Posted in Books, musings, Publishing, Review, Writing

Last Year by Robert Charles Wilson

bdd04d_9e31b247d83045dca8fa43475cbff922While not ever quite reaching the heights of his very best work, RCW has been putting out a book every year or so that is readable, interesting, and entertaining. If you offered me, say, something of the quality of Spin or The Chronoliths every two or three years; or something decent like The Affinities or Burning Paradise  on a more regular basis, I’d have to think hard. Wilson’s stock in trade is the technological sublime: a technology that humans do not quite understand that nevertheless has profound influence on human culture. In Last Year, the technology is The Mirror, a kind of time portal that allows you to visit the past of a world that is similar to your own, but not the same world (so that any changes you introduce do not affect your own time line).

What’s it about?  The attempted assassination of Ulysses S. Grant, transtemporal gun smuggling, horses and helicopters, tasers and tong wars, the luxury resort industry, two Gilded Ages in a violent confrontation, and the nature of time itself.

This allows Wilson to take us into Julian Comstock territory, with a protagonist who is an 1870s drifter, whilst mixing in 21st century types  such as a security chief who is both a US army veteran and a woman; or an Elon Musk (or is it Donald Trump) type leader who seems okay at first but later reveals his true nature.

The City of Futurity appears in the mid-western 1870s, offering locals a tour of the attractions in the world to come (amid tight security preventing actual time travel) and visitors from the 21st century a vacation in the Gilded Age, the post civil war United States, a country on the eve of electricity, the phonograph, radio, and moving pictures. Except, spoilers: anything the 19th Century can produce pales into insignificance next to the wonders on display in Tower Two.

Some locals are hired to work security, including Jesse Cullum, a man on the run from his violent and traumatic past in San Francisco. Cullum inadvertently comes to the attention of his bosses as being especially competent, and he’s given additional duties: tracking down smuggled contraband (Glock handguns, iPhones and solar chargers) and chasing runners: people from the 21st who decide they want to live in the land of no indoor plumbing and no antibiotics.

Jesse is partnered with Elizabeth DePaul, former soldier, single mother, and they explore each other’s worlds, cautiously but earnestly, knowing there’s no future in it. She comes from a different timeline; he’s got a past.

Someone goes missing; someone starts sending messages to downtrodden groups, informing them of the shitty deal they’re about to get from history, and it all kicks off.

Is there a metaphor here? Twin towers representing the future and commerce, aligned against forces of superstition, bigotry and ignorance. Is there hope in the future? Can we overcome our own histories and find a better world?

Probably.

Hard to put down, I finished it too quickly (as usual), and now I guess I’m waiting for something coming out in 2018

Posted in bastards, movies, Review

Swallows and Amazons (2016)

photoThis 2016 adaptation of Arthur Ransome’s first S&A book sank without trace as far as I was concerned. I remember reading about the pointless name change from Titty to Tatty, which smacked of the kind of asinine decision that gets made when there are six separate production companies involved. How anything gets made with so many captains on deck, I don’t know.

I rented it on iTunes, and watched with a kind of fascinated horror – mixed with tearful nostalgia for the books I read as a boy and the 1974 film adaptation (which, for the record, had one production company and one distributor). That version featured my schoolboy crush, Kit Seymour, as the “Ruthless” Nancy Blackett, an actress who appears to have been plucked from obscurity, immortalised on celluloid, and then forgotten by posterity. The children in the 1974 film were, for the most part, cast for their ability to handle a boat rather than their training at some stage school. They were clearly non-actors and yet, for all that, were natural enough in their parts. The magic of film is that you only have to capture that one good take.

To be fair to 2016 Swallows and Amazons, then, it couldn’t hope to compare to that slice of my childhood, even if it had stuck to the fucking plot. But these charlatans, these bunglers, couldn’t even do that. Alarm bells begin to ring almost immediately, in the sequence featuring the children travelling up to the Lake District. There’s some nonsense involving men chasing each other around on the train. It’s as if a drunk editor was editing this film and The 39 Steps at the same time, and got mixed up.

Sure, Arthur Ransome was a spy and adventurer who witnessed the Russian Revolution, but we don’t need that biographical nonsense in the film. Its presence is a clear sign that the producers had nothing but contempt for the material and the audience: what could we do to make this shit interesting? The spy crap continues throughout, taking up valuable screen time that should be devoted to the children and their story, which at times seems so neglected it’s reduced to the status of a sub-plot.

And after all this indulgent espionage peril is spooned into the film, like so much thin gruel, it doesn’t manage to whet the appetite. As one reviewer pointed out, the sequence in which the kids lose their picnic hamper overboard is more gripping, by far, than the attempted kidnap by Russian spies of the Captain Flint character – who could so easily have been left as grumpy uncle novelist trying to finish a book instead of indulging his nieces’ pirate fantasies. The food the children manage to procure, in the hungry 1930s, is such an important part of the story that the loss of the picnic hamper is as devastatingly dramatic as this film manages to be.

Still, there are moments. Or, there is one moment. The discovery of the Swallow in the boathouse had an emotional impact that was squandered by the lack of attention that the film paid to the actual sailing. The shame of it all is that, what you really want out of this is the chance to make some of the other books into films: Swallowdale, Winter Holiday, We Didn’t Mean to Go to Sea, Pigeon Post, The Picts and the Martyrs… there are some really good storylines to be had, and all of the books had really strong female characters baked in, with no retrofitting required.

And it’s with the female characters that this film falls tragically short. Nancy and Peggy get precious little screen time, about which I have mixed feelings. The actress cast as Nancy just seemed completely wrong to me. Wrong colouring, wrong age (in year 11 doing GCSE drama, when picked). In a way, it was a mercy, but Nancy is supposed to be the heart and soul of the stories, so it really matters that they go it so wrong. I don’t blame the actors at all. This was clearly a scrambled mess of a production, made by people with no feel for the stories and no understanding of their appeal.

All I want to do now is watch the ’74, to restore my memories.

 

Posted in Books, entertainment, music, Review, Writing

Bruce Springsteen – Born to Run (book)

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Elodie got this for Christmas, but she also got Johnny Marr’s book, so I nabbed this to read quickly. I confess, I’d been looking forward to Elodie receiving it.

Springsteen writes very well – you can hear his voice behind the long sentences, full of detail, full of lists and parataxis. And the story he tells is a fascinating one, full of honesty about his early life, his career, and his battles with depression, which seem to have got harder as he’s got older. He doesn’t mention the incident, but what you read herein puts the 30th birthday cake-into-the-crowd hurling into a new perspective.

The best section is probably the one covering his early life, his extended family which had fallen on hard times, and lived in a crumbling house with just one heater. Springsteen’s often described as ‘blue collar’, but that doesn’t really do justice to the crushing poverty and hardship he experienced. He’s very articulate about his father – the figure who lurks in the background of so many of his songs – whose own mental health battles are so much a part of Springsteen’s formation.

He considers himself lucky to have been born when he was, able to experience rock’s first and second waves directly (Elvis and the Beatles, in shorthand), and then to be part of a vibrant local music scene that was driven and inspired by those waves. And when he finds himself, years later, on stage between Mick Jagger and George Harrison, he reflects on how extraordinary it is that he, just one of thousands of young kids to be inspired to pick up a guitar by the Stones and the Beatles, should end up on that stage.

The early life, the early musical experiences, these are the more interesting parts of this book. He spares us, however, the details of his life on the road, or even too much about the months spent in the studio. He mentions key events, key dates, the well-known difficulties he’s had with capturing the right sound (“stiiiiiiick!”), but he doesn’t dwell too much. He does mention that the hardships of his early life with a road band (cruddy motels etc.) were nothing compared to the cruddy environment he grew up in – it was a step up.

I was looking forward to reading about the times he abandoned (and then re-formed) the E Street Band, though he only hints at the reasons why. It seems clear he grew tired of the ‘Daddy’ role that being The Boss entailed, and it’s even clearer that it was the two members of the band who died young that were the source of greatest pain. The chaotic lives of Danny Federici and ‘C’ (Clarence Clemons) seem to have been ongoing issues. Of the two albums he released on the same day in 1992, the ones that preceded his first non-E-Street tour, he says nothing.

I lost interest a little towards the end. Maybe because I was reading too fast, but I suspect because of the way this book was written. The chapters are short, full of pleasurable passages, but also saltatorial, jumping from point to point, and sometimes repetitive. He says at the end that he originally wrote it out in longhand, over seven years, and it bears the hallmarks of something that has been written as a series of chunks. From about halfway through, there’s less of a narrative, and it becomes more like a memoir than an autobiography. Here’s the time I met Frank Sinatra. Here’s the time I was inducted into the Hall of Fame. Here’s the time there was an earthquake. And so on.

But that’s a quibble for someone who likes to read for the plot, and should not detract from the many interesting chapters and sections that the book contains. It’s a great read for the Bruce fan, or for someone interested in the music business, and maybe even for those with an interest in mental health. In his introduction, he hints that the idea of the book is to explain not just how he can get up on stage and play 3+ hour shows every night, but why. And, of course, the why is the more interesting question.

Posted in entertainment, music, musings, Review

Music Downloads of 2016 – part 3

Part 2 is here… and Part 1 is here.

The Weight of these Wings – Miranda Lambert

This is too new and, because it’s a double album, too extensive for me to have anything more than a vague impression so far, but this is Miranda Lambert, so of course it’s on the list. With 24 songs, coming in at an hour and a half plus, this is a monster. A lot of column inches have been expended on the very public breakup of her marriage to Blake Shelton, but I’ve never been interested in all that. Nevertheless, a double album is a statement of some kind. Her previous album, Platinum, had a feeling about it that indicated a loss of patience with an industry – especially radio – that wasn’t willing to give women a fair hearing. Her career has seen an uptick since then, but she’s still the woman who walked out of her first recording session, dissatisfied with the material she was being offered, and she’s now very much in control – and probably the pre-eminent female artist in the industry. Not bad for a third place finisher in the Nashville Star talent show. This set feels edgy and raw, as well as effortlessly confident. Lead single “Vice” sets the tone, while tracks like “Tin Man”, “Six Degrees of Separation” and “Keeper of the Flame” show the breadth and depth of the heartbreak.

Down to My Last Bad Habit – Vince Gill

Still one of the greatest soul singers in Nashville, as well as one of the best guitar players, Vince Gill’s latest set is a welcome collection of emotional songs and tasteful playing. There are a number of collaborations (I think Gill is the collaboratingest artist on the scene) with the likes of Little Big Town (Take Me Down), Cam (I’ll Be Waiting for You) and Chris Botti (One More Mistake I Made), but really he doesn’t need anyone else. Download the title track, plus “Reasons for the Tears I Cry”, “Me and My Girl” and “When It’s Love” and feel the power of that voice.

This is Where I live – William Bell

Best known for a couple of hits back in the day, and for songs like “Born Under a Bad Sign”, which were covered by others, William Bell’s career stretches back to that period between Elvis going into the Army and the Beatles’ first LP. “You Don’t Miss Your Water (Till The Well Runs Dry)” came out in 1961, and his career was then interrupted by military service. So it wasn’t till the later 60s that he finally released his debut album, Soul of a Bell. Another near-decade later, he had a hit with “Tryin’ to Love Two”. He was always a man out of synch, his timeless country soul musical style not dependent on passing fads. His new album, This Is Where I Live, is his first in a decade, and it’s a fine collection of classic sounding soul music which could have been released at any time in the past 50 years. It includes a version of his own “Born Under a Bad Sign”, but I also recommend the track above, “The Three of Me”, the title song, and “All The Things You Can’t Remember”.

Posted in entertainment, music, musings, Review

Music Downloads of 2016 – part 2

Part 1 is here

El Rio – Frankie Ballard

Frankie Ballard’s third album builds on the success of his second, with a stronger set of songs, including a Bob Seger cover (You’ll Accomp’ny Me) and a Chris Stapleton song (El Camino) or two (Cigarette). He continues to follow in the footsteps of Keith Urban, though with a stronger voice and less emphasis on lead guitar. He bears an odd resemblance to my best friend from school, lo those many years ago, down to the apple cheeks and the bandana/scarf. The cover art could come from back in the 70s, too: a slightly out of focus portrait, which looks like the kind of scuffed vinyl cover you might find in a second hand record store. Recorded in Texas, this has a slightly different vibe to most mainstream country. Lots of strong tracks but consider downloading the above, plus “L.A. Woman”, “Wasting Time”.

Love and Lovely Lies – Imogen Clark

This release from the Australian singer-songwriter is more of a double EP than an album (like the original Magical Mystery Tour, I guess). A strong voice laid down with fashionably light reverb against largely acoustic instruments, this is a pleasant diversion, with familiar chord sequences. Download: “You’ll Only Break My Heart” and “Drawing Hearts”, “Here Goes Nothing”.

Ripcord – Keith Urban

Keith Urban’s latest seems to have a harder edge than his more recent work, though there are still nods towards the poppy end of the market, with EDM sounds lurking in the background (“Wasted Time”). This is a tight set, no flab, with some of the tracks coming in under 3 minutes. It’s light on lead guitar but strong on musicianship. Seeing him swap lead guitar for bass on “John Cougar, John Deere, John 3:16” was a revelation (and it’s amazing how many ways country artists come up with celebrating the same things). “Blue Ain’t Your Colour”, “Habit of You” and “Boy Gets a Truck” are worth downloading.

Reckless – Martina McBride

Martina McBride is one of the few top female singers of the 90s and early 00s still hanging in there with regular album releases. Yes, I’m looking at you, Faith Hill, Trisha Yearwood. While Wynonna’s 2016 outing was disappointing, McBride is still reaching the heights – especially with the tour-de-force vocal on the title track, which might be my favourite song of the year. Worth the price of admission for the title track alone, but also download: “It Ain’t Pretty”, “Diamond” (featuring Keith Urban), and “That’s the Thing About Love”.

Part 3 to follow…

Posted in entertainment, music, Review

Music Downloads of 2016 – Part 1

In alphabetical order:

Cold Snap – Anthony D’Amato

New Jersey Native with some Springsteen influence, D’Amato is a singer-songwriter who paints on a wide canvas. Sounds are a pleasing mix of rock guitars and drums, mandolin, and a young-sounding vocal. Watch the creepy video below for “Rain on a Strange Roof” and also consider downloading: “Oh My Goodness”, “Ballad of the Undecided”, and “I Don’t Know About You”.

Big Day in a Small Town – Brandy Clark

This follow-up to 12 Stories is another strong collection of songs, with slick commercial production that does the songs justice. For me, Clark has a voice with real depth and power that makes Kacey Musgrave seem a little one dimensional in comparison. Her lyrics, too, are more layered and complex. Take away the production and the songs can still punch you in the gut. You’ll see what I mean if you watch the acoustic live performance of ‘You Can Come Over’ below. The whole album is great, but consider these: ‘Soap Opera’, ‘Girl Next Door’, ‘Love Can Go to Hell’, and ‘Daughter’.

Skeletons – Connor (Christian)

Don’t know what it is about Connor Christian, or just Connor, as he’s currently styling himself. Three albums, all in a similar style, but under three different identities/brands. The Southern Gothic, Connor Christian and Southern Gothic, and now this. Rolling piano, acoustic and electric guitars, strong fiddle playing. He’s as good as ever – and deserves a wider audience – but I’m concerned that with such a generic name, he’s hard to find, even if you go looking. The lyric video for “Every Song”, for example, has had (drumroll) 144 views. And only 6 likes (7 now). Consider downloading: ‘Run To’, ‘Georgia Moonshine’ and ‘Say It to Me One More Time’.

Fighter – David Nail

David Nail’s new album sounds instantly familiar, and doesn’t represent much of a progression from his previous outing. But of all the country singers out there singing about trucks and blue jeans, he’s the most acceptable, managing to attract collaborations from the likes of Lori McKenna (‘Home’) and Vince Gill (‘I Won’t Let You Go’), and a surprising tendency towards the ballads. I suspect legions of female fans are enjoying the likes of ‘Champagne Promise’. His pleasant voice is matched with strong melodies and highly competent musicianship. By way of contrast with Connor above, Nail’s video for “Night’s On Fire” has over 8 million views.

Hard Trouble, Ain’t Settled – Donovan Woods

Our third beard in a row, Donovan Woods is the songwriter behind Tim McGraw’s compelling hit ‘Portland, Maine’. His album features his strangely soft and sweet voice accompanied by tightly strummed and muted acoustic guitar and ambient, atmospheric pads. Download: ‘Between Cities’, ‘May 21, 2012’, ‘The First Time’.

Posted in musings, Review

Philips Oneblade trimmer and shaver

81sckf4kznl-_sl1500_Here’s a product I ordered on a whim a while ago, which has quietly revolutionised my life.

I’ve always been a wet shave guy, mainly because every electric razor I ever tried gave me a rash, but I’ve always hated the colossal faff involved in shaving. The only thing worse than shaving is having a beard, which (for me) is also itchy after a while. This is possibly because my hair is curly, and even my beard grows in random directions.

I’ve tried a compromise, various degrees of stubble, but my neck especially is prone to itch/rash because of upward or inward growing hairs, so I have to keep that trimmed. Anyway, I ended up in a messy trade-off involving beard trimmers, razors, shaving gels and oils, after shave balms, and so on.

And then I saw an offer on the Philips Oneblade system and ordered it. The immediate objection to this system is the cost of replacement blades (£11.99 on Amazon), which is a shocker. But, and here’s the thing, a single blade lasts up to 4 months (based on 2 shaves per week), which means that the two that came with my kit should last up to 16 months, given that I’ve been using it just once a week. And instead of a draw/shelf full of creams, balms, blades and so on, I just have this thing and its plastic combs (mine came with 4). In any event, four Gilette Fusion blades costs £12.59, so it probably works out a lot cheaper.

I was skeptical. How could one thing act as a beard trimmer and a regular razor? But it really does. It’s smooth over your skin and doesn’t cause a rash, can be used wet or dry, and can be easily cleaned by rinsing under a tap. It really couldn’t be more straightforward. So I can shave with it, or put on one of the combs and just trim the beard. I’m only using it once a week, and it’s so fast that I’ve honestly only had to charge it up once since I bought it. It’s convenient for travel, too. I reckon I could charge it before leaving home and use it in France for the whole of the summer holiday.

I didn’t write a review straight away because I’ve bought so many things over the years and abandoned them, so I didn’t quite believe in it, but I was walking past the shaving section in the supermarket the other day and kind of automatically paused. Do I need anything…? Oh. Of course not. I don’t ever need to get that stuff.

All I need now is the patience to bother making my beard symmetrical.

 

Posted in Review, Television

Gilmore Gone Girls

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As a recent convert to Gilmore Girls, I am of course fully qualified to comment on the Netflix revival A Year in the Life.

I became aware of this show only through its occasional positive mentions in passing on the Incomparable network. It’s hard to imagine I would otherwise have caught it. It was broadcast on the satellite channels Nickleodeon and Hallmark before being rebroadcast on E4 and now 5*. Neither of the latter are channels whose listings I check (not target demo). Anyway, knowing the revival was forthcoming, I decided to try it out and ended up bingeing the first seven seasons on Netflix.

What makes Gilmore Girls great is – obviously – the snappy, witty dialogue, reminiscent as it is of classical Hollywood screwball comedy. It’s Cary Grant, Katherine Hepburn, Jimmy Stewart, Rosalind Russell. The scripts are breathless, pages and pages longer than standard minute-per-page screenplays, stuffed with witty repartée. In television terms, you can draw a line from Buffy through Gilmore Girls to Laura Mars. And just like those other shows, Gilmore Girls manages to create huge emotional beats, seemingly out of nowhere. The special sauce of the show is the way you can be hit sideways by the impact of one of these emotional moments. They’re earned, too, not the result of shameful manipulation but growing out of the ongoing storylines and character developments.

There were some problematic elements. The almost overwhelming whiteness of the cast, for example, with Yanic Truesdale the sole person of colour in the regular credits. Then there’s the occasional whiff of whiny white privilege. Lorelai turns her back on her privileged upbringing, but her daughter Rory more or less embraces it wholeheartedly, sitting on the edge of a crowd of money-no-object types with no steel in her backbone. But these were minor quibbles, mere backdrop to the more uplifting parts of the show.

So it’s hardly surprising I watched the latter seasons of the original show through a veil of tears. I know people often say that Season 7 is barely canon, but (the brief and forgotten marriage aside) even Season 7 isn’t that bad. It’s mostly guilty of prolonging the Lorelai-Luke standoff for 22 episodes too many.

So to the four extended episodes of the Netflix revival, and the Ten Years After of Gilmore Girls. The headline news is that original showrunner Amy Sherman-Palladino is back, and so able to give the show the ending she was unable to give it for Season 7.

What do we find? For me, there were two and a half decent episodes in the four, interspersed with some ill-advised self-indulgencies. The show always hinted at an interest in musical theatre but perhaps never had the budget nor episode time to indulge it. Freed by the Netflix dollars and the double-length episodes, the producers threw in a couple of extended song/dance sequences which just didn’t belong. Add in some false relationship peril, a couple of unnecessary side trips, and Rory’s apparent ability to commute freely to and from London with no jet lag effects (not to mention no job), and there’s too much cruft here. My least favourite interlude featured the spoilt brats of the Life and Death Brigade, who could have ended up on the cutting room floor with no regrets.

Once you get past the distractions wrought by ageing, weight loss, possible botox, and unconvincing hairpieces, it was enjoyable enough, though never reaching the heights of the original series. Everybody wanted to know what the last four words were. My bet was wrong on that. I’d watch it again if they made more. On the other hand, there’s something to be said for the forever youngness of cancelled shows.

 

Posted in entertainment, Review, Television

The Grand Boor (review)

grand-tour-20I wasn’t expecting to enjoy it, as the Top Gear schtick wore thin a long time ago, but I took a look at the first episode of The Grand Tour to see how Amazon had spent my licence fee Prime subscription.

The opening scene features Clarkson leaving Broadcasting House, handing over his lanyard, and walking away through the rain. As soon as my daughter saw this, she said, “This is just narcissism,” which was exactly right. Here’s a bully and a boor, a self-righteous, self-mythologising bore, indulging his own fantasy as the hero of his own narrative. In Clarkson’s hero’s journey he’s not the racist, sexist, apologist for neo-liberal elites whose ego became so inflated with success that he began to behave like a celebrity prima donna who can’t believe people don’t know who he is. No, he’s the poor, put-upon and misunderstood host of a harmless little TV show which gives pleasure to millions and is persecuted by the po-faced PC Brigade.

Of course, $160 Amazon dollars and a year or so later, we have realised that the world we are living in is Trump’s World, Boris’ World, Brexit World, and the power that Clarkson has, as apologist-in-chief, is immense. Only losers are offended by Clarkson. The struggling Guardian, which continues to pretend it is ‘fearless and independent’ publishes as much Clarkson clickbait as it can, because the truth is that – like Trump – there is literally nothing Clarkson can do that will turn his legion of fans off. He can punch, lie, exaggerate, get drunk in airport lounges, and he still has his bully pulpit in The Sun, and he still has his Amazon cash to wave in our faces like a Harry Enfield character come to horrific, warty life.

So to The Grand Tour, with his sniggering foils, and his booming voice and his ridiculous supercars and his sycophantic audience who will boo a Prius to order. It’s every bit as bad and as boring as I thought it would be. God, the sheer tedium of watching a middle-aged white man drive a fast car around and around, up and down, back and forth. The blatant filler, as cynical and contemptuous as Woody Allen’s recent Amazon outing: instead of racing three cars down a track once, why not do it a dozen times? These morons will watch anything.

You feel sorry for the audience, really. You can’t help, in your liberal humanist way, have a degree of sympathy for the brainwashed. You know that the hypnotised never lie. Their function is to go along with the gag, to be convinced that it’s okay to dismiss minorities, or climate change, or wildlife – anyone who is not them – and to cheer a millionaire as he burns rubber and petrol and sneers at the people who facilitate his indulgences. Even Clarkson is just a cog in this machine, his role to be the entertaining front of the hegemony, to show how having horrible opinions is no barrier to success. He’s not much more important than the token black woman, positioned as she was to be visible in the background, over Clarkson’s shoulder, a smiling indulgence to his past racism and misogyny.

But is that some desperation I can detect, underneath the noisy bluster? I think it is. Clarkson’s voice is shot, his instrument broken, sounding permanently as if he is losing it through shouting. As a teacher, I know what that broken voice means. It means you’ve been struggling with your Year 9s, or 10s, your naughty Year 8 group. You’ve been having to raise your voice to be heard, to insist on getting your way. Clarkson’s voice has been broken by his trials. And in the tent/studio, it’s all a little more shouty and stiff and awkward. No more strolling about from point to point: they’re fixed behind a shit table on a shit stage, sitting on shit chairs, and that’s where they stay for the live portion of the show, sharing their angry banter. But it’s clear: there really is no friendship there, and the famous chemistry has not survived the controversies. The tinker-engineer and the local radio DJ are simply there to be foils to the bully and they know it, and we know it, and it’s embarrassing.

If Trump goes after Amazon it will be a sort of poetic justice. You want Amazon’s TV offerings to be as interesting as Netflix’s, but they’re just not. They mostly have a nasty undercurrent, a lack of taste, making Amazon the Microsoft to Netflix’s Apple. And the fact that Amazon have given Clarkson a platform means that they are participating in the oppression of everything decent and kind in our cruel world.

Cloudbound by Fran Wilde

cloudbound_comp1-1Cloudbound is the sequel to last year’s well-regarded Updraft, a YA fantasy novel that I liked a lot, and which was shortlisted for a number of awards, winning a couple. What I liked about Updraft was its world-building and its pacy style. I always felt as if the author knew much more about this world than she was telling us, and it was fun to work it all out. Unfortunately, all of these elements are missing from the sequel, Cloudbound, which lumbers along in a meandering and repetitive way, with a leaden narrator who is seems wilfully obtuse. The overall effect is as inspiring as reading something like the minutes of a staff meeting at the council housing department.

Updraft was narrated by Kirit – the ambitious daughter of a trader, who is taken by the Singers (monk-like enforcers of the City’s many rules) and initiated into the secrets of their society. She’s lively, curious, rebellious and fun to read. Cloudbound, on the other hand, is narrated by her far less interesting friend, Nat. Now, Nat seems to continually get the wrong end of the stick about everything, trusts everyone he shouldn’t, and needs to constantly stop and remind us about what just happened, what he wants to happen, and why we’re all here in the first place. It says something about Nat as a character that my heart immediately sank when I opened the book and started reading, realising that his was the narrative viewpoint.

The vividly described bone City of Updraft is now sketchy and vague, with unclear geography, and our characters seem to spend an awful lot of time tumbling around, out of control, plummeting towards and into the clouds. Which would be fine—except that in Updraft, dipping below the clouds was certain death, but now is suddenly apparently perfectly safe. Down and down and down they go.

Nat supposedly has loved ones – a wife or partner who is pregnant, apparently – but they’re never around for long, and Nat doesn’t seem to have much passion for his lover or concern for his unborn child. It’s very strange, as if written in short bursts but never actually read through to see if it hangs together.

The plot seems wafer thin, padded out by lots of repetition and by lots of half-baked plans which go wrong immediately. Make your hero suffer, right? Except I cannot root for any so-called hero who is both indecisive and inept— so much so, that he can’t come up with a workable plan, even when surrounded by otherwise competent friends. Down and down they go.

And then you get close to the end, and you realise that there is going to be no final act in which our heroes finally get it together and defeat their enemies. Instead, the narrative just kind of stops, almost mid-sentence, and with dismay you understand that you’re holding in your hands the problematic middle child of a trilogy. Which, obviously, I’m not going to be reading to completion. You end up feeling like you’ve been sitting in a bath that’s slowly emptying. And then it’s over and your skin is cold and you forgot to bring a towel.

If you read Updraft and enjoyed it, I’d stick with that, and not let the experience get sullied by this lukewarm sequel.