I should start by saying that, in the interests of realism, I took almost all
these books with me on a recent trip to Paris — and let me tell you, it was
a weighty undertaking. I did, however, cart them all home with me again
afterwards, which is an indication of how good they are. It’s quite an
eclectic mix, but I always find that I can never quite judge my holiday mood
before I actually get there, so its best to come prepared.
As someone who has a deep loathing of all things Garland, I came to Susie
Boyt’s quirky autobiography My Judy Garland Life (Virago,
£8.99; Buy
the book ) with more than a little prejudice. In fact, I almost didn’t
get past the cover, with its twinkly image of those famous red shoes. But
within the first few pages Boyt had won me over. Not to Garland, mind, but
to the author herself. Boyt is a joy to read, her mental meanderings tight,
witty and touching, her own life story and that of her idol woven together
in a rich tapestry of anecdotes and observations. Sure, she goes over the
top at times, sure she has moments of absurd fan-mania, but it’s all done
with such charm you really don’t begrudge her this one little obsession.
Besides, it’s the writing, not the diva, that makes this book. Boyt’s words
trip deftly off the page, as light and graceful as the dancer she dreamt of
being as a child. Whatever physical shortcomings Boyt may have
(disappointment with the way she looks is a recurring theme in the book),
however mediocre her singing voice (another perceived shortcoming), her
prose proves where her true talent lies. Her language is so rich, the
characters so varied and eccentric, the stories and thought processes so
wonderfully original. On paper, this is an odd idea for a book that ought
not to work; and yet it does, admirably so.
Also something of a novelty, and connected to Judy Garland via the MGM movie
lot, is Me Cheeta (Fourth Estate, £7.99; Buy
the book ), the autobiography of Cheeta the chimpanzee, Hollywood’s
hairiest star. Cheeta, now retired and enjoying a second career as an
abstract painter, shot to fame alongside Johnny Weissmuller in the 1934 film Tarzan
and His Mate. Hard-living and straight-talking, our hero is undoubtably
a few chromosomes short of the full primate, but that doesn’t stop this
being a rollicking, if distinctly unusual, read.
Unlike 99 per cent of modern celebrity autobiographies, which contain little
or no actual information about the star-studded circles the authors move in, Me
Cheeta is packed with delicious scandal, wicked repartee and more
bitching than, well, than a Judy Garland convention.
With the exception of the hunky Weissmuller, whom the chimp idolises as his
very own alpha male, the stars of Tinseltown (Charlie Chaplin, Errol Flynn,
Cary Grant, Marlene Dietrich, as well as studio executives and lackeys) come
across as vain, lustful and at times just plain nasty. The debauchery is
theatrical, the one-liners razor-sharp. The result is a book that is as
addictive as it is surreal, and dripping with caustic humour. It’s also a
triumph for Cheeta’s “ghostwriter”, James Lever, who surely can lay claim to
having invented a new and uniquely bizarre genre of satire.
Insanity of a different kind is the subject of Marya Hornbacher’s searing
account of bipolar disorder, Madness: A Bipolar Life
(HarperPerennial, £8.99; Buy
the book ). Not one for the faint-hearted, this book illustrates with
terrifying clarity the realities of inhabiting an unbalanced mind. Of all
the books I took with me, this was the one I became most intensely absorbed
in. From the feelings of incomprehension, to the sheer terror of a condition
that cannot, will not, be brought under control, to the prejudice and
inadequacy of therapists and others, it is all here, in raw detail. There is
a brilliant passage when, barely clinging on by her fingernails and in the
grip of self-harm, the author’s dippy therapist suggests she try “some
self-soothing . . . make yourself a cup of tea . . . wrap yourself in a
warm, fuzzy quilt . . . take a bath”. That night she slashes her arm so deep
she hits bone.
Books suchas this can often descend into self-parody, self-pity or, at worst,
formulaic therapy-speak. This one stays lucid throughout — the drinking, the
eating disorders (Hornbacher is also the author of the Pulitzer-prize
nominated Wasted: A Memoir of Anorexia and Bulimia), the self-harm,
the incomprehensible and violent mood swings. The condition is brilliantly
captured, that sense of incomprehension and confusion that sufferers and
those around them experience. The author’s madness is an unwanted outsider,
swooping down on her like a malevolent spirit, “borrowing my body without
asking”.
From clinical to political insanity, with Christopher Duggan’s exceptional
book, The Force of Destiny: A History of Italy Since 1796 (Penguin,
£12.99; Buy
the book ). Although not strictly speaking a biography, this is a
revealing portrait of the national character. For those who think Italy is
simply a joke nation, run by a joke Prime Minister more concerned with his
own sexual self-gratification than any useful aspect of serious government .
. . well, this book won’t do much to reassure them. But it will offer the
reader a sense of how a country with such potential, and with such an
illustrious intellectual and cultural background, has never quite managed to
get its act together on the world stage (or, as some wily soul said on the
radio this week, why “Italy’s economy has been in decline since the end of
the Roman Empire”).
Pre-unification Italy was a collection of successful, if turbulent city
states; together, they seemed to have an almost Fawlty-esque talent for
failure and humiliation. This inadequacy, and the social and political
reasons behind it, are what Duggan analyses in forensic and fascinating
detail.
I have always loved the books of J. G. Ballard, and so his death this year was
a great loss. For fans of his fiction, his autobiography, Miracles of
Life: Shanghai to Shepperton (HarperPerennial, £7.99; Buy
the book ), will seem characteristically spartan, a straightforward and
rather brusque re-telling of the experiences (his Shanghai childhood,
internment in a Japanese prisoner of war camp, the death of his young wife)
that fed the dystopian landscapes of his books.
There is much here that explains his often dark, morally ambiguous writings,
not least the casual violence of war and the rich debauchery of human
deprivation. Nevertheless, he is graciously economical with his emotions, a
lack of embellishment born not just out of the knowledge that he has already
performed all the necessary literary acrobatics, but also that he is (was) a
man with little time on his hands.
As hot-headed as Ballard is cool is Hanan Al-Shaykh’s memoir of her mother, The
Locust and the Bird (Bloomsbury, £14.99; Buy
the book ). For readers gripped by events in the Middle East, this
biography of Kamila, a Lebanese child bride, offers a shocking and at times
frightening insight into the challenges of being a woman in the Arab world.
Married at 15 against her will to a man 18 years her senior, she gives birth
in quick succession to two children, all the while harboring a deep passion
for a young man called Muhammad. Thus enslaved, she nevertheless remains
determined to pursue her love affair, and to take what little joy is to be
found in a life constrained by culture and prejudice. Rage, frustration,
despair: this is a book that wears its big, angry heart firmly on its
sleeve, offering an insight into an unfamiliar culture and a cinematic love
story.
From the depths of the human heart to the shallows of capitalism: designer
footwear. What self-respecting poolside could possibly be complete without a
pair of Jimmy Choo flip-flops? The Towering World of Jimmy Choo
(Bloomsbury, £18.99; Buy
the book ), by Lauren Goldstein Crowe and Sagra Maceira de Rosen, tells
the story of how daddy’s girl Tamara Mellon (née Yeardye) went from the
fashion cupboard at Vogue to the head of a global footwear empire.
Intelligently written, well researched, and with more than a little sting in
its tail, it will enthrall keen students of fashion footwear as much for its
gossip (the feud with Jimmy Choo himself, the glamorous parties, the
name-drops, the rehab) as for its insights into the workings of the fashion
industry and the grisly imperatives of big business.
Backwards in High Heels: The Impossible Art of Being Female by Tania
Kindersley and Sarah Vine is published by Fourth Estate, £14.99
