Best memoirs and biographies: from Britney Spears to the Beckhams

The House of Beckham by Tom Bower

If you judged David and Victoria Beckham from their Instagram posts, you'd assume that theirs is a "love story for the ages", said Anita Singh in The Telegraph. In countless shots taken at home or on holiday, they gaze adoringly into each other's eyes, seemingly as loved-up as they were 25 years ago, when they were married in "matching outfits of Ribena purple". Or they're surrounded by their four children, looking like a close-knit clan. 

Yet according to Tom Bower's "The House of Beckham", this "happy-families image" is pure fabrication, said Hannah Betts in the same paper. Bower, a veteran biographer, portrays their relationship as a "devil's bargain", designed to prop up their staggeringly profitable global brand. Posh and Becks, he says, don't actually like each other very much, and as individuals they leave a lot to be desired: "David is stingy, squeaky-voiced and volatile. Victoria is a tuneless, furious-faced WAG whose fashion line is a much-puffed vanity project." While Bower scores highly "in terms of research and truth-telling", he struggles to get past the "ghastliness of his subjects"; the narrative is "oddly flat". 

There's little in this book that's revelatory, said Camilla Long in The Sunday Times: mostly, it's "culled from available records". Yet the details are still "kind of gripping", from David's multiple alleged affairs – he emerges as a "shagging automaton" – to the many ways in which the Beckhams are money-obsessed: neither apparently likes tipping in restaurants, and every business decision David has ever made can, it seems, "be traced back to his desire to avoid tax". No less entertaining are his "superhuman" efforts to get a knighthood. "Unappreciative c**ts," he thundered, when the honours committee turned him down. "His leaked emails will simply never get old." 

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The Beckhams are certainly shielded by a "staggeringly slick" PR operation, said Katie Rosseinsky in The Independent. Yet Bower's efforts to pierce it are not terribly effective. This is an underwhelming and "overly long tome", which rehashes stereotypes that have always existed in the media – David as airhead, Victoria as "thin and miserable". By the end, the couple "seem no more real" than they did at the book's start. All the real details about David's affairs are 20 years old, said Zoe Williams in The Guardian. Beyond that, Bower relies on insinuation: David "appeared to be smitten" by an aristocratic party girl, or "attracted the attention of a glamorous Australian bikini model". It's not so much a take-down, as an "epic symphony of snide".

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Naked Portrait: A Memoir of Lucian Freud by Rose Boyt

Rose Boyt was 18 when she posed naked on a sofa for Rose, 1978-79, a painting by her father, Lucian Freud. "Nothing had been discussed," her memoir Naked Portrait begins. "I just assumed I would be naked." As one of Freud's 14 acknowledged children by various women, Boyt was "grateful for any attention from her father", said Laura Freeman in The Sunday Times. While he painted her in "full- frontal sprawl" during nocturnal sittings that lasted for months, they talked about art, literature, and Freud's childhood glimpse of Hitler in Berlin. The painter comes across as "a charismatic monster", with a talent for inspiring "abasement" in the women in his life. "I can't think of an art book with an opening page like it," said Freeman. "The writing is hypnotic and compulsive, the set-up compelling." But the intensity proves "unsustainable". 

Boyt's own life to that point is evidence of Freud's "incorrigible selfishness" and "terminal irresponsibility", said Peter Carty in The i Paper. Her mother, Suzy, was a student at the Slade School of Art in the 1950s, when Freud was a lecturer there. The school expelled her for getting pregnant by Freud, who wasn't fired or even challenged about his behaviour. Days after Rose was born, Freud showed up with two lobsters and made Suzy, who was allergic to shellfish, get up and cook them. Despite Freud's great wealth, Rose grew up in bohemian poverty, not helped by her mother's impulsive nature, which led her to swap the family home for a long voyage on a leaky cargo ship when Rose was seven. As a "comprehensive and honest chronicler of her family history", Boyt is compelling. But she has "unburdened herself of everything. Unfortunately, this includes large amounts of unrelated autobiographical material." Most of this "should have been cut". 

Not so, said Evgenia Siokos in The Telegraph. Some of the best chapters detail Boyt's life as an art-world It girl in the late 1970s. When Boyt isn't "being complimented on her Vivienne Westwood bondage trousers by Francis Bacon", she's being taken to Studio 54 by Andy Warhol. Some of it is admittedly not so "gossip-worthy": there are long diary excerpts and details of her therapy. "It seems like tedium, but it's a strength... Naked Portrait is a hall of mirrors with the young Boyt at its centre... Its events juxtapose, clash and occasionally confuse, painting a portrait of Freud that's even more revealing than his nude depiction of Rose."

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The Diaries of Franz Kafka

When Franz Kafka's diaries were first published soon after his death, aged 40, in 1924, they were heavily polished by his friend Max Brod, said Dwight Garner in The New York Times. Brod – who'd ignored Kafka's instruction to burn all his manuscripts – set out to turn him into a saintly figure, untouched by "human impulses". He cut out anything remotely sexual (including his visits to prostitutes) and excised anything else he judged extraneous – including the letters, draft stories, dreams and aphorisms that Kafka had "stuffed" into his diaries. Now, more than 30 years after they appeared in Germany, the unexpurgated diaries have finally been published in English, sensitively translated by Ross Benjamin. And they're a "revelation". 

Apart from anything else, this new edition is "a lot funnier than Brod's version", said Morten Høi Jensen in Literary Review. We see Kafka noticing that a fellow train passenger's "sizeable member makes a large bulge in his pants", and commenting on a friend's pornography collection. But more valuable still is the restoration of the "open-endedness" of the original text. Kafka's diaries were really closer to notebooks: they were, Benjamin notes, a "laboratory" for his fiction – and now we can peer into that laboratory, seeing how the themes of his writing (alienation and loss, futility and repetition) "grew out of his circumscribed life". 

At times Kafka cuts a surprisingly ordinary figure, said Chris Power in The Guardian. We see him off to the theatre, or "watching a ski-jumping competition" – though at other times he expresses "profound loneliness and isolation". He emerges not just as the tortured genius he is known as now, but also as a "youngish man finding his way, hungry for experience and inspiration" – and the contradiction between the two "brings him closer to us".

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Me and Mr Jones by Suzi Ronson

In 1971, Suzi Ronson (then Suzanne Fussey) was a 21-year-old hairdresser at a salon in Beckenham, southeast London, when one of her customers – Mrs Jones – mentioned her "artistic" son David, said Anthony Quinn in The Observer. The next week, Mrs Jones brought in David's wife, Angie, who was so delighted with the "outrageous" haircut Suzi gave her that she took her to meet David himself – "a pale and epicene young man" who had just started calling himself David Bowie. With the help of a German anti-dandruff product, Suzi transformed David's "mousy" hair into a "spiky red feather cut". It was the birth of the "look of Ziggy Stardust".

Suzi, infatuated with the couple and their bohemian world, became Bowie's stylist, and soon after went on the road with him and the Spiders from Mars. Five decades on, she has written an "honest and troubled memoir" of her time as his "hair'n'make-up mascot". It belongs to a niche genre – call it "I-was-Sinatra's-valet" – but her book offers a compelling portrait of Bowie "on the verge of stardom".

Ronson skilfully charts her drab suburban upbringing, so different from Bowie's "countercultural" mileu, said Deborah Levy in Literary Review. With "perfect pitch and tension", she recounts key moments in his early career – from his legendary performance of Starman on Top of the Pops in 1972 to the night a year later when he unexpectedly "retired" Ziggy Stardust.

Her book makes a refreshing change from the hagiographic tone of most Bowie biographies, said John Aizlewood on iNews. Here, "the star emerges as cold": he sacks his drummer on his wedding day, and expects Suzi to procure him an "endless supply of young girls and boys". Suzi herself is soon "cut adrift", at which point she marries the guitarist Mick Ronson, who had also been ditched by Bowie. After that, the book loses its dynamism.

Much Bowie literature consists of "pretentious evaluation" of his lyrics and influences, said Suzanne Moore in The New Statesman. Ronson, by contrast, barely mentions his music, and instead focuses on practical matters – such as sewing the jewels onto Bowie's jockstrap, or worrying "about all the sweat breaking the zips of his costumes". She tells us that she slept with him once, but is "discreet" about the details. It makes for an engaging, often endearing account of the "magical rising of Ziggy, by the woman who put the colour in his hair".

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Queen Victoria and Her Prime Ministers by Anne Somerset

Elizabeth II once described her great-great-grandmother as a "believer in moderation in all things", said Matthew Dennison in The Telegraph. But as Anne Somerset demonstrates in this "masterly account" of Queen Victoria's relationships with the ten men who served as her prime ministers, Victoria was "frequently far from moderate". In her private letters and memoranda, she made clear her dislike of "vivisectionists, Russians and four-time prime minister William Ewart Gladstone" (depicted together, above). And she remained unswervingly convinced of her right to meddle in politics – railing, for instance, against the "miserable democrats" in the Liberal Party. This caused friction, inevitably. Gladstone referred to her as "the leader of the opposition". Even the Conservative Disraeli, who was one of her favourites, found her "wilful and whimsical, like a spoilt child". 

"Victoria supposedly wrote 60 million words during her reign, or 2,500 a day," said Gerard DeGroot in The Times. Somerset has immersed herself in this "huge mass of correspondence" – but while the result is "impressively well-researched", she doesn't entirely succeed in her apparent mission to "emphasise Victoria's positive contributions". Indeed, at one point she admits that her subject's behaviour "verged upon the monstrous".Covering Victoria's 63-year reign, from 1837, the book is billed as a "personal history" – but what it really reveals is the gap between "Victoria's public image and the queen her ministers saw". Perhaps this gap is inevitable: "for a constitutional monarchy to work", reverence "must be heaped on an individual who might, in truth, be a despot, a psychopath or an idiot". Nevertheless, this account is an "eye-opener", and Victoria's reputation does not emerge well from it.

What we see is that Victoria "loved power", said Philip Mansel in The Spectator. She was an enthusiastic reader of despatches. "Far from being fatigued with signatures and business, I like the whole thing exceedingly," she wrote in 1837. She also appreciated "British patriotism, British successes", and what she called the "deep devotion and loyalty of my people". Despite the "tragic living conditions" of many of her subjects, she was cheered even on her last visit to Ireland in April 1900, although she couldn't stand the Irish: "abominable... a dreadful people". As Somerset's "magnificent, disturbing" history reminds us, in the 19th century, "most people wanted more monarchy, not less". 

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Byron: A Life in Ten Letters by Andrew Stauffer

"Mad, bad and dangerous to know" was how Lady Caroline Lamb famously characterised Lord Byron. It's a fair description, in many ways, said John Banville in The Guardian. But George Gordon, the 6th Baron Byron, "must also have been, at the simplest level, wonderful company". He didn't take himself too seriously, and his lust for life was immense: "I shall not live long," he wrote to his publisher John Murray in 1819, "& for that reason I must live while I can." In Byron: A Life in Ten Letters, Andrew Stauffer uses Bryon's "vivid and hugely entertaining letters" as a series of entry points into his tempestuous life. Each chapter begins with an extract from a letter; Stauffer then discusses the context that inspired it. It is an impressively "rounded portrait, venereal scars and all, of one of the prime movers of the Romantic movement".

Stauffer concedes that his approach is not particularly original, said D.J. Taylor in The Wall Street Journal: fragmented biographies are in vogue. "But there is something about Byron's headlong scamper about the world of his day that lends itself to this miniaturist treatment". We first see him as a Cambridge undergraduate, "planning endless bachelor parties"; then en route to Greece in 1810, where he swims the Hellespont with his friend Lt William Ekenhead; and later writing ghost stories on Lake Geneva with Percy and Mary Shelley. "The letters are practically Messianic in their intensity, aflame with relish for the incidental scenery or the women Byron is pursuing." It's a wonder, given the pace at which he lived his 36 years, that Byron had any time for serious writing.

The poet depicted in these pages often emerges as a "cold-hearted shit", said John Walsh in The Sunday Times. During his short-lived marriage to Annabella Milbanke – a "brilliant mathematician with a strong moral centre" – he installed his half-sister Augusta Leigh at their Piccadilly home, and "made the women compete with each other in caressing him". The night his wife gave birth, he "sat in the empty drawing room below, throwing empty bottles at the ceiling". In time, polite opinion turned against him, and he left England, never to return. Stauffer sometimes brings an incongruously "21st century perspective to 19th century behaviour": he describes Byron as a "sex tourist in Italy", and talks of Shelley's bisexual experiences as "polyamory". But no matter. This is a "devilishly readable book", which brings Regency England to "howling life", and its "disgraceful but irresistible subject into dazzling focus".

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Keir Starmer: The Biography by Tom Baldwin

Although Keir Starmer is almost certain to be our next prime minister, he remains an "oddly elusive" figure, said Gaby Hinsliff in The Guardian. People often complain that they don't really know what he stands for, and he talks about personal matters somewhat stiffly, as if holding something back. All this makes a book such as Keir Starmer: The Biography feel long overdue. Tom Baldwin is a former journalist who worked for five years as a Labour spin doctor; he was originally recruited to ghostwrite Starmer's own memoir, but Starmer backed out of the project last year, agreeing instead to cooperate on this biography. The result, while not exactly revelatory – Baldwin warns that his pages won't be "spattered with blood" – does a job that "very precisely mirrors its subject": it is careful, nuanced and eminently capable. "It is, in short, as intimate an insight into Britain's likely next prime minister as readers are probably going to get." 

The most interesting chapters concern Starmer's "difficult early life", said Robert Shrimsley in the FT. Starmer grew up in a cramped semi in Surrey with a "seriously ill mother", Jo (she had Still's disease); a "cold, difficult" father, Rodney (a toolmaker); and three siblings (one of whom, Nick, has learning difficulties). Television was banned in the Starmer household, the "radio played only Beethoven or Shostakovich", and Rodney "barracked and bullied" visiting schoolfriends, said Patrick Maguire in The Times. Although Starmer was the only one of the siblings to go to grammar school and university, and then became a leading barrister, his dad never once told him he made him proud. Only after his death in 2018 did Starmer find out this wasn't "the full story": hidden in his father's wardrobe was a "scrapbook of every newspaper story about his son".

Many politicians pose as regular people, but Starmer emerges from this as someone who really is quite ordinary, said Matthew d'Ancona in the Evening Standard. He is happiest spending time with his family, or organising weekend eight-a-side football games. As his deputy, Angela Rayner, puts it: he is "the least political person I know in politics". The "one nagging question" is how much Baldwin's political sympathies have coloured his portrait, said Ben Riley-Smith in The Daily Telegraph. Had he discovered "less laudable aspects of Sir Keir's story", would he have "forensically interrogated" them? This may not, then, quite be a definitive biography – but it is engaging and "skilfully done".

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Hardy Women by Paula Byrne

The fame of the novelist and poet Thomas Hardy rested largely on the heroines he created, said Norma Clarke in Literary Review. With the likes of Tess Durbeyfield (Tess of the d'Urbervilles) and Sue Bridehead (Jude the Obscure), he displayed, as one young reader wrote to him, a "complete understanding of a woman's soul". But as Paula Byrne shows in this fascinating book, the women Hardy knew in real life were less fortunate. Byrne doggedly details them all, from Hardy's "strong-minded" mother, Jemima, to the "pretty girls" who "turned his head" in his youth, to his wives, Emma Gifford and Florence Dugdale (pictured, with Hardy). Hardy's women, she concludes, "paid a large price" for the "magnificent fictional women he invented". "In a sign of trouble to come, young Hardy fell in love violently and often," said Susie Goldsbrough in The Times. His first serious entanglement, says Byrne, "was with a Dorset maidservant called Eliza Nicholls, whom he dumped for her young sister". 

In his mid-30s, Hardy married Emma, a solicitor's daughter. Although initially happy, the marriage soured as "Emma gained weight" and became increasingly eccentric. By the time of her death, aged 72, in 1912, she was living in the attic of their Dorset home – and the much younger Florence was living with them, having been employed as Hardy's typist. After Hardy married Florence in 1914, she had to put up with him "enthusiastically mourning the wife he had spent years complaining about" – and who now became the subject of an "astonishing" series of love poems. Although Byrne is sometimes hampered by a lack of evidence (Hardy destroyed most of Emma's letters, together with the journal she wrote about him), this is still an "absorbing" portrait of the women who suffered for Hardy's art.

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The Woman in Me by Britney Spears

In January 2008 – 11 months after the notorious occasion when she shaved off her own hair in a Los Angeles salon – Britney Spears was asked by her parents to meet them at their beach house, said Anna Leszkiewicz in The New Statesman. "There she was ambushed by police and taken to hospital against her will." A month later, the state of California placed the pop star under a "conservatorship" – a legal arrangement giving her father, Jamie, full control of her finances and personal life. For the next 13 years, Spears was "told what to eat, what medication to take, when she could see her children", even when she could and couldn't use the lavatory. Meanwhile, her father "paid himself a $6m salary" from the proceeds of her endless concerts and recordings. It's no surprise, in the circumstances, that Spears's memoir reads "like a dark fairy tale". Powerful and compellingly candid, it tells of how a "young girl, both adored and vilified for her beauty, talent and fame", was effectively "imprisoned" by her jealous and avaricious family.

The truth, of course, is that Spears had always been controlled and infantilised, said Neil McCormick in The Daily Telegraph. She became a "people-pleasing child performer" at a young age, supporting her family by appearing in theatrical musicals. Aged 16, male music executives moulded her into "America's teen pop princess" – and soon she was being taken advantage of by "narcissistic self-serving boyfriends", and "hounded by paparazzi". When she rebelled against her "powerlessness", her sanity was called into question – a process she "specifically likens to a witch trial". Her memoir, written without self-pity, is gripping and "forensically convincing". Finally, we know what it feels like to be the "madwoman in the attic of pop".

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Marcia Williams by Linda McDougall

"Imagine a story of sex, drugs and secrets inside Downing Street. A story of a political wife accused of meddling, and a resignation honours list mired in scandal," said Gaby Hinsliff in The Guardian. But no, it's not the one you're imagining: this biography by Linda McDougall tells the "irresistible tale" of Marcia Williams, political secretary and "office wife" to Labour PM Harold Wilson. Baroness Falkender, as she became in 1974, was one of the most controversial and vilified political figures of the 1960s and 1970s. According to many, she was a "hysterical tyrant" with a "dark hold" over Wilson. McDougall offers a more nuanced portrait. Without ignoring Williams's flaws, she outlines the strains she must have been under, as a high-achieving woman with a troubled personal life living in rampantly sexist times. Her Williams, while "no heroine", is "fascinating". 

Williams, the daughter of a Northamptonshire builder, first met Wilson in the mid-1950s, when she became a secretary at Labour HQ, said Frances Wilson in The Daily Telegraph. She began sending the then-shadow chancellor anonymous letters, alerting him to machinations within the party. She soon became Wilson's private secretary – at which point, McDougall admits, they probably had a brief affair. (She later allegedly told Wilson's wife, Mary: "I went to bed with your husband six times in 1956 and it wasn't satisfactory.") In 1964, when Wilson became PM, he appointed Williams his political secretary, a newly created role that made her one of Britain's first unelected political advisers. She stayed in it when Wilson lost power in 1970, and went with him back to Downing Street when he regained it in 1974.

It was then that Private Eye revealed that "Lady Forkbender" had a shocking secret, said Anne de Courcy in The Spectator. In 1968 and 1969, Williams had given birth to two children – the result of an affair with political journalist Walter Terry. The births had been hushed up; Williams concealed her pregnancies by wearing a baggy coat at work. Amid a public outcry, McDougall suggests, Williams resorted to taking amphetamine pills and Valium, "prescribed by Wilson's doctor", which contributed to the "hysterical outbursts" for which she became known. Further scandal followed in 1976, when it was revealed that Williams had hand-written Wilson's controversial resignation honours list (dubbed the "Lavender List") on a sheet of lilac paper. McDougall's sympathetic book is a "gripping" portrait both of an "extraordinary woman", and of the "emotional dynamics of Downing Street".

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Lou Reed: The King of New York by Will Hermes

Lou Reed, the lead vocalist of the Velvet Underground, who died in 2013, already has a longish shelf of biographies. This one is the first to make use of his personal archive, "and it shows", said David Keenan in Literary Review. "It feels more like a coolly researched biography than one written by a passionate fan." What's more, Will Hermes tries to repackage the "violently aggressive, drug-huffing", gender-bending, "sexually unhinged" rock star to make him acceptable to the modern world: Reed and his circle were "nonbinary", Hermes informs us; he suggests that Reed was a troubled person who tried to become "someone good" (as he wrote in one of his best-loved songs, Perfect Day), not the sociopath that his behaviour suggested. The result is an "awkward love letter to the 20th century", but "the perfect biography of Lou Reed for 2023": a defensive depiction of a man whose stock in trade was "all that was difficult and dark and destructive in what it is to be human".

It's "the only Lou Reed bio you need to read", said Stephen Metcalf in The Washington Post. It's really two biographies: one of Lewis Allan Reed, the sensitive, middle-class, midcentury music fan; and one of the louche, sardonic, drug-addled persona he invented and inhabited. From Reed's early days with Andy Warhol to his  breakthrough as a solo star, with a little help from David Bowie, it's all there, written up with a judicious blend of "love and scepticism". Hermes doesn't conceal the evidence that Reed became a pampered celeb who could be as obnoxious to waiters as he was to journalists. But he's good on Reed's "musically confrontational" yet "unabashedly romantic" songwriting. The book gets the balance between the person and the poseur "exactly right".

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Original Sins by Matt Rowland Hill

This "devastatingly good" memoir recounts how its author "swapped a love of Jesus for a love of Class-A drugs", said The Daily Telegraph. Following his strict evangelical upbringing in Swansea, Hill won a scholarship to Harrow and then went to Oxford – where he became addicted to heroin. The themes of this book are not exactly original, said The Guardian. But it proves "propulsive" and "brilliant" – thanks to Hill's black humour and his "lacerating candour".

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