Canongate , 240 pages , £5.99 , PB
“Mind you, novels are all shite to me . . . Novels are all padding – they’re clearly objectionable.” P Reekie

Scottish fiction crashed onto a moribund book scene in the Nineties – a refreshing burst of new talent that made books suddenly cool to read again and made bibliophobes suddenly get a taste for literature, despite the almost aggressively unconventional manner of telling the tale. Popularist and avant garde? Surely not. This selection of six short stories/novellas are all linked by a common bond – a basic blokeishness that makes them easy to read, provided they are tackled correctly. The best way then to approach this collection is as though it’s an adult Jackanory – most of the tales cry out to be read aloud, preferably with numerous pauses for the teller to quaff from a sticky pint glass. They speak with a voice that needs to be audibly heard – so read them through your ears, and not through your eyes.

“Pop Life” tells the tale of three friends linked by their monthly music meetings. Their basic blokeish natures lead them through difficult emotional paths (where emotion cannot, of course, be directly expressed) when one of their number becomes suddenly incapacitated forcing a re-evaluation of their friendship and their ritualistic meetings.

“After the Vision” is an extract from the novel The Far Places. Scorgie is wandering around Glasgow in his diving suit trying to find a place to crash the night before getting an early train. What follows is a mini road movie of chance encounters, narrow escapes and bizarre but all too real incidents. The colloquial style drifts from third to first person without effort and again would be an ideal piece to be recounted aloud. For all the claims that this book represents cutting edge fiction its real “shock” value lies in the day-to-day urban tough normality base that provides it more of an oral tradition. This is the real shock – ordinary language used in an ordinary way. Minimal punctuation and intuitive word flow replace “crafted” and often banal language of “traditional” books.

In James Meek’s “The Brown Pint of Courage” we are shown (partly) the workings of that much maligned occupation – the traffic warden. But instead of judging or providing a linear voice for his characters Meek sets up a series of interlocking vignettes that tie them together with bonds more bizarre than initially appears. Meek’s skewed view of the world makes his characters feel distant from reality as the whole story plays like a game of go – a metaphor that works both structurally as well as invading the characters’ spaces. An easy to read, amusing but complex tale that rewards many re-readings – easily the highlight of the book.

Further links between words and meaning are provided by Paul Reekie whose story “Submission” chronicles S&M literature and its history within the context of a relationship with Kelly, a sexually voracious woman of some adventures. The merging of academic and street language contrasts in the manner of the literature discussed.

Further sexual shenanigans surface in Laura Hird’s “The Dilating Pupil” which follows the achingly frustrating adventures of a teacher battling his consciousness with his natural urges when a gorgeous pupil seduces him on her sixteenth birthday. Much misadventure and substance abuse entails.

Finally Irvine Welsh gives us the “The Rosewell Incident”, which finally answers one of the big ‘whys’ of modern culture: why do aliens always land in US deserts and target American farmers for experimentation? Welsh’s aliens abduct a Scot who’s keen to use their knowledge to shag as many women as he can, even if his clothes remain distinctly eighties. “-Ay yir fuckin weapons, their fuckin nowt against us, eh.” declares the invading alien to the UN. Now that’s a take over!

Any Cop?: Children of Albion Rovers offers a crackin’ read for those seeking a quick resolution. It manages to be accessible, thought-provoking and intelligent.

Titan Books 2002 , 176 pp , £10.99 , PB
Bitesize: Fascinating excerpts from the production diary of Close Encounters of the Third Kind.

Hot on the tails of the oh-so-successful Jaws, Steven Spielberg was given unprecedented freedom by Columbia to make Close Encounters of the Third Kind. Although incorrectly marketed at the time (how many kids went to the cinema eager to see the next Star Wars and instead got a two hour long advert for Smash mashed potato… but without the cackling metal aliens?) the film proved to be another huge hit for the young director. And Bob Balaban was there for the ride. Bob played the part of Francois Truffaut’s translator in the film (and partly off film too) and wrote a diary about his experiences on set. What is so fascinating is the perspective you get from the actor’s point of view, as he becomes increasingly embroiled in what is ultimately a special effects film. There are tales of extended shooting, long humid set-bound work, ‘alien’ children bashing each other over the head with their costumes, vaccinations and delayed trips to India. Then there are reshoots, the secrecy surrounding the script and the late filming of the prologue. At the same time we learn about Bob struggling to re-learn his French and striking up a friendship with Truffaut. And of course, will anyone remember his birthday?

Balaban’s account is a fascinating insight not only into the making of Close Encounters specifically, but also of the kind of big budget effects film that was produced in the pre-CGI age. What strikes you about the actual filming is the amount of time spent shooting fascinating sounding material that didn’t make the final cut, scenes which are all helpfully marked by an asterisk. There are a lot of asterisks in this book! Long tracking shots, superfast aliens and flying cubes (later to be resurrected in the close to AI) were all filmed with painstaking detail, only to be excised in the editing suite. Spielberg’s devotion to the project and attention to detail is clear throughout, but the charm of the book really lies in the relationship between Truffaut and Balaban, one made a touch fuzzy but nonetheless humorous by the vagaries of language.

Any Cop?: Even for those not enamoured by Spielberg’s film, Spielberg, Truffaut and Me is a lively, interesting and amusing read that gives a different perspective about the making of a big budget Hollywood movie.

Harper Collins , 352 pages , £9.99 , HB
Bitesize: Flashman author pins you in a corner and tells you what’s wrong

with the world!!

People, it has rightly been said, should be allowed to grow old disgracefully. But should we allow the poor blighters the right to publicly humiliate themselves? George MacDonald Fraser’s The Light’s on at Signpost could be a comedy classic in the mould of Alf Garnett, were it not for the “froth at the mouth” earnestness of it all. Perhaps the problem lies in the way the book is marketed; the cover depicts a typewriter with some celluloid emerging from it, aiming to appeal to the book’s “Memoirs of the movies, among other matters”. These are, after all, the memoirs of a screenwriter who worked with the greats for thirty years. His first film script was for the hugely enjoyable romp The Three Musketeers and its sequel. Later came the unpretentious thrills of Force Ten From Navarone and, er, Octopussy. However it’s not long before you realise that these memoirs are “rewards” for the (hugely) patient reader, doggy snacks if you will sit up and beg, thanking the master for his pearls of philosophical wisdom. Sadly, the bulk of the book is taken up with (generally) bigoted and sigh-inducing rants that totally dispel the little oases of polite script discussions with stars and directors and the joys of international film-shoots. It’s a pity as these infrequent chapters beg for elaboration, even if Mr Fraser qualifies their nature by suggesting we don’t want to read them anyway because he refuses to stoop to the kind of petty gossip mongering that blights modern writing. Apparently that is all we (especially critics – boo!) want to read about because we are such salacious ghouls. Oh dear, how misguided.

The real problems are not as a result of what Mr Fraser is saying (people are allowed their opinions after all, however ludicrous) but the way he says it. It’s an irritating cocktail of bombast, whinging and self-absorbed piety. There is also the tendency to fall onto that stalwart of the indefensible – faux self-debasement. Sarcasm may well be the lowest form of wit, but Mr Fraser’s over-vented spleen forgoes even sarcasm’s dubious merits. It also, unforgivably, means that Mr Fraser stereotypes his readers into an utterly disgraceful binary. Either you are his “best buddy” and the voice of common sense that allows only rhetoric and no debate, or you are a lily-livered commie Blairite and, most heinous of all, “politically correct”. What’s laughable about these outbursts are that they are so passé, so 80’s. In this binary world, everyone who thinks Mr Fraser’s opinions are mainly tosh is clearly a Blairite toady, a patently ludicrous and patronising position, certainly given this government’s attitude towards war, democracy, personal freedom and the will of the electorate. In Mr Fraser’s day they never had rape or racism, violence only occurred on the battlefield and all the commonwealth countries adored British colonial rule.

Indeed one gets the impression that there were enough roses used in the manufacture of Mr Fraser’s spectacles to keep Interflora going for a decade. The reasoning in his arguments boils down to the very Blairite practice of “I’ve said it so it must be right” – great for soundbites but hardly appropriate for objective debate, especially considering the woefully misguided sentiments he espouses. Fraser seems to want to goad the reader/critic (critic – boo hiss!) into precisely the same mode of bullish rhetoric, especially as his introduction has made it perfectly clear that he hates you, before you’ve had a chance to read further. It’s like the man in the pub who singles you out, pushes you in the back and then insists you’ve spilt his pint purely for the purpose of a punch up.

The Light’s on at Signpost is like reading 300 pages of the Daily Mail letters page. Only worse. It’s as though the only thing the editors have cut out is a “why oh why oh why” prelude that seems to precede two out of three chapters. If you want to waste nine quid being barked at by a geriatric then don’t say you weren’t warned.

Any Cop?: The Light’s on at Signpost but no-one’s home.

Harper Collins 2003 , 320 pages , £16.99 , HB
Bitesize: Film Diary of a Nobody.

Film biographies traditionally deal with people involved in the creation of film – of actors and directors, or reminiscences of those who worked with the greats at pivotal points in their careers. Most of us, it is probably safe to say, are unlikely to find ourselves able to fill a book with anecdotes about our experiences with French New Wave auteurs or fiery drug-fuelled thespians. We, after all, pay our fiver and just watch the films. Or do we? John Walsh’s book introduces the idea of a film biography where the films themselves comment upon the life of the author. From the time his school class is dragged along to see the flogging delights of Mutiny on the Bounty, Walsh sees his life in relation to the films that influenced him and their indication of changing times. So this is a story of growing up, from the fifties through to the seventies. It’s not a volume pumped full of startling incident, great insight or monumental world changing events – but that is its point. This is the tale of a normal (as anyone can be) boy, growing up and feeling all the doubt and confusion anyone does. There are embarrassing moments, fashion disasters and fumbled lines. There’s the hard path of young love, the first kiss and the elemental need for sexual release. All themes that are familiar yet distant; after all everyone has their own personal tale. Like many a person who spends too long in a darkened room watching fantasies flicker on screen, Walsh sees his life as an extension of the movies (not a direct psycho-pathological influence you’ll be pleased to hear). In many ways this is the book’s strength and weakness. It speaks to us about the relevance that the multi-million dollar industry (and there was a British film industry then too!) had on ordinary everyday lives. The only downside is that the films are described in too much detail – if you’ve seen them you’ll already be familiar, and if not then it’s quite easy to have the plot spoiled.

Any Cop?: An amiable breeze of a read, ideal for film buffs when they want to remain “untaxed”.

Pocket Essentials , 96 pp , £3.99 , PB
Bitesize: A guide to one of America’s most underrated filmmakers.

Why isn’t Hal Hartley more famous? He belongs to that fascinating group of American independent film-makers who are well respected and critically acclaimed but apparently unable to raise much beyond the cost of a couple of reels of film. Some manage to break the mould and hop off to Hollywood when lucrative budgets beckon and others remain resolutely under-funded. Hartley, whether by fate or design, falls squarely in the latter camp. But despite the constant search for funding (fortunately he has quite a following in Europe and Japan) he does get total control over his films. Not only does he direct, he also writes, occasionally edits and even provides the music for some of his films. Long time collaborators (such as cinematographer Michael Spiller) help create a degree of cohesion between his projects and define an over-riding ‘Hal Hartley feel’. Of particular note is his uncanny ear for dialogue (indeed he also has a string of plays under his belt too) and an understated, dry, sense of humour with a streak of absurdity stated with a

n absolutely straight face. One of his most interesting characters is Isabelle from Amateur, a former nun and self-confessed nymphomaniac virgin!

Jason Wood’s book approaches Hal Hartley’s body of work with clear enthusiasm for his subject (none of the films are rated as less than 3/5) and for independent cinema in general. Hal Hartley’s frequent forays into the short film format are given the weight they deserve – Hartley’s experimental approach to some of his feature subjects (particularly 1999’s Book of Life) has roots in his short films – testing grounds for wider features (indeed his audacious Flirt (2001) could be seen as three shorts, all the same, set in different locales). There is a great deal of factual information about the funding and making of the films themselves with plenty of anecdotes along the way. If the tone is occasionally dry it nonetheless reflects the voice of its subject.

Any Cop?The Pocket Essential Hal Hartley provides a welcome, and somewhat overdue, overview of one of America’s most overlooked and under-funded auteurs.