Sunday, 11 May 2025

My review of Wolf Hall, by Hilary Mantel

Wolf Hall

by Hilary Mantel

My rating: 5 out of 5 stars

Hilary Mantel surpassed herself with this new and unique take on Thomas Cromwell: zealous English Reformation advocate and chief minister to King Henry VIII.

Not only did she successfully break the mold of this erstwhile villainously drawn character, but she also found her own unique version of 'olde English' language to tell her tale of a fascinating man. (I was hearing distinctly Chaucerian echoes from these weightily bound pages.)

We see blood pumped into his cheeks, air breathed into his lungs, rounded dimension and human authenticity duly awarded to a figure suffering an all too often two dimensionally dastardly literary treatment by so many. Here we see beneath his hard, scheming shell, wherein lurks a smart yet endearing family man, deeply respectful of his old master, Cardinal Wolsey and sincerely eager for social reform.

Mantel's everyday Tudor world is one we feel we have really visited, smelled and tasted, her characterisations exquisitely raw and appealing.

This is not a book to be skipped through, but is immeasurably rewarding for the requisite patience and focus it demands. Whilst I actually liked its sequel, Bring Up the Bodies, far better, that does not detract from this first instalment's well deserved 5-star rating from me.

The 2015 six-part BBC TV adaptation, with the wondrous Claire Foy as Ann Boleyn truly lived up to the book.



My review of Perfume: The Story of a Murderer, by Patrick Süskind

Perfume: The Story of a Murderer

by Patrick Süskind

My rating: 5 out of 5 stars

Set in 18th century France, this is the story of olfactory genius Jean-Baptiste Grenouille and his murderous quest for the perfect scent. An olfactory take on a foreign time and place, this blew my mind. No wonder it sold over fifteen million copies.

The darkly enigmatic 2006 German thriller movie, which I watched first, was remarkable. Rising UK star Ben Whishaw took the title role, flanked by Hollywood stalwart Dustin Hoffman and Royal Shakespeare veteran Alan Rickman. The novel, though, in a class of its own, must have seemed near impossible to adapt to even the deftest filmmaker.

How Patrick Süskind achieved this sensuous masterpiece, how long it must have taken, is unimaginable. The somewhat protracted premise resembles that of some great European classic:

Our protagonist is born at a stinking fish stall in Paris. His mother, whose previous four babies born thus have arrived dead or dying, expects him be the same. She cuts his umbilical cord and leaves him for dead. But when baby Grenouille cries aloud from the fish heads and guts, his mother is caught and tried for multiple infanticide. Found guilty, she is hanged.

Grenouille's various wet nurses find him too greedy so offload him to others. When given to a parish church, he is assigned a wet nurse named Jeanne Bussie. Jeanne returns Grenouill to the priest, Terrier, complaining that he drinks her dry and has no scent; she claims he is possessed by the devil.

Unconvinced, Terrier dismisses the wet nurse and holds Grenouille himself. Curious, Terrier takes a smell, but there is indeed none. When Grenouille awakens and sniffs the air, Terrier feels that the baby is sniffing his soul, examining his deepest secrets. Recoiling, he too now considers the baby a devil. He runs across town and leaves the infant at an orphanage on the outskirts of Paris.

Endowed with extraordinary olfactory capacities, Grenouille navigates the orphanage using only smell and seldom sight. Unafraid of much and readily accepting of discipline, Grenouille grows up cold and emotionless. When the orphanage proprietor realises Grenouille can sniff out hidden cash, she becomes unnerved and apprentices him out to a tanner. 

Grenouille the youth explores Paris in his leisure time, memorising its symphony of urban odours. With no specially preferred scent, he greedily seeks out any he can. Paris is filthy, its inhabitants crammed together into ancient, narrow streets. One day, after memorising all these stenches, he encounters one quite unlike all the familiar filthy ones. Tracing its source to a young virginal girl slicing plums, his heart races.

Unacquainted with love or affection, he is perplexed by his newfound arousal for this virginal female scent. Edging closer to better smell her, he causes the girl to startle. She turns, sees him and freezes in fear. Grenouille covers her mouth and smothers her. He strips her, lays her on the ground and smells her scent until it leaves her body, along with her life.

He memorises her scent, the first one he has ever perceived as 'good'.  Pleasantly dazed, Grenouille returns to the tanner's shop where he sleeps. He decides he must become a creator of scents, the greatest perfumer in the world, so as to recreate this virgin's scent.

In his quest to isolate and preserve aromas, he becomes apprenticed to a once great perfumer, Baldini, proving himself a talented pupil. His special ability to discern and dissect scents helps him create fabulous perfumes that restore Baldini's profile, making him Paris's most popular perfumer. 

So begins a long and convoluted journey that traverses the French countryside to, amongst other places, Grasse, home of the great perfumers, all the while inside the head of this exquisitely monstrous character who we somehow both condemn yet understand. 

Whilst the novel explores the olfactory sense and the relationship with emotions that scents carry, it is also a story of universal human morality.

Reading Süskind's pros became such an all-consuming experience that the tapestry-like plot became almost incidental. If you never read this book, you will have missed out on something truly magnificent. Not a quick read or an easy one, but indisputably worth the weeks spent bleary-eyed, page-flicking into the wee small hours with a tortured little bedside light begging to be switched off.

My review of Mary Boleyn: The Mistress of Kings, by Alison Weir

Mary Boleyn: The Mistress of Kings

by Alison Weir

My rating: 4 out of 5 stars

Like all Weir biographies this delivered and more, for me.

The historically sneered at 'loose' sister of Anne Boleyn, wife of Henry VIII's favourite Gentleman of the Privy chamber, was the daughter of an Earl-envoy and Countess-Lady-in-Waiting to both Queen Elizabeth of York and Catherine of Aragon.

A queen's Maid-of-Honour, Mary was also the esteemed aunt of Elizabeth I. And the dearly beloved mother of two top ranking courtiers (her daughter Lady Knollys became Elizabeth's chief Lady of the Bedchamber; her son Henry was created Baron Hunsdon and Knight of the Garter). Also, sister to two siblings famously executed for high treason and incest.

Like her sister, Anne, and their ambassador father, Thomas, Mary spent time in the French royal court. She was rumoured to have had affairs there, including with King Francis himself, who on record later referred to her as 'The English Mare', 'my hackney' and 'a great slag, infamous above all'.

She becomes a more interesting figure when seen contextually, in amongst a varying range of players. Some have criticised Weir for this approach, wanting a more zoomed-in exclusive of Mary. I see its purpose and like this wider angle, seeing where she slotted quite differently into various lives rather than some two-dimensional glance at her bare particulars (if you'll pardon the pun).

Someone, someday, had to give Mary Boleyn this break, so who better to do it than this excellent popular historian? Alison Weir's research on even the scantest of possibilities is immaculate, always marvellously coherent. To her credit she is rightly cautious around presenting theory as fact. Some have expressed frustration at the resulting ambiguity which I conversely feel shows depth and integrity.

In the absence of harder evidential material, earlier writers' unchallenged reduction of this poor creature to the 'great and infamous whore' made it all too tempting for literary hoards to follow suit, make Mary fair game, pass her along (if you'll pardon this pun also). Hence this book's raison d'être.

Examining Henry VIII's potential paternity of Mary's eldest two offspring has been done aplenty before, mostly in the affirmative, whereas Weir introduces a feasible negative option of answering this hairy old question: Henry acknowledged neither as his, while famously and publicly acknowledging his other illegitimate children of other mistresses.

Important, too, examining whether Mary was the elder or younger sister of Anne, which could have served to address their logical places in the cue to Henry's privy chambers (rather than one sister being simply 'easier' than the other).

It's established that Anne's methodology of keeping Henry waiting for years was carefully steered and driven by the ambitious Boleyn elders, while Mary's earlier liaison had been less politically contrived, more spontaneous. I still sense that the vulnerable, if impetuous, Mary was prey to the lusty king, while he in turn became prey to the ambitious Anne (who herself became prey to the anti-Boleyn faction).

I enjoyed Weir's closer look at widowed Mary's later love marriage to the lowlier William Stafford. And of her consequent banishment from court by her embarrassed sister Queen Anne, confirming much about hard hearted Anne and leaving the reader empathic towards Mary. This was a woman ruled by her heart, contrasting with her ruthless and (I believe) younger sister.

Whilst the temptation has been to conclude that Mary, who would sadly wind up in obscurity, was the more scatterbrained of the two sisters, it was ultimately she who, literally, kept her head.

Can't see how any history reader would not relish this superb work.



My review of Atonement, by Ian McEwan

Atonement

by Ian McEwan 

My rating: 5 out of 5 stars

This historical family saga is one of my favourite literary works, which surprises me as it was written not in antiquity with my other all-time favourites, but in 2001. My introduction was director Joe Wright's 2007 BAFTA and Academy Award nominated movie, starring James McAvoy and Keira Knightley. Then when I read the book, Ian McEwan's pros had me glued. 

The stylistic element is the strongest hook. Had it been told less masterfully, this tale may have had little more going for it than its sweeping timespan and those popular mid twentieth century historical landmarks that just tickle the outermost reaches of living memory. The beautifully structured story divides cleanly into three parts: 1935 England; World War II England and France; then modern-day England.

It begins on a sweltering summer day in 1935, when thirteen-year-old aspiring writer Briony Tallis, at her wealthy family's grand country estate, makes a clumsy and naïve error of judgement which will ruin lives:

Having received her maternal cousins, twins Jackson and Pierrot and their older sister Lola, as summer houseguests, Briony writes a play for the four youngsters to perform at a family gathering. But her three cousins have come from an unsettled home, with their parents expected to separate.

In the oppressive heat, Briony becomes exasperated motivating her disorientated cousins into order for the play. Unable to push them to her standards, Briony seeks solace in an upstairs bedroom, from where she witnesses through a window what looks like an altercation, down below at the front garden fountain.

Her older sister Cecilia, home from Cambridge University, is involved in a flirtatious tiff with childhood friend Robbie Turner. Son of the Tallis family housekeeper and nowadays Cecelia's fellow Cambridge student, Robbie is also home on leave. Briony misconstrues the scene, concluding that Robbie is being aggressive to Cecilia. 

Back at his home Robbie writes several drafts of a love letter to Cecelia, handing a copy to little Briony, outdoors, to deliver. As Briony skips away with it, Robbie realises he has accidentally given her the wrong draft, one he had meant to discard, containing obscenities. En route home with Cecelia's letter, Briony opens and reads it, becoming shocked and perplexed as to Robbie's intentions.

Later at home, Briony walks in on Robbie and Cecilia making love in a quiet corner of the family library. Having come to think Robbie a 'maniac', Briony misinterprets their lovemaking as rape and feels protective towards Cecelia, who is saying nothing.

A dinner party is held to welcome home Briony and Cecelia's older brother Leon, who brings along his wealthy friend Paul Marshall. During this, young twins Jackson and Pierrot are discovered to have run away, possibly in fear of being forced to appear in Briony's play, possibly in distress over their own uncertain domestic situation. The party forms a posse, searching the darkened grounds for the boys. Briony happens upon her older cousin, Lola, apparently being raped by a man whose identity is veiled in shadow. 

Back at the house everyone fusses over a shocked and bedraggled Lola, who seems unable or reluctant to identify her assailant. The twins are still missing. Briony takes it on herself to speak out, accusing Robbie Turner of the awful deed. Robbie is still outdoors, possibly afraid to return and hand himself in, maybe awaiting his next victim. The police are called and Briony identifies Robbie to them as the rapist. She claims to have recognised his face in the dark. Having eventually found the missing twins himself, Robbie then arrives back at the house as day breaks. He is arrested, charged and jailed for Lola's rape, with only Cecilia and Robbie's mother believing his protestations of innocence.

The story jumps to World War II, after Robbie has served some years in jail. He is released for army enlistment, to fight in the war. Cecilia has left home and trained as a nurse, severing contact with her family for allowing Robbie to go to jail. Robbie and Cecilia have only maintained contact by mail, since she was earlier forbidden from visiting him in jail. But before Robbie is sent to France, the couple meet once briefly during Cecilia's lunch break, sharing a kiss before separating.

In France, the army retreats to Dunkirk. Badly injured, Robbie seeks out shelter. There he thinks about Cecilia and reflects on past events, still puzzling over possible reasons for Briony accusing him. The memory of his brief final meeting with Cecilia is all that keeps him going, his only aim being to see her again. He falls asleep in Dunkirk, the day before evacuation.

Back in England, remorseful eighteen-year-old Briony has refused her place at Cambridge, instead training for nursing in London, as if undertaking some self-imposed duty of penance. With the benefit of hindsight and maturity, she has realised the gravity of her terrible mistake five years ago. She now suspects it was Leon's friend, Paul Marshall, who she saw raping Lola. 

This suspicion is strengthened when Briony attends Lola's London wedding to Paul Marshall. After watching these twisted nuptials, Briony journeys to face Cecilia at her sparse rented flat near Balham, to make long overdue amends. Robbie is there, home on leave. As the couple refuse Briony their forgiveness, she insists on trying to make amends by initiating legal proceedings to exonerate Robbie. Briony offers to change her original statement (even though Paul Marshall will never be held responsible for his crime because of his marriage to Lola, the victim). However, the couple point out that Briony would be seen as an unreliable witness, if suddenly admitting her own lies. 

In London 1999, we read seventy-seven-year-old Briony Tallis, a successful novelist with terminal dementia, tell us her dying truths. She has penned an acclaimed novel (the book-within-a-book we've read in parts one and two of this novel) in which Cecilia and Robbie are reunited after Dunkirk. In reality, however, they never met again, as Briony here humbly acknowledges.

Old Briony concedes that Robbie most likely died at Dunkirk, from septicaemia caused by his injuries. Cecilia was probably killed by a bomb that destroyed gas and water mains above Balham tube station. Whilst Briony's plotline of Lola's wedding to Paul Marshall was true, Briony had not, in reality, visited Cecilia at her rented flat near Balham to make amends. Such is often an author's purpose in fiction - to imaginarily undo wrongdoings. To atone themselves of something they otherwise cannot. 

Briony justifies her rewriting of history in reuniting Cecilia and Robbie, claiming she saw no point offering her readers a pitiless ending. No sense or satisfaction, she rationalises, could be drawn from that. She also wanted to give Robbie and Cecilia their due happiness by bringing them together. Since they could not reunite in life, Briony permitted them this in her fiction.

By tracking older Briony's life journey, the reader has examined the human need for personal atonement.

This had the makings of an instant classic, with all the qualities of so many great epics yet the intimacy of those deeply personal works we curl up with on cold winter nights. It is no wonder it sold so well, was shortlisted for the 2001 Booker Prize for fiction and listed in 2010 by TIME magazine as of the 100 greatest English-language novels since 1923.

Impossible to predict where the story is taking you, yet utterly compelling, this is a haunting mystery but so much more. One of those rare, special novels that will likely never date, which everyone should read at least once.

My review of Chocolat, by Joanne Harris

Chocolat

by Joanne Harris 

My rating: 4 out of 5 stars

I gained kilos reading this book (is that what they call a spoiler alert?).

Chocolat topped the Sunday Times bestseller list and won the 2000 Creative Freedom Award, 2001 Whittaker Gold Award and 2012 Whittaker Platinum Award. It was shortlisted for the 2000 Whitbread Novel of the Year Award and 2001 Scripter Award. This novel's raging success encouraged Harris to write its sequels The Lollipop Shoes and Peaches for Monsieur le Curé.

Chocolat's big screen adaptation, starring Johnny Depp and Juliette Binoche, was nominated for eight BAFTAs and five Oscars. Like most books whose screen adaptions I saw first, this was slightly different to its onscreen counterpart, but we have to remember always that the book came first (i.e. it's often ultimately not the book but the film we should question). Nevertheless, I found the similarities greater than the differences, loving film and novel equally.

Synopsised as 'a darkly magical modern folktale centred on a chocolate shop owner, Vianne Rocher', Joanne Harris's evocative, sensuous pros have us drooling for, almost able to smell, the irresistible confection at the heart of the title. The characters are richly yet humbly drawn. We see inside many heads, examining closely the cross section of universal human issues affecting this beautiful township's residents.

Major themes addressed in much of Harris' literary work include the mother-child relationship, food having certain emotive quality and magic and horror hidden in ordinary things. Her works are influenced by Grimms’ Fairy Tales and Norse mythology. Unsurprisingly, she has been awarded several honorary doctorates for her extraordinary contribution to English literature.

Chocolat to me reads like the classic storytelling some were fortunate to have read to us as children. Each page of text turned appears simply yet charmingly formed, as if to pull no punches. Sensing no hidden tricks, we soon into the tale trust this author, readily following her along the delicious winding path she leads us down.

I closed the last page feeling satiated, pacified, optimistic - as I do after eating chocolate. A rare, traditional style read that warmed the cockles of my heart.



My review of Wuthering Heights, by Emily Brontë

Wuthering Heights

by Emily Brontë

My rating: 4 out of 5 stars

My first reading of this was under force, at school. I loathed it. When I more recently came across it and, for some reason, reread it, I loved it in its entirety. We come to appreciate things, as adults, that we despised as kids.

Adaptations have found their way into four films (the most memorable being director William Wyler's Academy Award winning 1939 version starring Laurence Olivier and Merle Oberon), countless radio incarnations, three TV series, a ballet, three operas and a musical show. 

This, Emily Brontë's first and only novel, appeared in 1847 under the nom de plume Ellis Bell, a year before she died aged 30. Her sister Charlotte then edited Wuthering Heights and arranged its posthumous second edition publication in 1850. Its depiction of human cruelty was contentious, challenging Victorian morality ideals, examining religious hypocrisy, social class and gender roles.

Central themes are passion, jealousy and vengefulness. Smouldering, swarthy Heathcliff and his great love Catherine and many adversaries are described impeccably by earthy housekeeper Nelly Dean, who I'd so like to have a pot of tea and a natter with.

Set on the North Yorkshire Moors between roughly 1771 and 1803, mostly in flashback form, Wuthering Heights is the story's farmhouse setting. Arriving in 1801 to rent nearby Thrushcross Grange, wealthy southern gentleman Mr. Lockwood seeks peace and recuperation. He visits his landlord, Mr. Heathcliff, at his remote neighbouring moorland farmhouse, Wuthering Heights. Heathcliff is coarsely mannered, his teenaged mistress of the house reserved and their young male servant seemingly some family member.

During his visit, Lockwood becomes snowed in at Wuthering Heights. He is reluctantly escorted to a bedchamber, where he finds books and graffiti of one-time inhabitant Catherine. He has a nightmare in which ghostly Catherine attempts entry at the window. Lockwood's cries rouse Heathcliff who arrives at the room. Believing Lockwood, Heathcliff opens the window to let in Catherine's ghost, but nothing happens. Transferring Lockwood to his own bedroom, Heathcliff returns to watch the window.

Next morning, after Heathcliff escorts Lockwood back to Thrushcross Grange, housekeeper Nelly Dean recounts to the guest the story of Wuthering Heights' family:

Flashback to thirty years before. Then householder Mr. Earnshaw, on a trip to Liverpool, adopts a homeless gypsy boy, brings home to Wuthering Heights and renames him Heathcliff. Earnshaw's son, Hindley, feels replaced in his father's affections by Heathcliff, turning bitterly jealous. Hindley's sister Catherine befriends Heathcliff, spending hours playing daily with him, out on the moors. Hindley is then packed off to boarding college.

Three years on, when Earnshaw dies, Hindley returns as master of Wuthering Heights with his new wife, Frances. He allows Heathcliff to stay but relegates him to servant status.

After ambling one day to Thrushcross Grange, spying on the Lintons for fun, Heathcliff and Catherine are caught trespassing. Heathcliff is sent home while Catherine, injured by the Lintons' dog, is taken in to recuperate. Remaining with the Lintons some time, Catherine is affected by their gentility. She returns to Wuthering Heights more refined and scorns Heathcliff's roughness. When the Lintons visit, Heathcliff dresses up to impress Catherine and starts an argument with Edgar Linton. Hindley locks Heathcliff in the attic. Catherine tries comforting Heathcliff, who vows revenge on Hindley.

The following year, after having a son, Hareton, Frances dies. The widowed Hindley turns to drink, then moves away for a while. 

Two years on, when Catherine and Edgar Linton become closer friends and then lovers, she distances herself from Heathcliff. Catherine confides in Nelly that Edgar has proposed and she has accepted, although she loves him less than Heathcliff, whom she can't marry due to his low rank and poor education. She instead hopes to use her position as Edgar's wife to elevate Heathcliff. Eavesdropping into this conversation between Catherine and Nelly, Heathcliff hears Catherine reason that it would 'degrade' her to marry him, though he misses her admission to Nelly her love for him over Edgar.

Heathcliff runs away, disappearing without a trace. Distraught, Catherine makes herself ill out of spite. Nursing her to health, Nelly and Edgar soon pander to her every whim to prevent relapse.

Three years on, Edgar and Catherine have married and live together at Thrushcross Grange. Heathcliff returns, a wealthy gentleman, to Catherine's delight and Edgar's chagrin. Edgar's sister, Isabella, falls for Heathcliff, who encourages her infatuation as a means of revenge. Catherine locks herself in her room, making herself ill again through spite and jealousy.

Heathcliff assumes residence at Wuthering Heights, habitually gambling with Hindley and teaching Hareton bad habits. Hindley has to mortgage Heathcliff the farmhouse to pay his gambling dues and debt. When Hindley dies, six months after Catherine, Heathcliff becomes master of Wuthering Heights. He elopes with Isabella Linton.

When they return some months later, Heathcliff hears of Catherine's illness. With Nelly's aid, he visits her secretly. Catherine's condition turns out to be pregnancy. After giving birth to a daughter, Cathy, Catherine dies. Isabella, pregnant herself, deserts the brutal Heathcliff and flees south, where she gives birth to a son, Linton, before falling ill. She dies and Edgar travels south to retrieve his nephew, Linton, to adopt and educate him.   

Young Cathy, meanwhile, has become a beautiful, spirited girl. Though usually seldom leaving Thrushcross Grange, she ventures farther afield in her father Edgar's absences. Riding across the moors to Wuthering Heights, she discovers her cousin, Hareton. When her father returns with her other cousin, the weak and sickly Linton, the boy's father Heathcliff prohibits Edgar custody, insisting that Linton live instead at Wuthering Heights.

Three years later, on the moors, Nelly and Cathy run into Heathcliff, who takes them to Wuthering Heights to see Linton and Hareton. Heathcliff hopes Linton and Cathy will marry, making Linton heir to Thrushcross Grange. Linton and Cathy begin a secret liaison, echoing that of their respective parents, Heathcliff and Catherine, as youngsters.

The following year, after falling ill, Edgar's condition worsens while Nelly and Cathy are out on the moors, where Heathcliff and Linton trick them into entering Wuthering Heights. Heathcliff holds them captive, enforcing Cathy's marriage to Linton. With Linton's help, Cathy then escapes, returning to the Grange where her father dies.

As master of Wuthering Heights and now Thrushcross Grange, and as Cathy's father-in-law, Heathcliff insists she leave the Grange and move to Wuthering Heights. Soon after she arrives, Linton dies. Though her young cousin Hareton shows her kindness, Cathy becomes entirely withdrawn.

Here, Nelly's long flashback catches up to the present. Lockwood soon tires of the moors, announcing to Heathcliff his departure. Returning to the area by chance, eight months later, with his tenancy at Thrushcross Grange still valid, he lodges there again. Finding Nelly living at Wuthering Heights, he enquires what has happened since he left.

She explains that she moved to Wuthering Heights to replace departing housekeeper Zillah. Hareton, after an accident, became confined to the farmhouse. During his convalescence, he and Cathy became close and got engaged. Heathcliff, after seeing visions of Catherine, stopped eating for four days and was found dead in Catherine's old bedchamber. He was buried next to Catherine.

Readying to leave, Lockwood passes the graves of Catherine, Edgar and Heathcliff. He pauses to contemplate the stillness of the moors.

This is Victorian gothic at its finest. Chilly, ghostly, disturbing and ravishingly beautiful literature that will never be successfully emulated - thank goodness.


My review of Loved Ones: Pen Portraits, by Diana Mitford Mosley

Loved Ones: Pen Portraits

by Diana Mitford Mosley

My rating: 4 out of 5 stars

Charming reminiscences by arguably the most eloquent published Mitford sister. Diana was perhaps less frivolously funny, in print, than novelist sister Nancy, less gritty than activist Jessica and less straightforwardly sentimental than duchess sister Deborah Mitford.

This exquisite collection of pen portraits, of central figures from Diana's life, includes memories of Lytton Strachey and Dora Carrington|, her onetime neighbours and friends. Violet Hammersley, an author, close friend of her mother's and prominent Mitford childhood figure. Writer Evelyn Waugh, a very close friend. Diana's former brother-in-law Professor Derek Jackson, a leading physicist. Lord Berners, a dear friend she often stayed with at Faringdon House. Prince and Princess Clary, friends of hers after the Second World War. The final portrait is of her second husband Sir Oswald Mosley.

Some are true gems, e.g. Violet Hammersely:

'She was rather small and very dark, with black hair and huge dark eyes, and she had an expression of deep gloom. She had a rather low, hollow voice, and although she often laughed it was as if unwillingly. Her garden, at least the only garden of hers I ever saw, was a discreet green. When I first knew her, she was already a widow, and widow's weeds became her. To the end of her life, she was swathed in black scarves and shawls and veils; in later years not exactly in mourning, because many of her clothes were dark brown, but the whole effect had something more Spanish than French about it. Once when she was slightly annoying my sister Nancy, who used the powder and lipstick universal among our generation, by saying: "Painters don't admire make-up at all," Nancy retorted: "Oh well Mrs. Ham, you know it's all very well for you, but we can't all look like El Greco's mistress."'

The book features historic photographs of the subjects.

Actually, three of these pen portraits were republished in Diana's extensive 2008 collection The Pursuit of Laughter, so any fan who has read that collection will only find three unread ones in this earlier, shorter one.

Having, at her lowest point, been dubbed the 'most hated woman in England' for her romantic link to Brit fascist leader Mosley, then spending much of WWII in Holloway jail uncharged under wartime clause 18B, Diana remained disarmingly charming to all who met her. Never becoming bitter, she wrote in a published letter to her sister Debo: 'Being hated, as you know, means nothing to me.'

A remarkable figure of dignity and elegance, she wrote delectably, complete with Mitford 'shrieks' and 'teases' - if of a more understated, tongue-in-cheek variety than those of her published sisters.

A must read for any Mitford fan.

My review of The God Delusion, by Richard Dawkins

The God Delusion

by Richard Dawkins

My rating: 4 out of 5 stars

This is a great read and will, I suspect, be more confronting to agnostics than to worshippers, it's thoroughness and well-argued points really putting the reader on the spot and making them think, rationally.

English biologist Richard Dawkins is a professorial fellow of New College, Oxford and former holder of the Charles Simonyi Chair for the Public Understanding of Science at the University of Oxford. He therefore has no need to seek profile, as certain of his detractors attacked him for over this mega seller. Most true religious believers I've spoken to remain unthreatened by Dawkins' powerful polemic. Some have accused him of preaching atheism in the same way religious zealots proselytise. That was not the impression I came away with. Nor do I believe Dawkins guilty of polarising here, that mind-split was already centuries old before he was born. He certainly fuels it well though.

In December 2006, this reached No.4 in the New York Times Hardcover Nonfiction Best Seller list, remaining on the list for 51 weeks. By January 2010, the English version had sold over 2 million copies.

I read it with some deep grins and pensive frowns. I found this as meticulously researched and presented as I expected of such a preeminent academic. He's at times a cranky old debater, almost comical in itself, but his passion for logic and reason is mightily impressive.

Not something you can flick casually through, I don't think, but the requisite intellectual effort is stimulating, the end result rewarding, the cerebral value inestimable.

Some things need spelling out sometimes and here's a splendid example of that.

My review of Natasha: The Biography of Natalie Wood, by Suzanne Finstad

Natasha: The Biography of Natalie Wood

by Suzanne Finstad

My rating: 4 out of 5 stars

Anyone who even only saw 'Gypsy' (1962) would have been taken by this seemingly fresh, stunning talent. But this child veteran screen legend had already long since cemented her place in the Hollywood history with great films like 'Miracle on 34th Street' (1947).

Born in San Francisco to Russian immigrant parents, Wood also spoke Russian and was proud of her heritage. She was pushed as a toddler, by her mother, into films. 

At nine she was named the 'most exciting juvenile motion picture star of the year'. Three years on, she was judged Child Star of the Year by the Children's Day National Council of New York.

Successfully transitioning from child star to ingenue at sixteen, she co-starred with James Dean and Sal Mineo in 'Rebel Without a Cause', (1955). For this Natalie was nominated for a Best Supporting Actress Academy Award.

In 1961, Wood played Maria in the musical 'West Side Story', a major box office and critical success. That same year she appeared opposite Warren Beatty in Elia Kazan's 'Splendor in the Grass', earning Best Actress Nominations at the Academy Awards, Golden Globes and BAFTAs.

She managed longevity as well as was possible, maturing appropriately into more adult productions like 'Bob & Carol & Ted & Alice' (1969), a comedy about sexual liberation.

After that she got the idea into her head that family must come first, that her movie career was finished. Had she lived into old age she may well have become what actresses like the wonderful Lauren Bacall did - a living legend. She was already close.

There was her extraordinary beauty, her two marriages to the one man, heart throb Robert Wagner and, finally, her tragic premature death by drowning, fulfilling her worst fear (of water).

This is a well-researched, quality biography that does Natalie justice. We are left feeling informed, satisfied, without having intruded too crassly into this star's personal life. We feel we have celebrated a likeable woman with a fascinating career. And a little sad for her. 

A tasteful tribute by a classy writer on a true and timeless star.

My review of The Stranger, by Albert Camus

The Stranger

by Albert Camus

My rating: 4 out of 5 stars

Almost anyone can relate to life's absurdities which French Nobel Prize-winning author, journalist and philosopher Albert Camus conveyed with such brilliance.

The narrator of this is Meursault, a French Algerian. Unconcerned about how others see him, Meursault always speaks his mind, so is seen by society as a stranger because of his frank indifference.

Meursault is no less indifferent to learning of his mother's death, by telegram, as anything else. After attending her funeral, he kills an Arab man and when tried is openly remorseless. The tale is told two parts: Meursault's point of view before and after the murder.

For this reader, it's not so much the particular tale that he's telling, the places or the people, it's the subtext to it all, the message behind his tale. In fact, it's what he's not saying (because he doesn't need to spell it out) that resonates.

Though Camus famously refused to be labelled an 'existentialist' writer, this 1942 book became the inspiration behind so many such works. I really wanted to meet the man, share a carafe of wine in some rundown old place by the sea and lend him my ear.

The Stranger remains a timeless classic which deserves not to be skipped by anyone.

Sunday, 30 March 2025

My review of Missus, by Ruth Park

Missus

by Ruth Park

My rating: 4 out of 5 stars

Like all exceptional novelists, the late Ruth Park employed a simplistic yet captivating insight of the human condition. This set her work apart from the workaday potboiler that simply churns out juicy formulaic plotlines. Her work is purely character driven, their storylines organic by-products of characters' endearing quirks and peculiar choices. 

This is what made her a literary writer, rather than a fast fiction or romance machine of the Barbara Cartland ilk. Her characters are blessed and burdened with the virtues, shortcomings and consequent dilemmas of ourselves and our loved ones, universal qualities and quandaries that resonate with our inner philosopher. 

Her settings, whether city slum or outback dustbowl, are vivid, poignant and glorious. Her understated period detail is delicious in the many flashbacks. So completely does she transport us to other times and places, we feel that gratifying sense of escape that we read for. This raw literary talent shines across all three novels in the series.

This third and final instalment in Park's prestigious trilogy, the prequel, Missus, begins in the 1920s. Our beloved established characters become less central presences, absentee players for much of the novel, contemplated and discussed by others. 

I would have liked more focus on our familiar people, less on their multitudinous forebears and offsiders. I was interested in the trajectory of Hughie and Margaret's pairing, prior to their Sydney transfer and offspring that form the next two novels. 

I appreciated this necessity of new protagonists. What I had not envisaged was their persistent dominance and high numbers, many being arguably quite extraneous. Though some were absorbing, this matrix of 'others' pushes aside our special people. 

Whilst feeling compensated with certain of Park's other characters, I skimmed many of their scenes, picking out my own characters' episodes, tying in their histories. Though this perhaps typifies prequels, it was also as if Park became uneasy staying with these characters from previous instalments, or just too bored with them to give them the space I wanted for them.

Or maybe we're meant to approach this as a standalone piece. If so, then the publisher's pitching becomes questionable.   

None of the above issues affect the quality of prose, as rich, even richer in parts, than in the other two The Harp in the South books, perhaps because by this book she was nearly forty years more practised than with the first two. 

Missus, like its sibling novels, transcends family saga into a wider social critique, an intimate study of human emotion. Its stylistic supremacy is evident from the opening lines, hence my four stars despite my other misgivings covered here. 

This is interwar regional Australia, its ethos, its people, its places, told by one of the finest.

My review of Hard Road: The Life and Times of Stevie Wright, by Glenn Goldsmith

Hard Road: The Life and Times of Stevie Wright

by Glenn Goldsmith

My rating: 5 out of 5 stars

It was the '60s. I was a boy growing up in the UK. Pop groups were our idols, their sounds our mantras. The Easybeats sound was no less impactful than that of the Beatles, The Stones, The Who, The Kinks, The Animals or any other such band of the hour. 

Their front man, Stevie Wright, was among those immortals whose every crackly radio lyric we hung onto, whose spot lit forms we gazed at in wonder on our snowy black and white TV screens. Their voices we emulated at play, spun round our heads as we fell asleep at night and, as with everything else we internalised, remains in our heads 50-plus years on. 

Wright was a remarkable performance talent who sprang from nowhere at the right moment, then paid his industry dues in reaching the top. Like the mythical Icarus who burnt his wings flying too close to the sun, or the cat with its nine lives, Wright would survive the seemingly impossible for way, way longer than fathomable. Others have gone the same way, of course, while an ever-shrinking handful of his contemporaries, incredibly, live on. 

So many of this generation walked similar paths to this hard living music industry legend, if minus his fame or notoriety. Few had as far to fall as Stevie Wright. But the sex, drugs and rock were the cultural, generational binder. We were all components of the counterculture revolution, some infamous, most unheard of.   

I searched high and low for this book, albeit thirteen years after its release (to say I have a long reading list is a mild understatement!). After awaiting its arrival, on tenterhooks, I took it to bed at 7 and 8 p.m., like a jealous, obsessive teenager, for the best part of a week until closing the last page.

Far from the tacky kiss-and-tell performance of some like it, this impeccably documented account of an icon's darker side is penned with compassion, respect and integrity. One of those rare, classy efforts readers so often hope for but are only sometimes delivered. 

A heartwarming trip down Nostalgia Street for the first half, hysterically tragicomic for the second, by turns almost unreadably heart wrenching, devastating as it nears conclusion.   

I laughed, I cried, I nearly bought a round.

Full marks to author Glenn Goldsmith who, besides having a musical career of his own, was Stevie Wright's Musical Director and Tour Manager in the late '80s. 

Pure class, Mr. Goldsmith. You've done Stevie proud.


My review of After Leaving Mr. Mackenzie, by Jean Rhys

After Leaving Mr. Mackenzie

by Jean Rhys

My rating: 5 out of 5 stars

This is the delectable Jean Rhys at her very best. She has our central character deliciously sussed out. We know her shortcomings and want to help her out - it's a tough life out there for Julia Martin. Hell, it's a goddam jungle.

Some of this underdog protagonist's wry observations are as bluntly incisive as Rhys's narrative observation of her:

'Of course she had some pathetic illusions about herself or she would not be able to go on living.'

'It's so easy to make a person who hasn't got anything seem wrong.'

'If all good, respectable people had one face, I'd spit in it.' 

And so on.

Released in 1931, three years after Quartet, this was Rhys's second published novel, which she wrote and had published when she was 41. One reviewer called this material from her early period 'sordid'. It would be another 36 years before the starchy literary establishment acknowledged her with the 1967 WH Smith Literary Award, of which she said only, in that characteristic understated way she had with irony and words: 'It has come too late.'

I laugh out loud and cry a little whenever I read Mackenzie, just as I so often do when reading any of this formidable author's work.

This novel should, like all her others of this period, have been far more successful than it was in its day, just as its Jean Rhys should have been given far greater recognition, far sooner, for her extraordinary talent. She was a proud pariah though and swallowed down her lot, along with a rather lot of gin and who could blame her?

It would be criminal for any serious reader or writer to let this, or any other Jean Rhys novel escape their attention. Treat yourself to this fabulously rocky, rollercoaster ride down the gurgler in silk stockings - you deserve it.

Then read it again and see what you missed.


My review of The Catcher in the Rye, by J.D. Salinger

The Catcher in the Rye

by J.D. Salinger

My rating: 4 out of 5 stars

This was the first book I read as a young adult. An inexperienced reader, I had been too busy living and suddenly felt I was missing out on books, so had asked around for something to help get me into reading.

I glanced casually through the pages on a two-month coach trip around Australia's red centre. Then I reread it more closely, then again intensely, and a breakthrough occurred for me. It was the perfect beginning of a long and winding reading road for me.

I related closely to narrator Holden Caulfield, empathising with his internal frictions and dilemmas as I gazed from my coach window at the wilderness rush by. This book deals with those complex yet universal issues of personal identity, belonging, connection and alienation.

Providing a journey within my journey, J. D. Salinger became a close, early travel buddy I'll never forget and will remain ever thankful to.

An instant hit when published in 1951, The Catcher in the Rye has been translated into almost every language and still sells around 250,000 annually, totalling around 65 million books, its protagonist becoming an icon for teenage rebellion and attracting extremist Conservative criticism.

Through the 1960s & '70s it was the most censored book in American high schools and libraries. By 1978 it was banned in Issaquah, Washington, high schools, as being part of an 'overall communist plot.' As late as 1981 it was America's most censored yet most taught book in public schools. The American Library Association called it the 1990s' tenth most frequently challenged book.

Those alarmist challenges, by hysterical right-wing zealots, surrounded Holden's characteristic teenage vulgar language, sexual references, blasphemy, alleged undermining of family values and moral codes, being a poor role model, encouragement of rebellion, and promotion of drinking, smoking, lying and promiscuity. Typically, the challengers have been unfamiliar with the plot.

Numerous shootings have even been associated with the novel, including an assassination attempt on Ronald Reagan. John Lennon's assassin was arrested with a copy of the book he had purchased that day.

As its critics have expired, however, the book has survived, becoming a timeless, fondly preserved classic. Stale, overblown controversies aside, I can't imagine anyone not adoring this gorgeous ride.

Read it and tell me I'm wrong.

My review of The Gunpowder Plot: Terror and Faith in 1605, by Antonia Fraser

The Gunpowder Plot: Terror and Faith in 1605

by Antonia Fraser 

My rating: 4 out of 5 stars

Whatever Lady Antonia Fraser wrote about - I'm sure I could read her shopping lists and be entertained - would be worth reading. The lady is perhaps my favourite mistress of this genre. Not simply erudite, eloquent and formidably well educated, she's genuinely talented. Such is the key to her success and longevity.

It came as no surprise, therefore, that what has to me been one of the most excruciatingly boring episodes in history to glean facts from, was here made gripping material that refused to be put down. Why couldn't we have had such reading at school? People can't help learning when drinking up such words.

It's unnecessary to outline here what the failed Gunpowder Plot was, with Guy Fawkes night such a culturally ingrained institution. What makes Fraser's history of its advent so coherent is, as always, her elaboration of the characters, their background, their motives, etc.

Just her broader insight into James I & VI's kingship was enough for this reader. His was never a time that resonated for me in other reading, yet here he is given life I had previously begged for in other works to gain just basic insight.

Callously indifferent to his mother's cruel fate, displaying not an ounce of filial loyalty, this maternally disdainful overly precious self-serving brat spent his Scottish days awaiting Elizabeth I's death. Baring a nauseatingly acquiescent grin from afar he anchored her favour as heir.

As if dancing, satin-shoed, on Gloriana's grave, he then minced brashly around her crumbling English palaces whose days of pomp and finery were gone before she lay cold. Ostentatiously bejewelled, in dusty ermine, swirling velvet, fluttering cloth of gold and ermine, he flirted audaciously with male favourites, in an unfathomable Scottish brogue. He stank. Behind him trailed a grubby, uncouth imported entourage that echoed his foreign tongue, stank just as badly and collectively got up everyone's nose. Yet James was impervious to the resulting courtly consternation. Not entirely facile, he was icily shrewd, calculating like his great great grandfather Henry VII. He also sponsored translation of the Bible named after him: the Authorised King James Version.

I still didn't warm to him though, but didn't need to.

It's astonishing that any son of so fascinating a legend as my favourite tragedienne, the martyred Mary, Queen of Scots, could have turned out so drab to eke out depth or meaning from! He would surely have been so reviled for his boringness alone; that in itself would justify the hatching of any plot. (In fact, this plot targeted the House of Lords rather than the king specifically. James's rule and its incidentals personified that target though.)

Contrasting with his predecessor Elizabeth I, her sister 'Bloody' Mary I and father Henry VIII, slithery James I lacked fire, conviction, had a spinelessness, a wateriness I find hard to get my teeth into. Yet Lady Fraser overrides this obstacle with all of her usual panache.

Guy Fawkes himself was little more interesting than King James, yet here we have all we need on him, fleshed out via 'that' satisfying Fraseresque treatment she is renowned and revered for.

The politics around the plot are, by any other account I've read, dry, monotonous and interminably convoluted, particularly for those not instinctively drawn to the Jacobean era. Not a patch on all things Tudor despite being immediately adjoined to its timeframe. Yet these politics, too, are here given context, explained patiently and meticulously. On this I knew I would be able to rely, having relished other such Fraser books. Like a child in a hearth I sat, glued, welcoming the magic of this storyteller's voice.

Like I said at the start, it wouldn't have mattered what it was about, it was always going to be special. It was, it is. I was finally able to learn things I didn't know about this fiasco, minus that dreaded textbook tedium that creeps into other accounts (oh woe, oh woe!).  

Recommended especially to those who, like this reader, need more than a dry old listing of dates and names to get through this done-to-death tale to broaden their knowledge.

(Would have given it 5 stars but knocked off a half for my undying dislike of all things James I & VI - give me his neurotic mother any day, or even his sleazy grandson Charles II - and another half for whoever chose that ludicrous e-cover art.)


My review of I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, by Maya Angelou

I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings

by Maya Angelou

My rating: 3 out of 5 stars

Maya Angelou's recollection of her first seventeen years had me spellbound on first reading. In the world's mourning fortnight after her passing, I meditatively reread this first and most highly acclaimed of her seven autobiographies.

Here was one master storyteller, a formidable intellect with a heart of pure, solid gold. Caged Bird catapulted Angelou to international fame and critical acclaim in 1969, launching a literary career that brought her dozens of awards and 30-odd honorary doctoral degrees.

While the conservative literary commentariat labelled this 'autobiographical fiction' because of Angelou's use of thematic development and other techniques common to fiction, the overruling consensus recognises it as true autobiography, but a genre she critiqued, changed and expanded.

Her use of understatement, self-mockery, humour and irony won hearts globally, despite right-wing objections to her depictions of lesbianism, premarital cohabitation, pornography and violence.

Though her graphic depictions of childhood rape, racism, and sexuality saw this book banned from many school curricula and library shelves, more have stuck loyally with it.

Her humour, drawn from Black folklore, sent strength to not only her ethnic tribal survivors of racism and oppression, it reached out to all, resonating especially for women of all shades and minority group readers of each conceivable kind. In parts so intimately told it was like sitting in her parlour, listening to her over coffee and cookies.

Her famously incisive take on society glows succinctly through each chapter and verse. I felt honoured to have been let in on her astonishing life.

Thank you, Maya Angelou, you were one gutsy, mindful saint who told it like it was with unparalleled grace and candour. You were a rare and precious role model for all who strive to express themselves through the written word. You lent spirit to generations and will continue to.

My review of Two Queens in One Isle: The Deadly Relationship of Elizabeth I & Mary Queen of Scots, by Alison Plowden

Two Queens in One Isle: The Deadly Relationship of Elizabeth I & Mary Queen of Scots

by Alison Plowden

My rating: 4 out of 5 stars

Alison Plowden's history of these cousin queens, Protestant Elizabeth I of England and Catholic Mary of Scots, is enthralling.

It is near impossible, after reading material such as this, to side with one queen or the other. Each was arguably at fault and justified in her treatment of the other. Mary came off the worst to lioness Bess.

The backstory is that the teenaged Mary, when queen consort of France, had once claimed the so called 'illegitimate' Elizabeth's throne as her own and was considered the legitimate sovereign of England by many English Catholics.

Mary became widowed young in France, returning to Scotland where she had not lived since her infancy. She was not embraced for long by her Protestant Scottish subjects or Lords who had other plans for Scotland's rulership than allowing a woman and Catholic reign. 

After the suspicious murder of Mary's despised second husband, Elizabeth's cousin Darnley, abruptly followed by her remarriage to Darnley's suspected assassin, Bothwell, Mary was overthrown and imprisoned. After several failed attempts she escaped, fleeing south to England, seeking Elizabeth's support and protection. Dishevelled, Mary was taken aback when, rather than being led to the anticipated hospitality of Elizabeth's court, she was taken into 'protective custody' by English officials.

Mary expected Elizabeth to help her regain her throne, but wily Elizabeth characteristically prevaricated, instead holding Mary 'temporarily' captive. This was officially for Mary's protection while Elizabeth ordered inquiries into the conduct of Mary's rebels. She also, however, ordered inquiries into Mary's alleged complicity in Darnley's murder plot, ostensibly so as to clear Mary's name in making way for her proposed reinstatement to Scottish rulership.

Without direct royal heirs and seeing the younger, more beautiful and fecund Mary as a threat if released, the perpetually unmarried Elizabeth kept Mary confined in English castles and manor houses for almost nineteen years.

After understandably conspiring towards her liberty, at whatever cost, desperate and isolated Mary was made a figurehead for numerous Catholic conspiracies to dethrone Elizabeth. Deemed by Elizabeth's councillors too dangerous to live, Mary was entrapped. On somewhat trumped-up charges, she was convicted for plotting Elizabeth's assassination. Executed, Mary became martyrised throughout Catholic Christendom.

Mary's unprecedented royal execution was one official rationale behind Catholic Phillip II of Spain's failed invasion of England with his Armada. Elizabeth was branded a heretic by the pope, who sanctioned Phillip's Armanda, calling for Elizabeth's dethronement. With the English Channel's stormy weather on Elizabeth's side, the English fleet, under vice admiral Francis Drake, famously saw them off.

The two queens are adjacently entombed in Westminster Abbey, Mary's being the grander piece commissioned by her son, King James VI & I of Scotland and England, who had Mary reinterred from her original, less salubrious resting place of Elizabeth's approval.

Ultimately, everyone makes up their own mind over which was the heroine and which the villainess - there's a little of each in both queens.

A fascinating and informative read.

My review of Billy Liar, by Keith Waterhouse

Billy Liar

by Keith Waterhouse 

My rating: 3 out of 5 stars

This popular 1959 novel was adapted into a successful three act West End play starring Albert Finney, which enjoyed enough success to then tour globally. The acclaimed 1963 film starred Tom Courtenay and Julie Christie, featuring the marvellous veteran Mona Washbourne, legendary comic Wilfred Pickles and an early big screen appearance by funny man Leonard Rossiter, who would later become a household name in TV's hilarious Rising Damp. A 1973 London Weekend Television series followed, before a blockbuster West End musical at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane. The latter (1974) ran for 904 performance and starred Michael Crawford, featuring a practically unheard-of Elaine Paige.

Poor naïve young Billy's a bit of a lad but a good, honest one, learning keenly and clumsily about the opposite sex and forever daydreaming of his own personal fantasy world not so that unlike his real one, neither place being all that flash.

His daydreams are attempts at escaping the tedium and isolation of his very ordinary work and home life. His girlfriends are difficult, foreign creatures. His workmates and bosses can be scoundrels. His comical family is ever-present but seldom really there for him.

This amusing journey is a snapshot in time. Nothing magnificent, fancy or complex, just an honest, straight forward read, maybe for those in need of a simplistic diversion from heavier stuff.

It somehow dug itself a special place in my literary memories. And that's saying something for such a light-hearted read.


My review of She-Wolves: The Women Who Ruled England Before Elizabeth, by Helen Castor

She-Wolves: The Women Who Ruled England Before Elizabeth

by Helen Castor

My rating: 4 out of 5 stars

This quality writing explores a stimulating proposition which, as a seasoned Tudor reader, I had long pondered: why all the fuss over Princess Mary Tudor (later 'Bloody' Queen Mary I) in her youth, being a female heir? Why did her father Henry VIII go to such extremes as discarding his marriage, splitting with the church of Rome etc., in his panic to get a male heir, when women had already long since led the nation?

Similarly, why all the further despair when Elizabeth I succeeded Mary? And why, during Elizabeth's long reign, was there so much angst over her most obvious heir, Mary of Scots, possibly succeeding (the latter's religion and controversies aside)? This chauvinistic, perhaps ill-informed generation of statesmen seemingly underestimated that female leadership was not new ground.

I loved, as always, reading about the fabulously fierce Margaret of Anjou, who no one would want to cross.

Ferocious Matilda is also always a great character to revisit. She really set the bar for others – unless we go back much further to Boudica who, while never ruling the entire nation, put up one hell of a fight against the invading Romans consolidated tribal kingdoms such as hers and ruled the land, successfully annexing most of Britain as a colony of their Empire.

Isabella of France, too, is always great reading value. This 'don't mess with me' queen never fails to make me grin for ear to ear with admiration.

Austere Eleanor of Aquitaine is perhaps my least favourite subject here, her period being my least favourite. It would have been improper to exclude her though. Her history I find too dragged out, by all her biographers. I'd have liked to have seen the proportion of this book given to Eleanor allocated instead to Mary I, but that's my ingrained Tudor fanaticism for you.

I like Helen Castor's more formal, unsentimental style. She meanders less than some on more personal details, which perhaps makes for a more remote study of each queen. This, combined with the requisitely compact nature of this lofty work, left me less intimately acquainted with each subject than I have through other biographers of the same queens. These others have the advantage of space to delve into the 'popular history' realms of emotional motive, leisurely interests, wardrobe preferences, dietary quirks, etc.

I find Castor closer to David Starkey or Eric Ives than Antonia Fraser or Alison Weir. A curiously masculine narrative by a woman on what is such a feministic endeavour. This factor offers balance, saving the work from degeneration into what might have become just another medieval Girl Power rant.

A good solid read, if more academically styled than my usual choices. I was not disappointed.

My review of Mildred Pierce, by James M. Cain

Mildred Pierce

by James M. Cain 

My rating: 4 out of 5 stars


I relished James M. Cain's 1941 classic from which two great screen adaptations of the same title have emerged: Joan Crawford's first starring Warner Bros role after leaving MGM, winning her the 1945 Best Actress Academy Award, with Eve Arden, Ann Blyth, Jack Carson and Zachary Scott. And Director-Screenwriter Todd Haynes's 2011 multi-Award-winning five-part miniseries, starring Kate Winslet, Guy Pearce and Evan Rachel Wood. Far truer to the novel than the movie was, the miniseries is an almost scene-for-scene dramatization, including Cain's original dialogue.

Set in 1930s Glendale, California, the plot follows middle-class housewife Mildred, whose money was lost in the Great Depression. An overprotective, self-sacrificing mother, after separating from her unemployed husband Bert, Mildred sets out to support herself and two daughters. After much door knocking, she finds waitressing work but worries that her spoilt older daughter, Veda, will think her new job demeaning. 

Desperate to retain Veda's approval, Mildred, still waitressing her fingers to the bone, starts a home baked pie sideline, partly to make ends meet but mostly to keep Veda in the style to which she's become accustomed. Her pies a surprise hit, Mildred opens a restaurant. She also falls for handsome Monty Beragon, a younger man whose great family wealth had similarly evaporated in the Great Depression.

A successful businesswoman, Mildred opens a second restaurant, then a third. Though initially enjoying her mother's newfound success, Veda remains contemptuous of the working classes which, to her, includes self-made traders like her mother. Veda becomes increasingly ungrateful, demanding more and more from Mildred while openly sneering at her. Soon, no measure of money or gifts will keep the disdainful Veda onside. Compounding Mildred's turmoil, Veda's younger sister, Moire (nicknamed 'Ray'), falls suddenly ill and dies. But plucky Mildred keeps going.

Uncovering Veda's plot to blackmail a wealthy family with a fake pregnancy is the final straw, and Mildred kicks her out. Having had extensive opera training, financed by Mildred's hard-earned dollars, Veda lands on her feet, but Mildred perversely yearns for her estranged ungrateful daughter. She convinces Monty, now her husband, to sell her his family estate, luring Veda back into her life with wealth. 

Discovering that Mildred's extravagance has eaten into company profits, her business partner Wally faces her down, threatening a corporate overthrow. Revisiting ex-husband Bert, she confesses to systematically syphoning money from her own company in a desperate, ongoing quest to rebuy Veda's affection.

Seeking the now successful Veda's financial help to rebalance the books – and protectively concerned Wally may target Veda's assets – Mildred goes to face her, only to find her in bed with Monty. He announces he's leaving Mildred for Veda, who sneers that this was their plan from the outset. Pushed to despair, Mildred tries to throttle her daughter who, as a result, loses her singing voice and therefore her job.

Compelled to forfeit her business empire, Mildred transfers it to former company assistant and longtime friend Ida. She then relocates to Reno, Nevada, where the law allows her a rapid divorce from Monty. Ex husband Bert moves out to visit and, with Mildred's divorce settlement finalised, proposes remarriage.

With Veda's singing career in tatters after her loss of voice, her reputation is also tarnished from having slept with stepfather Monty. In professional damage control she arrives on Mildred's doorstep with a press entourage, to publicly reconcile with her mother. Mildred gullibly takes her in, only to realise months later she's been had when Veda callously announces her ruthless new plans.

Finally waving Veda farewell from the doorstep, a Mildred says 'to hell' with Veda and heads indoors to 'get stinko' with stalwart twice-over husband Bert.

Oh, Mildred, Mildred, Mildred, whatta gal! I was frequently urged to kiss her and slap her into sense. So sucked in was I that I reread it - a second time, then a third. This is something special, with its poignant, noir-tinged stylistic treatment.

I never wanted this to end. Can't imagine any reader of any age or group not devouring this iconic tale of a great and endearing woman and her forgivably anomalous weaknesses.


My review of Angela’s Ashes, by Frank McCourt

Angela’s Ashes 

by Frank McCourt

My rating: 4 out of 5 stars

One of my all-time favourite reads, this Pulitzer Prize-winner is far from your typical memoir format (whatever that is), reading instead more like a great classic novel. It won the 1996 National Book Critics Circle Award (Biography), and the 1997 Boeke Prize. The vivid, multi award nominated big screen adaptation, starring Emily Watson and Robert Carlyle, won Watson the London Film Critics Circle Best Actress award and Alan Parker the Vary International Film Festival award for Best Director, despite some box office disappointment.

Angela's Ashes chronicles author Frank McCourt's childhood after his family must return from the USA to their native Ireland, due to financial strife and domestic complexities surrounding his father's drunkenness. We follow young Frank's challenging life in 1930s and 1940s Limerick, Ireland, and his gruelling quest of slowly earning his way back to America.

Despite being written first person, never was I distracted into thinking the narrator a biased story participant, only a remote, observant storyteller. He somehow distances himself from the immediacy he describes, omitting any hint of self-pity or cry for reader sympathy - no small feat for anyone recalling themselves or loved ones in such dire straits. That love wins out, over entrenched impoverishment, is a constant unstated subtext.

Frank McCourt's rich, filmic scenes cover the many subtle and dramatic shades of Irish slum life in years gone by. His characters are there, in the room talking to you as you read them, so intensely real are they you could smell them, reach out and hug them. You truly love or dislike many of them.

Like many tragic depictions of life and the human condition, this rides on a wry, quirky humour to assist the reader (and characters) through the trauma of human deprivation, working to stunning effect.

I was not depressed by this poignant tale which, penned without a note of self-indulgence or bare sentimentality, kept me eagerly turning the pages and concludes optimistically and philosophically.

Mesmerised throughout, I was left feeling humbled by this high calibre read and privileged to be told Frank McCourt's early life tales.

My review of Death and The Virgin: Elizabeth, Dudley and the Mysterious Fate of Amy Robsart, by Chris Skidmore

Death and The Virgin: Elizabeth, Dudley and the Mysterious Fate of Amy Robsart

by Chris Skidmore 

My rating: 4 out of 5 stars

Having consumed many Elizabeth I biographies I was not disappointed with this addition to my shelf.

This book focusses on the lead up to, circumstances surrounding and long-term consequences of one event quite early into a long reign: the suspicious death of Amy Dudley, wife of the queen's favourite.

There are so many other factors and events defining Elizabeth I's long reign than this one unsolved mystery. But for those seeking elaboration on why Elizabeth remained the 'Virgin Queen', married only to England, this, while by no means a sole explanation, is important reading.

Here is an episode marred by an absence of hard facts, gaps which too many historians have glossed over, filled in with flimsy theory and conjecture. Someone needed to address it as Chris Skidmore has. There have been flimsier attempts, but this is the most thorough I have encountered.

Skidmore frames his case as he wants it viewed. That's fair and understandable. Like others, he has his own takes on this mystery, cherry picking his points from a range of possibilities. So, in some respects this is little more soundly conclusive than any other such works. Even so, this is admirably exhaustive, effectively eliminating some views while arguing Skidmore's theories well.

Without unearthing some more conclusive, less circumstantial evidence (a growing possibility as methodology becomes more sophisticated), we can never know for certain. There will always be reasonable doubt, hence the intrigue and the lure to explore.

It's only natural that Elizabeth's detractors will place her at the centre of this death. It's likewise forgivable that her apologists will debate towards her innocence. I think she was too intelligent be so rash, too calculating and cautious to incriminate herself so.

My leaning has always been that William Cecil or some close affiliate of his was involved, to frame Dudley, create the discomfort it did and rule out all feasibility of Elizabeth marrying Dudley, as this romance was immensely troublesome to her fractious inner ministerial circle, some of whom lobbied for a princely marriage, others pushing other options.

Suicide has never seemed plausible, there being too few stairs involved in Amy's apparently fatal fall.

I won't disclose Skidmore's well-reasoned conclusions here; you'll have to read them for yourselves. I do think that this work transcends the far-fetched conspiracy theory standards of others.