Stan And Ollie<br></br>London In The 20th Century<br></br>Food In History<br></br>The Forgiveness Of Nature<br></br>Pleasing Myself

Paperbacks

Stan And Ollie by Simon Louvish (Faber & Faber, £8.99, 518pp)

For those of us who feel that Laurel and Hardy were the greatest film comedians of the 20th century, this detailed, often highly amusing biography is a long-awaited gospel. Louvish is not without his idiosyncrasies – his style is sometimes clichéd and antiquated, his reading of their films can be odd (is the "comic male near-rape and emasculation of Stan by Ollie" really "a recurring Laurel and Hardy theme"?) - but he has a profound knowledge of the early years of Hollywood comedy and reports his assiduous researches with an admirable lightness of touch.

Best of all, Louvish is an out-and-out devotee. For fellow fans, the most enjoyable pages in the book will be the detailed descriptions of the great works produced in Laurel and Hardy's heyday (1928-1940). A whole chapter is devoted to their masterpiece Sons of the Desert, and there is generous quotation from such shining works of genius as Laughing Gravy, Helpmates and Way Out West. (Lola: Tell me about my dear, dear Daddy. Is it true that he's dead? Stan: Well, we hope he is. They buried him.)

Louvish notes that before developing their finely honed duo of bumblers, Stan and Ollie both enjoyed successful solo careers during the silent era. He also reveals that their off-screen marital antics were every bit as surreal as anything they recorded on celluloid. He explains Stan's weird marriage choices by saying that he applied the same "instinctive" approach that produced such transportingly hilarious films. In real life it was, of course, disastrous.

London In The 20th Century by Jerry White (Penguin, £14.99, 526pp)

Lively and absorbing, every page of this bumper volume contains much to engage and amuse. This is all the most surprising since White's thematic history covers such potentially arid topics as the city's government and economy. But his eye for detail works wonders, noting, for example, that the "orthodoxy" of gentrification excluded immigrant houses with "bricks meticulously picked out in red and white". His section on popular culture is particularly irresistible, revealing that the French Pub remained in the hands of père et fils Victor and Gaston Berlemont for 75 years and that "disco" derives from La Discotheque, a Soho coffee bar (est. 1954).

Food In History by Reay Tannahill (Review, £16.99, 424pp)

It is doubtless pure coincidence that a new edition of this celebrated work should appear shortly before Colin Spencer's keenly awaited British Food, an in-depth survey of the past 1,000 years. In fact, the overlap is modest. All foodies worth their salt should lash out on both. Tannahill's account is worldwide and goes back 500,000 years. Her new material does not make sanguine reading. As well as noting that US sales of oversized coffins "went up by 20 per cent between 1995-2000", she suggests European governments were "lying in their teeth" by claiming herds were BSE-free.

The Forgiveness Of Nature By Graham Harvey (Vintage, £7.99, 372pp)

The ponderous title hides a book about a plant both tended and reviled by gardeners. Harvey's exploration of grass takes him from the prehistoric meadows that facilitated first the horse, then humanity, to "the most cosseted turf in England", at West Ham. We learn that American red-top grass overran New Zealand because Nova Scotian immigrants stuffed it in their mattresses, that the common ancestor of grasses was a lily, and that latest thinking about America's Great Plains suggests that they should be returned to the buffalo. This book is so fascinating you can almost forgive Harvey for being Agricultural Story Editor of The Archers.

Pleasing Myself By Frank Kermode (Penguin, £8.99, 217pp)

Our finest literary critic declares the 4,000-word length of a London Review of Books essay to be "a satisfactory genre". His view is amply substantiated by the 30 examples here, on subjects ranging from Beowulf to the art critic David Sylvester. Some judgements are surprising. He finds that Ern Malley, the fictitious Australian poet, "has unexpectedly stayed young and lively". One of his best pieces is a dazzlingly impressive review/précis of Jonathan Raban's marvellous Passage to Juneau. His enthusiasm for Raban's stylistic genius is a contagion well worth catching.