Pictures tell stories. We learn this from our earliest days. Our parents read to us—lulling us towards sleep in that sing-song cadence we know so well—and we are enraptured not only by the words, but with the images that compliment them. Sure, we may outgrow our love of picture books, but we never forget the indelible joy of seeing a narrative unfold before us. Perhaps that’s why so many of us love comic books and graphic novels, and why nearly all of us are drawn to TV and film.
But pictures don’t have to be expressly tied to a complimenting narrative in order to tell a story. For instance, think of a favorite photograph—or better yet, go find one. (Yes, right now. Look in the frames on your desk or your wall, scan the covers on your bookshelves, or even (sigh) scroll through your phone if you must.) Find a photograph that compels you to know more—about the setting, about the subject, even about the person on the other side of the camera. How many stories could that one photograph tell?
In my own family, Marmite has been a unifying force, gumming down friction between generations and in-laws; I’ve watched it bind my Kashmiri mum and her half-Madarasi brother-in-law as they swapped tips and tricks on the best shops to find the last available jar. Given that they’re two Pakistanis from families with no Marmite in their DNA, I’ve come to suspect that a relationship with Marmite is less about either instant hate or an “acquired” taste and more about how you’re introduced to it.
But the novel rewards alertness. Beneath its lush, impressionistic surfaces are solid structures, and for a careful reader the story becomes clear, or nearly so. (Some of the book’s mysteries remain unsoundable, at least for me, which is a quality I prize: one can return, again and again, to the inexhaustible text.)
Fenton, a longtime reporter for the New York Post whose previous book “Stolen Years” was a nonfiction study of 10 men and women wrongfully imprisoned, has written a big-hearted novel about the enduring importance of faith and family. While some of the plot twists are a little meshuga — the Yiddish word for crazy — overall, the book is a lot of fun.
Elaine May is one of the key architects of American comedy; an alumna of the influential Kennedy-era underground scene in Chicago that gave us the O.G. “Saturday Night Live” cast and film director Mike Nichols. Tina Fey and Jimmy Fallon have name-checked May as a comedy hero. And yet, despite seven decades as a filmmaker, actor and screenwriter whose movies are entrenched in the Hollywood canon, May is that rarity: a film legend who has opted out of public life. We know the work, but not the creator.