EW review: 'Saturday' too ambitious
McEwan's well-crafted novel becomes heavy-handed parable
By Jennifer Reese
(Entertainment Weekly) -- In the predawn darkness of a Saturday in 2003, neurosurgeon Henry Perowne looks out the upper-story windows of his enviably grand London home and sees a burning plane streak across the sky: ''Above the usual deep and airy roar is a straining, choking banshee sound growing in volume -- both a scream and a sustained shout, an impure, dirty noise.''
He thinks about what he can do (nothing) and eventually returns to bed with his wife, thoughts slipping easily from Saddam Hussein (''an overgrown, disappointed boy with a pudgy hang-dog look'') to his long, happy marriage (''By some accident of character, it's familiarity that excites him more than sexual novelty'') to whether a poet has ever captured ''this commonplace cycle of falling asleep and waking, in darkness, under private cover, with another creature.''
The screaming plane, the cozy bedroom. These are the twin poles of Ian McEwan's beautifully crafted but exceedingly schematic new novel, "Saturday." As the fluid, richly textured examination of one man's interior world over 24 hours, the book is impeccable.
With his usual precision and grace, McEwan shows us an intelligent modern man thinking his way through an ostensibly ordinary day: Perowne watches the massing of an antiwar demonstration; plays an unbecomingly competitive game of squash; visits his elderly mother; reflects on a recent surgery; cooks.
These mundane activities, filtered through Perowne's highly evolved consciousness, are, in and of themselves, engrossing. But McEwan has bigger ambitions. A traffic accident brings Perowne face-to-face with his antithesis and nemesis: Baxter, a twitching, diseased ball of rage and unthinking, destructive energy.
This time, the ''impure, dirty noise'' of terror will not soar past Perowne's window but come crashing in. How will Perowne and his almost laughably civilized family -- which includes a lawyer, a musician and two poets -- handle a crazed, knife-wielding Baxter? Or, to make the obvious post-9/11 leap, how do we in the liberal, enlightened West hold on to our core values when terror visits us at home?
It is impossible to read McEwan's flinty, dread-saturated early novels -- like 1981's "The Comfort of Strangers" or 1987's "The Child in Time" -- without an almost physical apprehension of horror. Unpredictable and shape-shifting, the evil in his fiction wields terrible, erratic power over human lives and flows from a deeply mysterious source.
He's abandoned that great wellspring in "Saturday," his least frightening book yet. The violent confrontation late in the narrative may be the silliest, most overwrought climax McEwan has ever cooked up. Rather than the manifestation of a dark, unknowable force -- or even just an angry, complicated man with a will of his own -- Baxter turns out to be the hapless puppet of a grotesque neurological condition that Perowne manages to diagnose at a glance.
And even Perowne himself becomes less interesting once you understand that, from the very first page, McEwan has been grooming him for the lead in a heavy-handed parable.
EW Grade: B
'Magical Mystery Tours,' Tony Bramwell, Rosemary Kingsland
Reviewed by Tom Sinclair
Let's face it: Almost everybody loves reading about celebrities at their worst (if only because most of us will never get the chance to misbehave with such impunity). Except, of course, in the case of the Beatles.
Sure, everyone knows John Lennon could be a bit of a bastard and Ringo Starr had a rep as a dim bulb. But no one wants to hear that the lads from Liverpool were guilty of anything but endearing peccadilloes and a little recreational drug use.
Tony Bramwell, who grew up with the Beatles in Liverpool and worked closely with them throughout their short, dizzying lifetime as a band, had a ring-side seat for the entirety of the Beatlemaniacal '60s. In "Magical Mystery Tours," he rolls their tale out in a leisurely, conversational manner that brings the era to vivid life.
The mythic moments are all here, from original drummer Pete Best's ouster to manager Brian Epstein's drug-related death in 1967, from the recording of "Sgt. Pepper's" to the band's fractious final days.
Though it doesn't drop any bombshells, "Tours" is a tour de force of amusing details (like the suitcase of baked beans a curry-shy Starr took with him when the Beatles jetted to India in 1968 to sit at the Maharishi's feet).
What comes across most strongly is the utter innocence and naivete of all concerned, as well as the goofy serendipity that seemed to reign over the Fabs' ascendancy. Especially early on, John Lennon and Paul McCartney didn't think their songwriting was all that remarkable, ''probably because it came so easily to them,'' reveals Bramwell.
For his part, Epstein was so clueless about business that he blithely signed off on a deal that awarded an outside company 90 percent of the money from Beatles merchandise, thus losing millions.
One caveat: Bramwell is brutal on Yoko Ono. He paints her as equal parts harpy, shrew and bitch, reinforcing the old saw (less than universal in recent years) that her relationship with Lennon effectively led to the Beatles' premature breakup. He builds his case so convincingly, one wonders how Ono's version of the same events would read. For now, we can only imagine.
EW Grade: B+
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