Birmingham Gets a Sublime Case of the Shivers…
I get to grips with the success of the Birmingham Literature Festival, and slice open two of the events that featured at this year’s autumn edition:
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Gothic Stories: Frankenstein and Beyond
The Birmingham & Midland Institute
Thursday 11 October 2018 (18:00)
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Shivers: Stories from the Book of Darkness and Light
The Studio at the Rep
Thursday 11 October 2018 (20:00)
A review by :
Writers. Books. Ideas. That’s the distinctly unfussy tagline of this year’s Birmingham Literature Festival. Or at least, for the main edition. Enjoying its twentieth year, the city’s premier book festival now delivers a double shot pick-me-up of literary delights. This involves an espresso-style livener in the spring, followed by the more leisurely imbibed autumn grande. Or venti. Or whatever the trendy coffee houses are using to describe the word big these days. But anyway, the tagline serves as a simple, yet effective mission statement. It signals a something-for-everyone approach. Part-experimental, part-mainstream, the festival refuses to be pinned down or penned in. This goes some way to explaining its success.
Looking at it now, it’s hard to believe that it all started out in the corner of a Waterstones book store. And yet, it’s these humble beginnings that keep the festival firmly rooted, while at the same time encouraging it to spread its wings. Paradoxical? Not really. During a recent talk to students at Newman University, festival co-founder Jonathan Davidson spoke candidly about the financial constraints that encumber many literary events. But while the Birmingham Literature Festival is relatively small when compared to the likes of Hay, or the Cheltenham festival, it continues to hold its own, remarkably well. This is due – in part – to the funding it receives from Arts Council England. But it’s far from a no-strings handout that gets thrown around like Monopoly money. Davidson, and his team at Writing West Midlands, work tirelessly within the local writing community - in all its various shapes and guises. This often involves supporting marginalised and disadvantaged groups. It’s this kind of partnership that attracts the funding.
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In turn, this financial cushion allows the organisers to take greater risks in terms of programming. But there’s still a constant friction between the festival’s creative and commercial aspirations. The additional dosh is all well and good, until there’s no longer a pot to pass on – so to speak. And so the long-term plan has always been to deliver a festival that can balance the books, as well as revel in them. This is why the organisers of the Birmingham Literature Festival don’t simply host events, they curate them. There’s a big difference. This festival is about far more than which book is trending, or which author the publishers are trying give exposure to. In terms of size, the organisers have no real desire to expand the event any further. To do so would be to sacrifice some of that creative control, compromising the very dynamic that makes the festival what it is. But at the same time, they seem committed to breaking new ground; redefining what a successful literature festival looks like. I’ve resisted the urge to insert some pithy quote about roots and wings, but you get the idea.
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There is another ingredient that separates this urban gathering from its would-be competitors; this literary shindig that takes place in the very heart of the metropolis. Yes, you’ve guessed it – it’s the city itself. According to this year’s guest curator, Sathnam Sanghera, ‘too many literary festivals happen in hot tents on the outskirts of bucolic villages’. For the uninitiated, let me tell you - there are very few events in the Birmingham itinerary that take place in a field. Though several enterprising ideas have made good use of the local canals. That’s 'the cut' if you happened to be born around these parts; waterways that were once the lifeblood of the Industrial Revolution.
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But what does this all mean for the good folks at High Tensile? Quite a lot, as it happens. There’s always something to tickle our fancy. Which brings us nicely to the reviews. Tucked-in between well-established names like John Boyne and Mohammed Hanif – and the more left-field appeal of Caribbean diaspora poets, responding to the First World War – are two events that seemed right up our dark and twisty street. What’s more, a neat bit of scheduling meant we were able to enjoy both of these with the minimum amount of effort. And they certainly complimented each other rather well.
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Gothic Stories: Frankenstein and Beyond was a panel event that took place at the Birmingham and Midland Institute. As home to the original Birmingham Library, the Victorian building boasts a fine literary pedigree. It even counts a certain Charles Dickens among its early patrons. Situated below ground, the modest auditorium was accessed by an old-style staircase. As we descended into the belly of the beast, I couldn’t help thinking how inherently gothic it all seemed from the off. It's hard to imagine feeling the same sensation in a tent. Although the event itself marked the 200th anniversary of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, it was intended as a more general discussion around the Gothic. Remote landscapes, vulnerable heroines, violent and erotic fantasies, supernatural and uncanny occurrences. Just a regular Thursday night for some of us then.
For those less familiar with it, the Gothic has tapped into the subconscious fears and suppressed desires of its readers for over two centuries. On paper, at least, there was certainly no shortage of things to talk about. The panel featured academic researcher Franziska Kohlt, and contemporary Gothic and Horror writers Andrew Michael Hurley (The Loney and Devil’s Day) and Jess Kidd (The Hoarder). The event was chaired by Dr Serena Trowbridge, from Birmingham City University. At a glance, this seemed like a strange dynamic. This was the first time I’d seen a panel that featured two academics, as well as two authors. Events like this can be a risky business at the best of times – beset by any number of problems: Chairs with little knowledge of the topic being discussed; writers who appear to have been selected at random. Not to mention those thorny types in the audience, who ask the most bizarre question they can think of. So there’s a lot to be said for the old adage - if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. And yet, the organisers already seemed to be tinkering with a tried and tested formula. The good news is, it’s a gamble that really paid off. While the book readings demonstrated the myriad ways the Gothic might influence contemporary fiction – with Devil’s Day exploring folklore, and The Hoarder revealing itself as a lyrical detective saga – it was Franziska Kohlt’s contribution that proved the highlight of the evening. She has a knack for weaving all the various strands of the Gothic together, frequently evoking the genre in transcendental terms. I was especially taken by her thoughts on liminality, and the notion that the Gothic can never be well-mapped. Trying to frame a genre in which the edges run is never an easy thing to do, yet Kohlt's observations were presented with clarity and a contagious enthusiasm for the topic at hand.
I also enjoyed listening to the panel talk about their favourite authors. There’s something strangely voyeuristic about it. Which I guess is the point. Hurley himself joked about his reluctance to reveal one of his favourite short stories – for fear of being accused of plagiarism. And while it was no surprise to find the usual suspects such as M.R. James among the roll-call of influential writers, it was good to see the likes of Shirley Jackson also get a mention.
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One of the most interesting – and unpredictable - aspects of these events, are the audience questions. Tonight was no exception. When one audience member asked about the relevance of the Gothic in the modern era, it was again Franziska Kohlt who leapt to the rescue. Echoing the sentiments of novelist Angela Carter, who in the mid-70s opined ‘we live in gothic times’, Kohlt eloquently conveyed the genre’s ability to continually reinvent itself. As long as we have anxieties, it would seem, the Gothic will continue to flourish. Or fester. And so it does. Take the audience itself, which included a large number of students. This, and the fact that there were no empty seats, represents a shift in fortunes for the Gothic genre during recent years. Once viewed with indifference - if not downright derision - within scholarly circles, this evening found not one, but two academics willing to roll-up their intellectual sleeves to defend its honour.
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All in all, this was a wonderfully insightful event. From the excellent choice of venue, to the well-selected guests on the panel. The Chair kept things moving at a brisk enough pace. So by the time we were filtering back upstairs - into the land of the living - I was left wondering where the last hour-and-a-half had gone. So far so good. And so onto the next event of the evening – Shivers: The Book of Darkness and Light. Appetites suitably whetted, my two bookish companions and I made our way through the cobbled streets of old Brum Town. From one library to another.
My initial thought when arriving at the second venue, was that perhaps this event might have been better suited at the first - given that building’s distinctive genius loci. But any reservations I had soon dissipated as we were ushered into the Studio theatre. The lights were already dimmed. The hiss of diabolical whispers seeped from hidden speakers. On the stage were a few well-chosen props: a rustic sideboard, old-fashioned travelling cases, a scattering of crumpled letters. These objects were illuminated by the sepia-toned glow of an antiquated table lamp. If all of this was designed to immerse the audience - into whatever was about to happen - then it certainly worked. It was less a case of ‘deep into that darkness peering’, as Poe once proclaimed, and more akin to being part of the darkness itself.
Shivers is a two-man show that revolves around three ghostly tales from the somewhat sinister Book of Darkness and Light. The first of these, The New Priest of Blackpines, is a tale of vampires and demonic possession. The second, Dead Air, is about a late-night radio show, and a caller with his own tale to impart. The final story, A Horror in Porcelain, is centred around a doll collector, and his latest acquisition. And we all know that porcelain dolls are up there with clowns, when it comes to things you really don’t want cluttering up the place. At the risk of ruining the surprises, I won’t say much more about the storylines. At the time of writing, the show is only half-way through its forty-date tour. Rest assured that all of the tales are meticulously constructed. And best served under a cloche of mystery.
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Writer - Adam Z. Robinson – plays the part of narrator. He recounts the tales, while his associate - Ben Styles - uses a violin to provide the haunting soundtrack. A simple premise, but also an original one; combining the preconceived notion of a literary event, with conventional theatre. Essentially, it’s neither, and yet both. It was Michael Meehan who once described the literary festival as a place where the printed book undergoes a kind of ‘de-industrialisation ritual’. The realm where words become flesh. Everything about Shivers, seems to embody this theory. These stories are so real, in fact, that the audience literally becomes part of them. Every cough, or gasp, or murmur is absorbed into the narrative. And what better place for this to resonate, than a city that has witnessed its own de-industrialisation over the last century or so?
When Robinson and Styles first appear – dressed like a couple of down-at-heel undertakers – you can sense that something special is about to take place. The narrator reveals that the open book he clutches, ‘has travelled from the mountains of deepest, darkest Bavaria, to the mysterious Moroccan souks, before finally making its way to Birmingham.’ This draws a nervous laugh from the audience. But from there onwards, humour is in scarce supply. From the moment they take to the stage, the two performers never break character. Or should I say characters? Robinson reveals himself to be an extremely talented voice-actor, hopping seamlessly between the troubled personas that inhabit each story. Sitting near to the front, we were also (mis)treated to every sorrowful expression and painful grimace. His counterpart, Styles, is equally versatile; the nuanced strumming, plucking, and bowing of the strings, adding another dimension to the narrator’s dark tales. But in true gothic fashion, it’s rarely predictable. Shivers doesn’t abandon the classic horror tropes, but continually tries to subvert them. This leaves you second-guessing, at every turn. Stories veer-off unexpectedly, pulling the rug out from under you. The violin falls silent when your mind tells you it shouldn’t; denying you that staccato screech, or mournful swathe. You’re left with nothing but the narrator’s anguished lament; the words and the music now purposely betraying each other. It’s this ever-present tension that renders the whole affair so unsettling.
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As the separate chapters unfold, the narrator is carried across the remote landscape of the stage; each tale making inventive use of the darkness and light – and more importantly, the liminal spaces between; the same edgeland where book and physical presence bleed into one another. Places that can never be well-mapped. I’m not sure if the panellists from the previous event were in attendance, but they surely would’ve revelled in the practical application of these gothic themes. Sublime in every sense of the word. Speaking to members of the audience afterwards, it wasn’t just me who declared it the best thing they’d seen all year. Its events like this that keep us coming back to the Birmingham Literature Festival, time and time again. But for tonight, all that remained was the short walk back to car. As we ventured into the cold air outside, the jagged-toothed skyline of the city had never looked so ominous. Shivers indeed!
