement world of travel to exotic destinations. When I was a boy in the 1970s, Spain and Italy and Greece were still Romantic destinations. Bond was always swanning off to the Caribbean and admittedly Deighton isn’t quite that glamorous; but still, there’s a fair bit of jetsetting in these early novels: Beirut and a Pacific island in Ipcress; Portugal and Marrakesh in Horse; Berlin, France and Prague in this one.

Not only are the locations colourful in themselves, but some of Deighton’s extended descriptions sound very much like travel writing of the time, like it could be taken right out of a spy novel and put in a travel article or book:

The roads out of Prague are lined with cherry trees; in the spring the blossom follows the road like smoky exhaust and in the summer it is not unusual to see a driver standing on top of his lorry munching at the fruit. Now it was autumn and the trees had just the last few tenacious leaves hanging on like jilted lovers. Here and there young girls or tiny children dressed always in trousers attended to a cow or a goat or a few geese. High-wheeled bullock carts moved ponderously along the narrow roads and sometimes a big truck filled with mocking gesticulating girls being taken home from their work in the fields.

And foreign food:

Harvey probably knew how to carve a goose but it was his co-ordination that proved such a handicap. We all got large torn pieces of hot, crisp, juicy, oily goose and we had a large plate of those breadrolls that come with great chunks of sea-salt and poppy seeds baked to the top of them. There was slivovice which Harvey liked and tiny pots of Turkish coffee of which he wasn’t so fond.

Homosexuality

Hallam the Home Office official is gay – the narrator teasing/bullying him about his campness right from the beginning – but then his chief significance becomes that his homosexuality has made him a ‘security risk’ and led to his early retirement, and it is this, the official attitude, which drives him into criminal behaviour. In the final pages, the hero and his boss discuss the stupidity of anti-gay laws which make it easier to turn closet gays into security risks, a sympathetically liberal point of view. It was only in 1967 that homosexual acts in private between two men over the age of 21 were decriminalised.

Cars

There’s quite a lot of driving around. Only when you Google the cars mentioned in the text do you realise how antiquated they are, how distant that world is, how long ago it all was.

The movie

Michael Caine was signed up to reprise the role of Harry Palmer he had first played in the film version of The Ipcress File. The movie was released in December 1966 and was directed by Guy Hamilton, who had directed Goldfinger in 1964 and went on to direct three more Bond films in the early 1970s.

‘Girls always make passes at spies who wear glasses.’


Credit

‘Funeral in Berlin was published by Jonathan Cape in 1964. Page references are to the 1966 Penguin paperback edition. All quotations are used for purposes of criticism and review.

Related links

Related reviews

1964 in spy novels

  • A Kind of Anger by Eric Ambler – Journalist Piet Maas is tasked with tracking down a beautiful woman who is the only witness to the murder of an exiled Iraqi colonel in a remote villa in Switzerland.
  • You Only Live Twice by Ian Fleming – Shattered by the murder of his one-day wife, Bond goes to pieces with heavy drinking and erratic behaviour. After 8 months or so M sends him on a diplomatic mission to persuade the head of the Japanese Secret Service, ‘Tiger’ Tanaka to share top Jap secret info with us Brits.
  • Robert Harris’s debut novel, Fatherland (1992), is set in 1964, in an alternative unverse where Germany won the Second World War.