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Matt Osborne's avatar

"The Spy Who Respected Me" is James Bond for the #MeToo era

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Basil Chamberlain's avatar

What I find annoying about the present cultural situation is not merely that so much modern fiction (in books, on television, in the cinema) is insistently, assertively politicised. There is, after all, great political art in the world.

No, the problem is that so much of what passes for fiction today is so painfully inartistic. To judge from the extracts quoted in Niall Gooch's amusing article, one would assume that the author of the new Bond is unaware that there is a difference between literature and journalism at all. Higson is entitled to create a Bond with a modern outlook; what he isn't entitled to do is to imbue him with thought processes that sound like a column in The Guardian. Above all, they shouldn't sound so damn second-hand. An author who can talk about "the crude but effective nationalist playbook", or the "age-old lure of the strong man to those who felt left behind and bewildered by change", is an author who has lost the war against cliche. He's also lost sight of the possibility that there might be validity in more than one ideological position, and that the purpose of fiction is to seek to understand rather than to judge.

I spent part of this summer travelling around Bulgaria, and (since I like to theme my holiday reading nationally) took with me Anton Donchev's Time of Parting, a historical novel about the Ottoman authorities trying to convert the Christian population of a valley in the Rhodopes to Islam. The book was published in 1964, i.e., during Communist rule in Bulgaria. Yet Donchev seems genuinely interested in exploring the thought processes of a Christian priest, a Muslim zealot, and a freethinking Frankish knight who has converted unwillingly from the former to the latter without really believing in either. What's remarkable is that, Communism notwithstanding, the cultural circumstances of the time and place in which he was writing apparently gave him at least some latitude to do so.

By contrast, so much "woke" art consists merely of the dogmatic reiteration of contemporary pieties. Writers of this school have a slogan ready for every circumstance. The people they invent are categorised rather than characterised. Humanity is divided neatly into heroes and villains; no shades of grey can be permitted to muddy binary divisions. The constricting impact of this philosophy on the creative imagination seems in some respects only comparable to the contortions undergone by artists in Stalinist Russia or in Maoist China. This is not merely art that has to be careful about what it says. It is art that has to be careful about what it dares to think.

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