Paperbacks: Paris Babylon<br></br>Straight Face<br></br>The Clash of Fundamentalisms<br></br>Old Man Goya<br></br>The Best Democracy Money Can Buy

Paris Babylon by Rupert Christiansen (Pimlico, £12.50, 435pp)

The first half of this wonderfully exuberant epic is a tour d'horizon of Paris in 1869. "Nothing but a brothel and a gambling hall," thundered Carlyle. How irresistible. Christiansen introduces us to the priapic despot Napoleon III (possessor of "an immense and somewhat ruthless sexual appetite") and ruling couturier Frederick Worth from Lincolnshire, who was "perfectly attuned to an era of unbridled conspicuous consumption." We probe the "spermal economy" that dominated the city, serviced by upwards of 30,000 prostitutes and such unexpected venues as the brasserie where the female waitresses wore swimming costumes. We're given a full account of a grisly multiple murder that ruined the publication of Flaubert's Sentimental Education because "no-one could think seriously about anything else". We're thrust amid the rustling petticoats of the cancan: "Not really a dance at all, but a state of mind in which you danced."

The second half of this book takes a more sombre turn as Christiansen provides a day-by-day account of the Siege of Paris, when citizens dined off mice sauce and cat couscous. The Academy of Sciences tackled the problem of hunger with typical Gallic logic. "Feelings of hunger, the savants assured Paris, were no indication of a necessity to eat." The even grimmer Paris Commune followed. It collapsed after two months, but Napoleon III never returned from exile. He died in Chislehurst. Packed with life and drama, this is a splendid read.

Straight Face by Nigel Hawthorne (Sceptre, £7.99, 340pp)

The title of this pleasingly down-to-earth autobiography is spot-on. In a touching coda, Hawthorne's companion remarks on the star's paradoxical nature: "a conservative socialist, an agnostic Christian, a heterosexual homosexual". His book, produced at speed as the final curtain call approached, is a remarkable feat of memory. Even though he made the big time and the knighthood, Hawthorne stresses the years of struggle. He even failed when his moment came as Leslie Phillips' understudy. "Sorry, Nige," said Phillips, as he staged an instant recovery.

The Clash of Fundamentalisms by Tariq Ali (Verso, £10, 428pp)

Though Tariq Ali's message – that Islamic fundamentalism is equated by the short-sighted, self-interest of the West – is vitiated by the baggy structure of his book, his case is presented in a highly readable style. Indonesia emerges as the worst example of Western double-dealing ("In killing and torture, Saddam was never a match for Suharto") but Pakistan is a close contender. Ali maintains a keen eye for irony. He lightens his philippic with a host of engaging figures, ranging from Anwar Shaikh, an anti-fundamentalist ex-bus conductor from Cardiff, to a troupe of hermaphrodite satirists in Pakistan.

Old Man Goya by Julia Blackburn (Vintage, £7.99, 239pp)

An extraordinary figure whose images still resonate and shock today, Goya was perhaps the first modern artist. Julia Blackburn has obviously read and seen everything about him. Why, then, is this such an unsatisfactory book? Reminiscent of John Berger, Blackburn's prose is po-faced, curiously flat and self-indulgent: "Goya the deaf man makes me think of a toad." Oh, really? Both as amphibian and artist, Goya signally fails to come to life. Worst of all, the illustrations, which pretentiously show Goya's plates rather than the impressions, are virtually incomprehensible.

The Best Democracy Money Can Buy by Greg Palast (Robinson, £7.99, 400pp)

With his trademark titfer pushed back on his head, Greg Palast might be a hard-bitten reporter crashing out stories on Gotham City's Daily Planet. For all his self-dramatisation, his exposes are real enough. In these pages, he spills the beans about Lobbygate (Palast's cash-for-access scoop that blew the cover on his fedora), Enron, the World Bank, Exxon Valdez, Microsoft ... Though his tone is never less than hectoring, there's no denying Palast's nerve. On page 333, you can read an attack ("English journalists ... kiss the whip that lashes them") on his boss at The Guardian.