ian mcewan

In our fiercely tribal and divisive culture, when consensus is illusory and we can’t seem to agree on even the most fundamental facts, the notion of shared history as a societal precept has left the building. But if we are indeed living in a post-truth era, Ian McEwan is here to tell us that things will only get worse.

In his bracing new time bender of a novel, the great British novelist posits that the past is irretrievably past, particularly in matters of the human heart, and any attempt by historians or biographers to wrench it into the present is folly — or in the case of this novel’s protagonist Thomas Metcalfe, intellectual vanity.

Metcalfe is an associate humanities professor and a researcher living in England in the 22nd century (2119, to be exact) who has taken it upon himself to unlock the mystery of a poem called “A Corona for Vivien,” written in 2014 by a deceased literary eminence named Francis Blundy, a poet whose genius, we learn, once rivaled that of Seamus Heaney. The poem was composed for his wife Vivien’s birthday dinner in October 2014, an evening that has taken on mythic proportions in certain academic circles in the intervening years. It even has a name: The Second Immortal Dinner, in which Blundy for the first time read his corona, a poem composed as a sequence of sonnets, that had been lost long ago.

In Metcalfe’s hothouse literary universe, Blundy’s poem is important because it is a revenant. In the intervening years, interpretive speculation about it has run rampant. Some have called it a warning about climate change. Others say Blundy was paid a six-figure sum by an energy company to suppress the poem. Only fragments of it exist, certain fugitive lines that appear in correspondence between Vivien, Blundy and Blundy’s editor, Harold T. Kitchener. Metcalfe has taken it upon himself to find the long-lost document, allegedly written by Blundy on a vellum scroll and buried by Vivien somewhere on Blundy’s property.

Metcalfe’s task is greatly complicated by the fact that he lives in a future world where much of the planet has been either immolated or else submerged underwater by a nuclear cataclysm that McEwan calls “The Inundation.” There has also been a mass migration — “The Derangement” — in which millions, deprived of resources and land, have been driven from England into Africa. Entire cities have been lost, “the land beneath them compressed and lowered, so they did not drain, but persisted like glacial lakes.” Whatever repositories of learning that weren’t destroyed now exist on higher ground in the mountains, where the “knowledge base and collective memory were largely preserved.”

The built environment has eroded, but fortunately for Metcalfe, the digital world of the past is intact. Biographers from 2000 onward, McEwan writes, are “heirs to more than a century of what the Blundy era airily called ‘the cloud’ ever expanding like a giant summer cumulus, though, of course, it simply consisted of data-storage machines.” Here in the cloud are the many hundreds of emails and texts from Blundy, his wife and their circle, allowing Metcalfe the satisfaction of knowing he can piece together the events of the epochal dinner party down to granular details: cutlery used, foods prepared, toasts proffered.

Ian McEwan’s elegantly structured and provocative novel is a strong argument for how little raw data, or even the most sublime art, can tell us about humans and their contrary natures.

(Annalena McAfee)

What Metcalfe knows of the Blundys’ life together can be gleaned from the 12 extant volumes of Vivien’s journals. From the journals Metcalfe has surmised that Vivien, herself a brilliant literary scholar and teacher, had willfully lived out her marriage under Blundy’s shadow, the dutiful handmaiden to a literary eminence. “She enjoyed producing a well-turned meal,” Metcalfe posits. “She was once a don, a candidate for a professorship. Abandoning it was a liberation. She always felt herself to be in control. But it had surprised her how … she had emptied herself of ambition, salary, status and achievement.”

Despite the pile-up of particulars, Metcalfe knows he must find the lost poem, that it is the keystone without which the story crumbles into insignificance. If he fails in this task Metcalfe, already feeling like an “intruder on the intentions and achievements” of Blundy, loses his mojo: his mission aborted, his career stalled.

But just when it seems as if Metcalfe, after a long and arduous journey across land and water, has discovered something significant, McEwan drops the curtain on that story, and rewinds the narrative 107 years, back to Vivien Blundy and her story. At first, the basic contours conform to Metcalfe’s version of events: Vivien did forsake her academic ambitions for Blundy, who did write a poem for her that he read aloud on her birthday, and so on.

But Metcalfe, as it turns out, has the details right and the motives all wrong, never more so than when McEwan reveals the fact of a murder, conceived in such a way that no snooping academic could ever unearth it. Emails are composed yet remain unsent. Digital correspondence is deleted into the ether, sneaky evasions that are beyond the biographer’s grasp. Metcalfe’s thesis is driven by a romanticized notion of Blundy’s life, but as McEwan slowly and carefully reveals, his poem, ostensibly a “repository of dreams,” more closely resembles a passive-aggressive act. As for Vivien, the narrative she has proffered in her journals is far from the whole story. She is resentful of Blundy, thwarted in her career, simmering with resentment. Despite his scholarly assiduity, Metcalfe is moving down an errant path that will never square the facts with lived experience.

Of course, facts are important, but they don’t necessarily reveal anything; it is the biographer’s folly to ascribe deeper meaning to them, to extrapolate truth from a disparate series of events. Metcalfe’s pursuit of revelation in a single lost poem is magical thinking, a relentless grasping for a chimera. McEwan’s elegantly structured and provocative novel is a strong argument for how little raw data, or even the most sublime art, can tell us about humans and their contrary natures.

Weingarten is the author of “Thirsty: William Mulholland, California Water, and the Real Chinatown.”

This powerful hit drama is leaving Netflix later this month

Joe Wright’s cinematic masterpiece Atonement, starring Keira Knightley and James McAvoy, has made an indelible impact with its seven Oscar nominations and a box office return that quadrupled its budget.

Set against the backdrop of World War 2, Atonement is a riveting tale that unfolds over one sultry day in 1935, with consequences rippling through the decades. The film boasts an epic five-minute continuous shot featuring 1,000 extras that captures the Dunkirk evacuation chaos from McAvoy’s perspective.

For those intrigued, time is ticking to watch this war drama on Netflix, as it departs the service on 16th June.

The film enjoys an impressive 83% ‘fresh’ rating on Rotten Tomatoes, where the critical consensus reads: “Atonement features strong performances, brilliant cinematography, and a unique score. Featuring deft performances from James MacAvoy and Keira Knightley, it’s a successful adaptation of Ian McEwan’s novel.”

Atonement clinched the Best Film accolade at the BAFTAs, took home the Best Original Score at the Oscars, and earned Saoirse Ronan an Oscar nod for Best Supporting Actress at just 13 years old, reports the Express.

Launching both the 2007 Venice and Vancouver Film Festivals, the film also marked Wright as the youngest director ever to open the former at only 35.

Critic Andrew Collins gave the film a glowing five-star review in Radio Times, declaring: “Atonement transcends the expectations of its country-house setting, via the privations of war, to deliver a knockout twist that works better on the screen than it did on the page.”

Bruce Newman, another film critic, praised the first part of the movie, stating: “In its first 45 minutes, Atonement achieves a kind of perfection rare even for big Oscar-bait movies,” but he added a note of caution: “Every facet of the filmmaking is the equal of any picture released this year. The rest of the movie isn’t so bad.”

The film has stirred up quite the conversation among fans, with one standout review on Letterboxd proclaiming: “13 years old saoirse ronan was robbed of that oscar for her performance as THE DEVIL.”

On Google, a fervent admirer of the film compared it to Dunkirk (2017), expressing: “I deeply appreciate Atonement for other reasons and while the films are about 10 years apart I am utterly perplexed by how Nolan’s Dunkirk became the critical darling it is, especially since this film exists.

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“This film isn’t about the evacuation of Dunkirk or WWII (those elements form the background for a fully realized troubled romance and family drama) and YET this film spends about 20 minutes on Dunkirk and it conveys the horror, defeat and dread of it it far sharper and more resonant than Nolan’s film does for its entire run time.”

Another popular opinion on Letterboxd, which attracted over 6,000 likes, succinctly put it: “the five-minute long take on the beach >>>>>>> dunkirk (2017)”.

Atonement is available to stream on Netflix until Monday, 16th June.