The Infinities - John Banville ****

Booker prize-winning author, John Banville, serves up another literary masterpiece with The Infinities - an intelligent and witty reflection on the demise of the paterfamilias, Adam (this is no subtle reference to the father of men, the original Adam) as he lies on his deathbed, apparently insensate but in fact aware of all that happens around him, his family and an unwelcome stranger gathering at his bedside. Adam Godley is the decaying godhead; an academic who seems detached from the physical world around him, more interested in his mathematical calculations and the disproving of all past certainties through his groundbreaking theorems than his relationship with his family. He is the disembodied and omniscient narrator but so too are the gods from the Greek pantheon who intrude on the mortals, shape-shifting to allow erotic and mischievous encounters that change the course of their lives. Toying with humans for their own sport, the gods offer neither comfort to the dying Adam nor hope to the bereaved relatives, they remain invisible and un-thought of , only acting in order to divert themselves from the monotony of their immortality, their infinity. This novel is stylish and amusing; it approaches the weighty issues of whether we can find any meaning or purpose in our lives, our work, our relationships, and then suggests that all this contemplation is mere vanity and hubris. Refreshingly there is even a note of self-mockery to Banville’s novel: just like Adam and the gods , the artist creates his fictional characters and places them in relation to each other in their fictional world, manipulates and directs them, only to destroy them. An endlessly interesting and original story handled with finesse, this is one of the most enjoyable books of the year. Published by Picador 2009.

Turner Prize 2009 - Tate Britain *

Perhaps a Christmas party is not the best context in which to appreciate art; wine had been imbibed, vision was slightly blurred, and yet I feel that my state of semi-inebriation made this year’s Turner Prize exhibition bearable. As I stumbled round the gallery, I was bored and completely unmoved by what was on display. Everything seemed to exist as an empty signifier; all was meaningless and depended entirely on the accompanying blurb to locate a reason for its existence. The forms and shapes were neither new nor inspiring. Lucy Skaer has recast an old work of Brancusi’s but this isn’t daring and neither is the naked bottom depicted on one of Enrico David’s papier-mâché figures.

The works aren’t attention-grabbing or outré, of which I will concede there has been enough of in recent years, and yet they don’t offer anything exciting or stimulating. Roger Hiorn’s efforts looked like the inside of a vacuum cleaner – hardly accomplished. But it was the winner which was the biggest disappointment. Every onlooker admired the fact that Richard Wright would not be able to sell this work, it would be painted over, it was beautiful, how pretty. Yes, it looked fine as a recreation of a baroque fresco and its detail was minute, but I can’t recommend this work on the basis of it having taken quite a while and a bit of effort to produce. Has no one heard of the Sistine chapel? The problem is nobody had a problem with it and that, for me, just goes to show that it has nothing going for it.

A Serious Man - Coen Brothers ****

This film is a real gem; intelligent, moving and muted. There is something very quiet and subdued about the humour in this black comedy that heightens the tragedy at its core. Larry Gopnik (Michael Stuhlbarg) is pitifully helpless as his unremarkable life crumbles before him; his wife is leaving him, his professional reputation is being sabotaged, his children are emotionally detached and he can only experience happiness in fantasised encounters with a sexy neighbour.

The bleakness of his situation is heightened by the clever manipulation of cinematic convention. The audience craves a happy ending and the film repeatedly depicts episodes in which Larry’s various problems are solved, albeit in ways that are always verging on the ridiculous, only to reveal that these are merely bad dreams. Things keep getting worse, and our expectations are at last subverted when a film that we think can only conclude when Larry’s problems are solved finally ends with a tornado and a personal catastrophe far more disturbing than anything that has gone before.

Just like Larry the insecure Jew, searching for the answers to the questions God poses and finding nothing, the audience finds no comfort or meaning in his demise. The tone of the film is not one of despair, though, rather one of amusing irreverence. The film begins with a vignette: a Jewish couple from generations ago are visited by what the wife believes to be a dybbuk in the form of a deceased friend; she stabs the demon but is met with a torrent of human blood and is cursed. Is it this curse which is acting upon Larry? Is his religiosity as ridiculous as the myth of the dybbuk? We walk away from this film experiencing an existential crisis as immediate as Larry’s – do we really only have superstition to fall back on when we search for meaning in the minutiae of our lives? There really is no better way to be entertained on a Wednesday evening.

The Line by Timberlake Wertenbaker ***

My first review is of an intriguing but uneven new work from Timberlake Wertenbaker currently playing at the Arcola theatre in Hackney. Wertenbaker’s play is now infamous for the furore the playwright caused when the critics responded with unfavourable reviews; she accused them of being in no fit state to judge the merit of her play when they arrived from an alcohol-fuelled awards dinner rather the worse for wear. I was in a more sober state when I attended last night and have to say that this play was by no means boring or unsophisticated and neither was it overly complicated.

The work centres on Degas’ relationship with his protégé and muse Susan Valadon, her picaresque progress from a poor and roguish young woman to an accomplished artist, and Degas’ decline in old age with the faithful housemaid Zoe by his side. Engaging and energetically acted by the trio of performers, the play ultimately didn’t manage to sustain the brilliance that shone through at very occasional moments. Sarah Smart acted the young Valadon with a humour and gusto that failed to convince but she was mush more skilful playing her older self in the second half; her final monologue followed by the closing scene with a dying Degas were the best of the play. Henry Goodman gave the best performance of the night as the hypochondriac artist; he garnered the most laughs but his inner turmoil was always subtly present behind his bombast and exaggerated grouchiness. Selina Cadell brought humanity to the character of the long-suffering Zoe and was able to express worlds through her demeanour and facial expression. The set was impressive but didn’t need to be as fussy as it was; I thought it was rather unnecessary to have so many reproductions of Degas’ work present. Ultimatley, despite the overly didactic tone, this play was throught-provoking and really grappled with ideas of artistic creation, talent and formalism.