RUTH AYLETT recommends two anthologies: one that bears witness to refugee and immigrant experiences, and the other to our political relationship to water
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ANDY HEDGECOCK relishes the reissue of a masterpiece of mythopoeic Marxism by a great writer of fiction
SETH SANDRONSKY appreciates a fresh take on a 100-year-old novel that helps to contextualise the current moment of conspicuous wealth, waste and climate chaos
A no-nonsense ex-Garda female cop, Scandi-noir’s newest flawed hero, the lure of Aussie gold, and unexpected decency in Silicon valley
JAN WOOLF doubts that soft-core musical is the best way to transmit an important story of heroism and resistance
Reviews of Ella Fitzgerald, My Morning Jacket, and Toria Wooff
GORDON PARSONS admires a version of Marlowe’s grim tragedy that strips it down to its gay essentials
When Cassy’s father fails to connect with his daughter — and misses out on
an evening in the Bitter End — a stranger’s self-mocking charm brings seething resentment.
Where Furnaces Burn
Joel Lane
Influx Press, £9.99
JOEL LANE was a dissident mythmaker. In his novels and short stories, he reworked the traditions of supernatural horror and noir crime to confront the cruelties, absurdities and horrors of neoliberalism.
Lane’s unexpected death in 2013, at the age of just 50, silenced a voice of considerable intelligence and imaginative power. Fortunately, Influx Press are publishing new editions of his books. Where Furnaces Burn, the latest to be reissued, is a medley of 26 thematically and stylistically linked short stories, each of them an episode from the 24-year career of a West Midlands Police officer. In the opening story, the narrator is a trainee constable in late 1970s Wolverhampton; at the end of the book, and the close of his career, he is a damaged and disillusioned detective sergeant.
The format is deceptive. The police procedural elements are embarkation points for unsettling, genre-blending expeditions into places neglected by corporations and politicians — West Midlands districts with rotting infrastructure and marginalised people.
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ANGUS REID applauds the inventive stagecraft with which the Lyceum serve up Stevenson’s classic, but misses the deeper themes