The Blank Page — Long Words

Engagement is a tricky word. It’s a double-edged sword. You can hear about a film or an album or a book and find yourself thinking ‘that’s for me’. Or you read a review. Catch someone talking about it on a podcast. Their enthusiasm transfers over to you and, again, the same thought gets in your head.

That’s for me.

Or, with books, you can sometimes ignore the cardinal rule – you can pick one up and judge it by the cover alone. Don’t get me wrong, book cover designers, it’s a system which can work. After all, that’s how I first found Garth Ennis and Steve Dillion’s comic Preacher. Browsing through a little second hand bookshop in Tenterden, down in Kent, and there it was. The first Preacher collection. Buried in a box by a doorway. It’s also how I first got into the late Christopher Fowler’s fantastic Bryant and May crime novels. Wandering around Borders in Leicester, years ago, my eyes were caught by that first paperback cover for Full House Dark. Little did I realise how many books, and how many strange crimes and London folklore, that one glimpse of an art deco style cover was going to bring into my life over the next few years.

Breakfast of Champions by Kurt Vonnegut

Listen:

The way popular culture works is tricky. It’s not exactly a well-oiled machine, although parts of it certainly like to act like it is. Behind the pilot fish shoals of critics and the trailer reaction videos and the gossip magazines, the heart of pop culture is an echo chamber. Or a swarm building a nest in an echo chamber. A hive mind, with a migraine, that doesn’t always agree with itself. It’s a Portuguese Man o’ War, trapped forever in separation anxiety, singing and dancing backwards in high heels.

The basic rule seems to be if that something new or vital or different comes along, it will garner some attention if it’s lucky. If it gets enough people saying it’s original and clever, it will begin to inspire some further new content, which will proudly and happily follow its footsteps. At the same, in order to make more money, other people will be pushed by their agents and the people they signed a contract with into trying to copy the same formula and hop on the band wagon. Then, ideally, they’ll be able to take the band wagon over and cover it in advertising for their employer’s friend’s companies. They will also say words like ‘sequel’ and ‘series’ and ‘saga’, and if they’re very lucky they’ll do it all with a straight face.

The Stone Book Quartet by Alan Garner

As you move through the four generations, and their stories, you find echoes moving between them. Lost items are found. Histories are retold, regathered into myth. The seasons change. The church clock keeps ticking, even when they have to make sure it keeps time with the station clock. The stones are worked and stand through wars, through loss, through lessons skipped and lessons taught by the side of rough roads. The families pull together and hold together, giving themselves and their lives purpose in a world which is moving past them. We meet each generation through the eyes of a younger member, who is starting to wonder where they will fit into the approaching future. With them as our guides, and with their elders waiting to show them what the land holds for them, you’re quickly swept into each story. Each one holding a little magic and a little truth for you.

The Player of Games by Iain M Banks

I need to start off with a disclaimer. Or maybe it’s more of a confession. I’ve been caught in a love/hate relationship with Iain Banks/Iain M Banks pretty much since I first heard of him, back when I came across a TV interview he did for the release of The Bridge. I was fascinated by the idea of the novel, so I picked up a copy and read it. And loved it.

After that first encounter with his fearless storytelling, I would occasionally try another Banks, TBR pile allowing. Which is where the problem started. You see, some of his books took root really easily. The Wasp Factory left me breathless. The Crow Road instilled a sort of melancholy nostalgia in me that I don’t think I’ve ever lost. Complicity was pacier than I expected. Dark and playful. Coming along just as I’d gotten into reading old Gonzo articles and grisly murder mysteries, it felt made for me. There were trickier reads ahead, though.

Pagan Babies by Elmore Leonard

Some writers just appear effortless. Neil Gaiman, when he’s firing on all cylinders, can make you believe he’s plucking some grand, modern fantasy out of mid-air before your eyes. Stephen King seems to have access to a well of stories which feel like they’ve been around forever, just waiting to be told, before he filters them through a riff he’s been building his entire career. The one who always amazes me with how smooth and focused his prose can be, however, is Elmore Leonard. My god, Elmore Leonard could write a good story. His work, when it’s on form, shares something with bottled lightning. It won’t be a few pages past the cover before you find your nerves singing, a spent cork in your hand, and your hair standing on end.

Heat 2 by Michael Mann and Meg Gardiner

Yes, okay, you caught me. I was one of those kids. The ones going around quoting Reservoir Dogs and Pulp Fiction. I’m sorry. I’m not proud of it. I told people to give Jackie Brown another try. I defended Narc a lot. I said people should try Things to Do in Denver When You’re Dead when they’re in the right mood and listened to certain soundtracks to the point where my friends might’ve tried to hide them.

Me and my tribe back then laughed a bit too loud when Doug Liman does the sly little nod to the Goodfellas tracking shot in Swingers, after they’ve already talked about it. We gave each other knowing looks during Get Shorty. We were Miramax kids, before we knew exactly what had been going on there. We liked our crime movies slick and fast talking and we kept a close eye out for names like Elmore Leonard, even if occasionally meant we got something fairly low rate on our screens.

Backwards by Rob Grant

This is it then, my friends. The end of the road. We’ve reached the last of the Red Dwarf novels – Rob Grant’s Backwards. A second, alternative version of events that follow on from the reality bending rollercoaster that is Better Than Life.

Which, I guess, kind of makes this the Superman Returns of the Red Dwarf universe. No, hang on, that’s far too cruel a way to start this review. This is not Superman Returns, and it’s not Superman 3 either. Or, sadly, the first Superman. Very much few things out there are the first Superman movie. A lot of things might think they are, but they’re more sort of Superman 2, if you know what I mean.

In fact, let’s just steer clear of the Superman references from now on. You’re not going to find as many winners there as you’d like to think. Whereas, so far, these Red Dwarf novels have all worked for me, three out of three.

Book review, Books, Comedy, ReviewChristopher Long4 March 2023Red Dwarf, Backwards, BBC, Rob Grant, QuanderhornComment

Last Human by Doug Naylor

Dear Doug Naylor,

Hi, we’ve not met before, although I’ve given you some money over the years. Not a lot. I won’t have funded any house moves or helped you build an extension to your office, but you might’ve bought the occasional takeaway thanks to me enjoying some your licensed merchandise. The reason I’m writing to you is that I’ve recently realised I owe you an apology.