Charles Laughton; a difficult actor – Simon Callow

Callow is a fine interpreter of other people’s performances, even if his criticisms of Laughton for occasional hamminess seem a bit rich, so I enjoyed much of the insight here. The biographical material is pretty interesting too.

It’s a shame that Laughton’s career is overshadowed by two sort-of failures: the uncompleted version of I, Claudius (the surviving footage is mesmerising), and the commercial disappointment of the brilliant Night of the Hunter prematurely ending his directorial career.

If anyone can tell me where to see footage of an aging Laughton guest hosting on the Johnny Carson Show and introducing the television debut of Elvis himself, I promise them a big soggy kiss on the lips.

England, England – Julian Barnes

This is the only Barnes fiction I hadn’t previously read, so no new JB for me until the new one is published.

I thought this was one of his weaker works. The central satirical conceit of creating an ersatz, tourist-friendly England on the Isle of Wight doesn’t convince, with deleterious consequences for the book’s further musings on notions of authenticity. It’s also not quite as funny as it would like to be. A pleasant but frustrating read.

The Longest Journey – E.M. Forster

The only Forster that I had not previously read, and it is an exemplar of the rule that an author’s favourite from their own work is almost never their best. Whilst containing flashes of greatness, this roman a clef descends into sub-Lawrentian hokum with disastrous effect. 

I’ll forgive him, though, considering that his next three books are possibly the finest hatrick of novels this side of Austen: A Room With a View, Howards End and A Passage to India.

Summertime – J.M. Coetzee

For some reason I return to Coetzee quite regularly, even though he continues to frustrate by wasting his evident talent. 

This tiresomely autobiographical work consists of a number of faux interviews from differing perspectives about a version of the author’s life. What is real? What is ironically self-deprecating? Why should I give a stuff?

Cold Spring Harbor – Richard Yates

The more of Richard Yates I read, the more impressed I become. As with other personal favourites such as Jane Austen and F. Scott Fitzgerald, he repeatedly mines a particular social strata for universal effect.

Yates explores the aspirant American experience, and particularly women trapped by social convention. The effect can be devastating but also, perversely, exciting.

How about this:

 “There was probably nothing to be done about a woman like this. Dying for love might be pitiable, but it wasn’t much different, finally, from any other kind of dying”