It’s got to count for
something when the most upbeat story in your first published book is called
“Cocker At The Theatre” and tells about the staging of a pornographic play during
which one of the ‘actors’ suddenly starts doing it for real. Much to the dismay
and amazement of the director. This is a breath of fresh air (or you might call
it laughing gas) that you should cherish. Because moments later you are once
again dragged into bizarre lives and incidents involving perverts, lesbians and
cupboard men. All to be featured in the disturbed and disturbing world of
McEwan’s novels.
McEwan’s first short
story collection, First Love, Last Rites (1975),
is clearly an apprentice job (finding his voice, perfecting his craft,
establishing his identity – that sort of thing), but you wouldn’t dare call it
humble beginnings. ‘Humble’ would be the wrong word. It’s outré, it’s bold, it’s
risqué, and it’s dead serious. That might be the thing about McEwan, one that
so discretely separates him from that other conspicuous exponent of his
generation (as well as his friend), Martin Amis. Sex doesn’t take farcical,
grotesque proportions in his prose (like it does in Amis’s writing): instead,
it’s depressing, painful and inescapably real.
“Homemade” opens this collection,
and it tells you exactly what to expect. It’s a coming-of-age story with a
characteristically warped edge to it, its incestuous climax a direct precursor
of McEwan’s first novel, The Cement
Garden. It’s powerful and unforgettable, and the unlikely happy, even
triumphant ending will surely leave a sickly taste in your mouth. It was meant
that way.
McEwan doesn’t mind
getting surreal on occasion, and whereas in “Solid Geometry” it comes courtesy
of a supernatural, somewhat Kafka-esque twist, in “Disguises” it’s that
quizzical, elusive atmosphere of the last few pages. Otherwise, First Love, Last Rites is our very real
world blown off to its most marginalized, morose, despicable proportions.
For me, the most
striking stories are “Last Day In Summer” and “Butterflies” (largely due to the
sticky shock value). For all its undercurrent nerve, the former might look like
one of McEwan’s brighter, lovelier, more romantic stories – but then of course,
you knew it all along: it’s not going to be, it’s just not going to be. “Ian Macabre”
was his nickname, and it wasn’t given for nothing. As for "Butterflies", it is
McEwan at his most disturbing and engrossing. It’s a story of a pervert (who
doesn’t know he is a pervert, up to a point) and a little girl (who wants to
see butterflies, also up to a point). It’s depressing and disgusting, all the
more so because it also happens to be so simple and so mundane.
Dysfunctional families,
bleeding rats, paedophilia – it’s all in there. It’s all on the outskirts of
your favourite town. You don’t want to see it, you don’t want to hear a word of
it, and you only read it because it is written so masterfully and with such an
intelligent, if grim, insight.
8/10
In Between The Sheets (1978) was published three years later, and it finds McEwan
deep in that very same area. It’s the same edgy subject matter, same writing
style, same mood, similar characters, but it is also evident that there is a
certain drop in consistency here that results in a couple of confused stories that I will get to in a minute.
As if First Love, Last Rites wasn’t shocking
enough, In Between The Sheets spices
things up even more, this time with midgets and zoophilia. I’m only mentioning
the details because at some point you start having a distinct impression that
if you take them out, those sick details, some of McEwan’s short stories would
be reduced to almost nothing. It may be his dark artistic vision, but it also seems
that he is sometimes macabre for the sake of being macabre. (Not that the book
is not enjoyable in its disgusting, odd, twisted way.)
So what’s good? Well,
“Pornography” is good, telling of a pornographer who is dating two women
simultaneously. Both women are nurses working at the same hospital, and when
they learn of his venereal disease (which he may have passed on to them), they
know exactly what to do about that. It’s a twist-in-the-tail story,
McEwan-style. Another favourite would be ‘Dead As They Come” about a successful
businessman who falls in love with a mannequin. The story has an intricate,
intriguing buildup, and gives McEwan a great opportunity to express the
ordinary in what is essentially perverted and completely ludicrous.
However, some of these
stories are just plain weak. “To And Fro” is a surreal collage that is neither
comprehensible nor engaging. In fact, the only good thing about it is that it is too brief
to become annoying. “Two Fragments” is futuristic and intriguing, but is still
what it says: two fragments. The closing “Psychopolis” is well-written but
meandering. It threatens to be great in places, and offers a couple of strong
leads and ideas, but the overall impression remains very fuzzy and vague.
McEwan’s fans should not
be disappointed, but I’d recommend starting with First Love. Still, In Between
The Sheets is filled with what McEwan does best: he discloses things about
your nature you never wanted to know, he drags out those black dogs from the
deepest reaches of your subconscious and imagination. And however intimidating that might sound, it is a most unforgettable
experience.
7/10
“Now”, which opens this
album, is a perfect introduction. It starts like a fairly old-fashioned,
romantic piano ballad before splashing all over your speakers with its intense
soulful groove, effective brass and Kevin Rowland’s passionate, charismatic
voice. Brilliant, the band so effortlessly meeting our loftiest expectations. But
then “Lost” is almost as good, a string-drenched, exquisite beauty. It’s only 3
minutes long, though (the shortest song here), and then things look a lot more
settled and low-key on “Me” (which has a bit of that Dexys talking/bantering I
actually find quite engaging). “She Got A Wiggle” and the joyful, feel-good
“You” are other highlights – classic Dexys material.
