Don't Mention The War

Battle-scarred and shell shocked: how else to describe my condition after 460 pages of blood, sweat and tanks? Antony Beevor’s book documenting the siege of Stalingrad is not for the faint of heart or the weak of stomach. What with bombing raids, grenade attacks, hand-to-hand combat — to say nothing of frostbite, typhoid and malnutrition — I’m lucky to have escaped with my life.

It’s received a crouching ovation from critics and sold half million in the UK alone. But although there’s no doubting its colossal impact, I have two big problems with Stalingrad.

First, it’s unrelentingly grim. You wouldn’t expect many laughs in a war history, but Stalingrad stands out as one of the most depressing books I’ve ever read. Death stalks every page. Yet even the grim reaper seems preferable to the appalling conditions endured by troops and civilians. If it’s not starvation it’s dehydration; if it’s not infestation it’s amputation. This is war in the raw, where no-one is spared: deserters are shot, women are raped, children are massacred, horses are eaten. It’s not the author’s fault; he’s only recording how inhuman humans can be. But it’s still heavy going.

Then there’s the overwhelming technical and military detail. Of course, for battle buffs this is paradise alley. Tank spotters will salivate at the description of panzers trundling triumphantly across the steppe, while armchair strategists will relish every bomb and bullet. But, just like the Germans, I got bogged down. Encircled by tanks and bombarded by planes, on more than one occasion I had to bail out before sinking in military minutiae.

Keeping up with the cast of characters in the theatre of war was another challenge (the index names over 70 generals). And it didn’t help that both Hitler and Stalin kept replacing officers who were foolish enough to tell them unpalatable truths.

Amidst the doom and detail, the book has some absorbing sections, notably the chapter on the enemy within. Fighting the invaders was challenging enough, but the Russian forces also had to contend with Stalin’s secret police in their midst. The slightest whimper amounted to treachery, and at Stalingrad 13,500 paid the price of doubt with their lives. Well, they did if the firing squad wasn’t incompetent or drunk. Stories of soldiers getting up and scarpering after being executed are not as incredible as they might seem.

Eyewitness accounts and soldiers’ letters vividly capture the mood swings on both sides. These testimonies are never more powerful than in the final weeks of the siege. While expressing confidence in the face of encircling Soviets, between the lines the German troops prepared their loved ones for the worst.

But as the days turned into weeks, the mood of these starving, exhausted, diseased and demoralised men changed. If the early letters home were defiant, the last ones were desperate. As they prepared to face the final Russian onslaught, a few still clung to the hope their Führer would send help. Hitler acknowledged their plight by abstaining from champagne at dinner.

The author uses unemotive language in his assessments of Hitler and Stalin, but it’s obvious that he thinks both were utter nutters. Before a single Nazi jackboot crossed the Russian frontier, a paranoid Stalin had already done away with the cream of his general staff.

Meanwhile, Hitler’s management skills shouldn’t have got him further than running a bratwurst stall in Mönchengladbach. Certain of a swift victory in the Russian campaign, he refused to provide winter clothing for his own troops. We’re left to contemplate the pride of the Reich going into battle wearing fur coats and woolly hats donated by the German public.

The book concludes with a chapter on the aftermath of the siege, but I could have done with more about Stalingrad beyond the bombing, and something of its pre-battle history. And yes, I know Stalingrad was primarily about the clash of two armed forces, but surely some of the finer points of military strategy could have been sacrificed for more on the civilians? A thousand of them, mostly women and children, somehow survived the siege of Stalingrad, and their stories will have been every bit as gripping as those on the front line.

Long before the term was coined, Stalingrad defined “shock and awe”. It was a turning point that saved Stalin’s bacon at home and earned him new respect abroad, with far-reaching consequences for us all. Over a million of the 26 million Soviets killed in the Second World War died at Stalingrad. The staggering scale of the loss gave the Soviet leader an emotional blackmail card to play when it came to dividing up the spoils of war in 1945.

As a battle, Stalingrad left its mark on the world. As a book, Stalingrad had a similar effect on me. Battle-weary and out of ammo, I’ve had to surrender this review and concede defeat. I’ve got post-war fatigue.

Stalingrad: the fateful siege: 1942-1943

by Antony Beevor

Publisher: Penguin, 1999
ISBN-10: 0140284583
ISBN-13: 978-0140284584

When Flemish Eyes Are Smiling

Last year I spent a relaxing weekend in Belgium. What’s that you say? Relaxing? In Belgium? Surely that’s an oxymoron! Like mountain climbing in Holland, or doing anything remotely interesting in Luxembourg.

But, no. It was nice. Brussels was brilliant, Antwerp was amazing, and Zaventem was, well, where they put the airport. And then there was Bruges.

Heavy with history, but easy on the eye, Bruges was my kind of town. The gothic buildings were strewn with Christmas lights, and snow covered the canal bridges like a light dusting of icing sugar. Which was strange, because this was at the end of an especially mild February.

Turns out director Martin McDonagh was making a movie in the city, with the head-smackingly original title of In Bruges. I’m guessing that the lights and fake snow were to enhance the fairy tale atmosphere of the city, although it hardly needed that sort of tarting up.

So, a syopsis: Ken and Ray (Brendan Gleeson and Colin Farrell), two Irish hit men, flee London after a murder goes terribly wrong. Harry, their gangster boss (Ralph Fiennes), despatches them to Bruges to await further instructions. Meantime, they do the tourist things. Ken is entranced by the fairtytale town, but Ray is more interested in using his weapons of crass seduction on local beauty, Chloe (Clemence Poesy).

There’s a lot of laugh-out-loud comedy, and a fair amount of politically incorrect humour, mostly aimed at Americans. But while Ray is getting to know Chloe better, and simultaneously encountering the darker side of Bruges, Harry is giving Ken the awful truth of why they’re in Bruges.

The three principals - Gleeson, Farrell, and Fiennes - act their socks off. And there’s more than a hint of a Father Ted vibe going on between Gleeson and Farrell. For those not in the know, Father Ted was a ludicrous sit-com set on a remote Irish island, where a priest and his gormless curate got into the most preposterous of scrapes. Certainly, Farrell seemed to adopt some of the more clueless expressions of the dim-witted Father Dougal, which lightened the movie's more brutal aspects.

And there is graphic violence aplenty. But you’ll be pleased to learn that no Belgians were hurt in the making of this movie, so you can sit back and enjoy the bloodfest. Enjoy the acting, too, and the dialogue (the screenplay is written by McDonagh), and the music, and the cinematography. And enjoy it in the cinema rather than waiting for the DVD. Because In Bruges is a piece of theatre. It’s an experience best enjoyed while laughing and gasping in the company of strangers in a darkened room.

And it’s not often you can say that about Belgium..

The In Crowd

Fucking in fiction: are you for or against? I only ask because Roddy Doyle's frequent use of the F-word might cause even Gordon Ramsay to turn salmon-pink. Bad language as a shock tactic often falls flat, but sometimes profanity signals credibility. So thumbs up for The Deportees; If you're looking for the real Dublin, forget Bono, Riverdance and Dustin the Turkey, Doyle has the Irish capital to a T. And an F.

The Deportees is a compilation of short stories written by Doyle for Dublin's first multicultural daily newspaper. These tales of the uninvited show what happened when a small nation suddenly became a honey pot for the world's dispossessed.

It was during the 1990s that Ireland started booming. The Celtic Tiger roared, and from Lagos to Latvia, they responded. Ireland experienced a greater percentage increase in immigration in a single decade than Britain had experienced in half a century. As Doyle himself observes, "I went to bed in one country and woke up in another."

The book is about encounters between immigrants and home-grown Dubliners. Humour is never far away, even in the darker stories, and there's a liberal helping of the craic.

In "I Understand," a Dublin waiter gives the kitchen help a masterclass in the gentle art of Irish cursing.

"I have a new one for you, he says - Ready?"
"Yes."
I take my hands from the water.
"Me bollix," he says. "Repeat."
"My.."
"No. Me."
"Me. Bollix."
"Together.""Me bollix."
"Excellent," says Kevin, "Top man."

Meanwhile, in "75% Irish," a graduate student hits upon a novel test of citizenship. His device records the user’s response to a replay of Robbie Keane's goal against Germany in the World Cup. For a government minister scrambling to defuse the political impact of a demographic time bomb, it’s a gift.

Preposterous? Of course. But let's remember the Tory Party chairman, who contended that Britishness could be determined by which cricket team you supported when England played the West Indies. Under those criteria, I'm 100% Antiguan.

Pride and prejudice, stereotype and stigma loom large in "Home to Harlem." Declan, a black Irish student, hopes a literature course in New York will resolve his identity crisis. Explaining his quest to an unsympathetic professor, Declan is both eloquent and to the point.

"He tells her about first reading The Souls of Black Folk, about the question repeated in the first paragraph of the first chapter: "How does it feel to be a problem?" "The problem is, he says, "I'm black and Irish, and that's two fuckin' problems."

Back in Dublin, the immigrants have problems aplenty. An African boy is bullied at school, an illegal immigrant is the victim of blackmail; and a Polish childminder is spooked by the unlikeliest of ghosts.

The centrepiece of the book resurrects Jimmy Rabbitte, erstwhile godfather of The Commitments. This time, he's putting together a new band, with assorted imports from Romania, New York and Nigeria, plus a couple of Dubliners. After a shaky start, The Deportees find their feet and harmony reigns.

But just when we’re starting to view things through emerald-tinted glasses, the author brings us back to reality. There's enough menace in Roddy Doyle's stories to show that behind the alive, alive-oh of Dublin's fair city, there's a rattle and hum of racism

The Deportees
by Roddy Doyle

Publisher: Viking Adult (January 10, 2008)
ISBN-10: 0670018457

Fully Booked

While the rest of the world blogs about what they had for breakfast, book lovers have other fish to fry. Covering everything from crime to horror, Henry James to Harry Potter, bibliophiles are producing some of the most stimulating and entertaining work on the web. Not incidentally, they're at the forefront of the forces revolutionising the publishing industry. From Web sites to Weblogs, podcasting to social networking, book lovers have shown there's more to the internet than a dancing dog on YouTube.

The Bookaholics' Guide to Book Blogs celebrates the individuals who have taken their shared love of literature into cyberspace. Authors, booksellers, publishers and reviewers are feted, while the big corporations seeking control of the written word are confronted. Little-reported issues are addressed, such as the radical writers, disillusioned with mainstream publishing, who have found outlets for their work on the web. There's also an absorbing piece on the brewing civil war between newspaper critics and book bloggers. The book's upbeat, informal style captures the spirit of these exciting times.

Sadly, the message is obscured by the medium. Throughout the book, typographical errors keep stubbornly appearing. It's nothing dramatic, but just enough to irritate. Even the final sentence can't escape a distracting typo.

Misplaced letters aren't the only problem. Rebecca Gillieron's sixty, seventy, and (in a couple of horrific instances) ninety-word sentences make some passages heavy going. The book’s usefulness as a reference work is limited by an inconsistent use of web addresses and the absence of an index.

What rescues the book are the extracts from literary blogs themselves. Knowledgeable, witty and wordy-wise, book bloggers are clearly a talented bunch. Some may be brutally honest, but most are as ready to shower roses on writers they like as they are to deliver raspberries to those they don't. I especially enjoyed the plain-speaking Dovegreyreader and the entertaining book/daddy, but all of the bloggers featured in the book deserve to be there.

Voices from the web are welcome distractions from this book's shortcomings. Yet even here, the authors can't help meddling. A Finnish blogger's exuberant post about one of his favourite horror authors is reproduced. His enthusiasm is infectious, even for those who may not be fans of the genre. Why the authors feel the need to reprint part of his blog in the original Finnish is one of this book's enduring mysteries, another is the decision to reprint nine consecutive pages from Toby Litt's blog. I'm all for giving readers a taste of the author, but this takes spoon feeding a ladle too far.

Why make so much of so little? What's a misplaced letter here, an elongated sentence there? Perhaps it's the old "if a job's worth doing..." mentality. But more than that, the authors of this book should know better. The opening page trumpets their credentials as industry insiders, as experienced in editing as they are in typesetting. And if attention to detail does justice to a book's subject and signals respect for its readers, the opposite is also true.

The publishing house which produced this book is a small, independent press, and it gives me no pleasure to decry their work. If it weren't for the flaws, I'd have no hesitation in recommending it. As it is, the best investment of any revenue generated by this project would be the employment of a sharp-eyed proof reader for the next one.

A New Leaf

Let me just get this right: a tree was chopped down to make a bookshelf in the shape of a tree to hold books made from chopped down trees. It comes from a website that wasn't made from chopped down anything.

Monetary Madness

"A year ago I agreed to give a lucrative speech and, once the date was booked, I felt rich and spent the fee. On delivering the speech, I felt I had actually earned it, so spent it again. Subsequently the company got into financial difficulty and failed to pay me, which was a shame as I had already spent the money twice. Six months later, out of the blue, the money arrived. As I had mentally written it off, this counted as a windfall, so I spent it all over again."

Lucy Kellaway on the monetary madness that visits her personal finances.

Strangers on a Train

To pass the time on the long train journey back from London this week, I listened to a double bill of plays by Alan Bennett.

"Forty Years On" is set in an English public school, with John Gielguid the very pith and sinew of an old style headmaster. During the school play, he's outraged by his students' use of improvisation: "I'm all for free expression," he says, "but only if it's rigidly controlled." It's a fine reflection on an age that was already passing into history when it first appeared in 1968.

The other performance on the CD was a monolgue titled "A Woman of No Importance". Patricia Routledge plays Miss Margaret Schofield, an office worker whose only ambition is to reach the canteen before the lunchtime rush. Her futile, boring life is described in mind-numbing detail. But, this being Bennett and Routledge, magnificence is wrought from the mundane. Taken into hospital for a stomach complaint, her inevitable decline fails to dim her own sense of self-importance. Even the most tenuous connections to the great and the good are sucked into her maw: "This is the bed that Princess Alexandra stopped at when she came here, apparently."

In such good company, it's hardly surprising that, before I knew it, the train was drawing into the station.