There's an interesting piece by Ben Hoyle in yesterday's Times. Here's the start and finish; there's quite a lot in the middle that's well worth reading too.
Edinburgh arts boss Jonathan Mills claims UK cultural diet is pap
The trivialisation of British life has left millions of people subsisting on a cultural diet of “white bread without the crusts”, according to one of the country’s most influential arts leaders.
While a large minority is taking advantage of a golden age for the arts, Jonathan Mills, the director of the Edinburgh International Festival , said that many Britons were missing out on “incredible experiences” because of an entrenched suspicion of anything serious, highbrow or experimental. Coherent ideas and intellectual rigour had lost their value for much of society, he argued, to be replaced with a consumer emphasis on simplification and entertainment for its own sake, whether it be through football, pop music, the media or comfortingly familiar classical works.
Sportsmen such as David Beckham were more widely respected than leading scientists and great artists, partly because we could no longer be bothered to understand what the scientists and artists did, Mr Mills suggested.
“We have gone so far in wanting everything to be babyfood and pre-digested that we have actually missed out,” he said.
“I believe [this is] at the source of many people’s frustrations. I’m quite happy to stand up and be counted and say enough of this trivialisation of all that is great about this country. I just wish there were more political leaders who had the guts to say the same.” [. . .]
Mr Mills said that he was determined to shed the festival’s “stuffy, out of touch” reputation and did not mind upsetting the odd traditionalist. He also said that he would not make any concessions to popular tastes even if it meant that the international festival continued to be seen as elitist compared with the Fringe.
“Elitist is the most extraordinarily abused word in the English language,” he said. “Do we ever use the word elite for the people who are truly elite — the David Beckhams of this world who are paid vast, vast fortunes for what is basically entertainment?
“I reject the idea that I’m elitist. What I am, absolutely, is a person who believes in the power of ideas and the power of creativity to transform people’s lives. What I do in this job is search that out, and some of it is well known and some of it is not known.”
A spokesman for the Fringe Society said: “There are over 2,000 shows in this year’s programme and there is something for everyone, from pure escapism to challenging new writing.”
I can remember a time not all that many decades ago when I'd have been inclined (though not overwhelmingly) to agree with some of Mills' critics, whose views are expressed in the omitted longish central portion of Hoyle's piece; at the time I was all for "the people's culture", and would loudly champion genre literature (say) over its snootier equivalents. (Music was somehow a little different.)
However, things have changed a bit since then. Of course, genre literature is one of those things: pick up a 1970s skiffy paperback and its modern counterpart and the contrast is all too plain to see. The modern paperback is likely to be a whole lot prettier, of course -- at least in the US, where the standard paperback format today is of the svelte semi-trade variety as opposed to the yellow-edged, tiny-fonted, collapsibly bound and rankly odoured monstrosities of old. I'm tempted to say the content has likewise hugely improved, and indeed I was halfway through typing a sentence to this effect when I remembered that probably the majority of the skiffy bought in this country consists of endless series of movie/tv/comix/game tie-ins and "sequels by other hand".
We'll not talk about what has happened to urban fantasy, once a favourite subgenre of mine and now a roiling mass of extraordinarily derivative series and soft porn that I've come simply to avoid. (Again, I generalize: I know there's some good stuff in there, but the proportion seems pretty small and I can't face vomiting my way through the 95% crud to get to the 5% I might enjoy. No: to be honest, I'd probably not enjoy the 5%, either, because at the back of my mind the whole time would be lurking the miasma of the 95%, poisoning my reading experience.) (Oh, hey, and look: I've talked a bit about what's happened to urban fantasy after all.)
And look at the transformations the pulp thriller has undergone. Put a John D. MacDonald alongside one of James Patterson's co-authorships and the contrast is, well, downright embarrassing. The works of people like MacDonald, Cain, Thompson and of course the other, differently capitalized Macdonald read today like material for college literature courses . . . if only college students were lucky enough to be prescribed them. Those writers -- and countless like them -- didn't feel they had to assume their readers were so dimwitted as to have difficulty with paragraphs more than a couple of sentences long, or chapters that sprawled onto a fourth page.
(Another big difference is that a lot of the great hardboiled thrillers went straight into mass market paperback. This week's James Patterson novels are in hardback with full-colour jackets and embossed lettering and will set you back $20 or so, even after discount.)
Maybe I'm being a bit unfair. For every Patterson, for every excruciatingly run-out-of-steam Kellerman or Cornwell, for every inept Johansen (and a billion Johansen clones) . . . for every fifty godawful if-there's-a-lower-common-denominator-we'll-find-it thrillers responsible for the book-shaped dents in my bathroom wall you can pick up a Ruth Rendell/Barbara Vine or an Ian Rankin book and realize that, yes, progress has been made in the thriller field: these are novels that can be set beside the best that modern literary fiction offers and not found wanting, which isn't something you could claim of, say, Agatha Christie. Even so, I think it's fair to say that what was once the most lowbrow end of pulp fiction has now become the median.
(As an aside, I'm currently reading Donna Tartt's The Little Friend, one of those novels that I so much want to read that, rather than devour them instantly on acquisition, I keep on the shelf for months or years until exactly the right moment comes along. As anticipated, I'm adoring it: it's a book full of prose to relish and savour. Yet it's also slow-moving [so far] and there are 555 biggish pages of smallish print. I could imagine many genre readers saying it could easily have done in half that length, and they'd be right . . . but also most egregiously wrong. It's a book not intended to offer instant gratification.)
Within skiffy, as intimated above, the picture's slightly different. Ignoring the tie-ins and their like, I think it almost certainly true, depending on definitions, that the quality of the average skiffy novel is substantially higher than it used to be four or five decades ago. But at the same time it seems to me there's emerged a certain complacent self-censorship within the field. Cast your mind back to the mid/late 1960s and you'll recall how, once Mike Moorcock and the New Worlds writers had blazed the trail, skiffy was approaching the world with the attitude that there was nothing which speculative literature could not do. Whole new fields of subject matter opened up, as did the portals to a near-infinite plethora of stylistic experimentation. Some of the results were astonishingly turgid and conceptually surprisingly barren; yet the attitude itself was something golden and wonderful and precious. When cyberpunk came along there was a scent of that same feeling . . . but then everyone started churning out cyberpunk novels and, while arguably some from the later generations might be better cyberpunk novels, they weren't challenging reader (or writer) sensibilities in the same -- or, for the most part, any -- way.
And there seems to me today a resistance within the genre to changing the situation, to the notion that skiffy should be throwing open the gates to all of yesterday's forbidden playgrounds. I've been on editorial panels galore at conventions where the first answer from genre editors to the usual tedious question "What are y'all looking for?" is of the order: "You gotta grab us by the throat in the first paragraph. You don't do that, buster, you're trash."
It seems to me no surprise, in light of this, that almost all the best skiffy/fantasy novels I've read in the past decade or so have been published on mainstream not genre lists, and that quite a few of them have been in translation. In a sense I've got nothing against instant hooks; yet the very fact that they seem to have become a requirement has made them a complete turn-off for me: if I pick up a novel with a wonderful grab-you-by-the-balls opening sentence I'm quite likely to put it back down again on the grounds that the novel itself is probably puerile. (I was reading an excellent essay somewhere recently which put forward the case that, while the writing of skiffy may have become far more sophisticated than in days of yore, many aspects like characterization, motivations and indeed plot often remain stuck in the Boys' Own Adventure Story days. I'm still thinking about whether I 100% agree. If I can remember where I saw this essay I'll post a link.)
But the other important thing to change in this very personal little equation is me. As I've become ever boringer, older and, um, fartier I suppose, I find I have less and less patience with the easy-entertainment side of culture. Yes, of course, I can still get enormous pleasure from movies like Alien and The Long Kiss Goodnight, but I don't want a constant diet of them: like cheesecake, they're a wonderful self-indulgence once in a while but I get bored of them far quicker than ever I used to. Now I want a main diet of things with subtitles, or stuff that leaves me thinking "What the heck was that all about?", or old black-and-whiters with Barbara Stanwyck in them and a plot that lacks explosions, spiffy CGI or a happy ending. And the analogous yearning is there in my approach to fiction, too: I quite like the instant-gratification junk some of the time, but I grow weary of it very much more readily than I used to. These days it's the light novel that tends to get set aside because I've got bored with it while I plough on doggedly through the stuff that demands more effort.
And my guess is that it's probably more because of this latter change -- the change in my own perspective -- that I read Hoyle's article and let out something of a cheer for Jonathan Mills. I wouldn't say I've become an ideological elitist, but I've gravitated to a position where I think elitism in literature and the arts is a damn' fine thing, and that we ought to have a bit more of it.
I've been waffling on here a bit aimlessly. Pam has just appeared and told me it's effing well supper time, and she's right -- in fact, it's way past. I'll leave this uncorrected for the moment and maybe polish it a bit later.
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