Why The Archers is a bit like Prometheus, not Star Wars

I have of late, but whereof I know not, lost my enthusiasm for The Archers. I have been listening since the late seventies and the programme has had its narrative lacunae, inelegances and downright mystifying failures of footing since then, but this is new in extent and gloomifying in the extreme.

It started with the bringing to the fore of the crassly characterised kids: Memphis belle Fallon, twitchy gun fetishist and porn star gamekeeper Will, nasal hotelier Roy, Facebook virus on legs Kirsty, Clanger-voiced sausage-monger Tom and the CBBC army that issues ceaselessly from the loins of Ruth. (I’ve made this all sound more exciting than it actually is.)

Particularly though I am grumpy with what has happened to the mixed-race daughter of the single-parent vicar: one-woman diversity checklist Amy Franks. Formerly a pleasant, uncomplicated student of midwifery she has suddenly turned into a seething hybrid of Goneril and Alex Forrest from off of Fatal Attraction.

The reason, or inciting incident as I’m sure the writers would have it, behind Amy’s change is that her boyfriend Carl turned out to be a married man and her stepmother Usha withheld this information from her. Amy’s gorgonesque spite is almost entirely directed against Usha.

So there’s a reason behind the character change, but reason isn’t good enough. It’s just not the way people behave. It is the way soap opera characters behave, and that is incompatible with the way The Archers works.

A recent criticism of Prometheus was that the characters act inconsistently. Why does Janek not assert his captaincy? Why does Millburn return to the ship in fear rather than investigate the xenomorphs like he’s there to do? How do Millburn and Fifield get lost on their way back to Prometheus?

Fifield! Look at him, with his silly space haircut.

I’ll tell you why. Because people do stupid, inconsistent things. That’s why. And the getting lost thing? I got lost walking round a loch once, missed a turn and ended up spending the night in a bothy, and that was without the stress of being on a hostile planet far away from home. These aren’t failures of characterisation. They are traits of humanity.

What is happening with Amy in The Archers is different from this. It’s a total change of personality and you rarely get that in reality unless some kind of brain incident has taken place à la Phineas Gage.

You also rarely used to get it in The Archers which, for all its gently lolloping eccentricity, has thrived thus far on slow, consistent, evolutionary change. It is however the currency of TV soap operas and this I fear is where we are heading.

Soaps are great, probably. The Archers apart, I don’t really partake of them, but some of the people I love do so I accept that the fault is mine, that there is something there but that I don’t get it. The screeching hysteria married to situational stagnation is not for me. The sense of constantly being in the middle act of a three-act play without ever reaching the resolution of the third act is frustrating, I find. And the hyperbolic, lurid excesses of plotting would be great in a giallo movie, but week after interminable week in a pub or a bra factory? That’s just exhausting. The spikiness of the graph, the remorselessness of it, the dizzying emotional swoops up and down, and all the time, appal and alienate me. And now it looks as though the meek undulations and borderline ambient noise of The Archers are changing in that direction.

Obviously I am getting old, and this is the wheezing, hectoring sound of a man shambling towards the grave, but I don’t like this absence of nuance that proliferates now.

No longer is it enough to have done a thing and enjoyed it. No longer is it sufficient to have seen or heard or felt something. The reality of a thing these days, the validation of it, comes when some nitwit with a camera and a microphone stands in front of you and says, “How did that make you feel?”

“How delighted were you?”

“How terrible do you think this is?”

“How wet is this rain making you?”

Dastardly constructions that sound like open questions, but which aren’t.

Last week there was much twittering and reporting about, and I paraphrase here for rhetorical effect, the imperial might of the Argyll and Bute Council which, combined with Sauron’s hordes of Mordor and the Dalek army was about to crush the life from a nine year old blogger, and possibly to grind her bones to make their bread.

Lochgilphead schoolgirl Martha Payne has been writing a blog about her school meals under the pseudonym Veg.

http://neverseconds.blogspot.co.uk/

The story was that the jackbooted bullies in the council had banned her from taking photos of her meals. Reprisals were swift. The council were traduced in all broadcast media. Celebrities got involved. Tweets got re-tweeted. I even heard some people were fulminating.

The reality was this: For some weeks Martha had been blogging about her meals in an open, appealing way. Sometimes she was critical, mostly she was complimentary. The school encouraged this. The council implicitly approved by keeping their noses out of it.

The controversy only arose when Scottish newspaper The Daily Record became aware of the blog and decided to smear some of its sulphurous crap over the whole thing.

For money through increased circulation, you understand.

“Time To Fire The Dinner Ladies” was the headline they went with.

The council’s response was to stop Martha taking pictures inside the school, worried that their employees (the dinner ladies) were being threatened in the national press.

Now this might be slightly heavy handed on the part of the council, but isn’t it understandable? They have been subsequently criticised for their inept PR, but why should a council be spending money on top class PR to explain stuff to journos? The money they spend is Council Tax payers’ money, and would rather better be directed towards, oh I dunno, schools say.

It bugs me how quickly people got coerced into a state of high dudgeon by a manipulative press.

There was no conflict between Argyll and Bute Council and Martha Payne until the Record crowded round them shouting, “Fight, fight, fight.” And the world got on board with that because being in a lynch mob is quite exciting yeah, but a lynch mob on a band wagon? Man, that’s living the dream.

I regret this about us now, that we go unanalytically where we are led by villains. That we thrive on exaggeration and confrontation. That the quiet, compassionate, wonky, human way of being is subordinate to simplistic, shrieking, dualistic soap operatics.

Also, I think that if The Archers is determined to pursue the popular agenda it should do it by devoting fifteen minutes a day to showing Borchester Land building a Death Star full of cows under the guidance of Grand Moff Crawford, while Adam Skywalker foments rebellion. Occasional comedy interludes in Kenton’s Cantina if necessary.

Meat, Milk and the Fourth Wall

I prefer fiction to fact.

Actually, without wishing to expose my philosophical ignorance too completely, I’m not sure what is meant by fact. The quest for objective truth always seems to me like a pretty futile one.

As I was reminiscing to a pal a few days ago: I remember from my time in bookselling the glorious period when the (then) three remaining Beatles got together to write a definitive account of their history.

It turned out that whilst they could agree on very general things, the details were maddeningly elusive. They could remember the same meeting for instance, but they each recalled different people being there, or it taking place in a different country. They could piece a lot of it together from documentary evidence but there was a lot of stuff that just seemed to have no readily discernible objective truth.

I feel that this is the case for everything that is presented as fact. Really you’ve just got points of view occasionally corroborated by physical evidence which may be interpretable more than one way.

To use another example from my own life, my niece Poppy has a clear recollection of the shocking incident of Uncle Feexby throwing a Frisbee over the hedge into the next-door neighbours’ garden. She is very clear on the details. The only trouble is that this never actually happened.

I am the patsy in the case.

I will concede that I threw the Frisbee on to the top of the hedge, but I then retrieved it non-controversially with the use of a handy set of stepladders. Granddad subsequently chucked the damn thing over the hedge into the other neighbour’s garden, but you never hear about that. Oh no.

I am the victim of a concerted propaganda campaign. History does not belong to the victors so much as it belongs to the people with the loud and persistent voices.

It’s all very unjust.

Anyway fiction, lacking the distracting, self-important burden of having to be accurate can tell us a lot more about things a lot more easily I have always felt.

It’s a strange colluding relationship we have with fiction though, we consumers of it. There is a necessary suspension of disbelief which cheapens us slightly but we go along with it. It’s the price we pay for the journey. When it is taken for granted by the storyteller though, that can be a real slap in the face.

I am a massive fan of Die Hard (1988), the progenitor of the modern action movie. It has wonderful, terse dialogue, intelligent and unobtrusive foreshadowing, beguiling characters and a very elegant structure with a beautiful reverse half way through. It struck the template, and for about a decade afterwards every action movie was pitched as “Die Hard on a…” Train, mountain, bus. Canoe on one memorable occasion, thank you Curtis Hanson and The River Wild (1994).

What I can’t stand though is the feculent Die Hard 2 (1990). Apart from the appalling, crass direction of Renny Harlin (“First act: whammies. Second act: whammies. Third act: all whammies.”), what gets my very-hard-to-get goat is the fact that the central character acknowledges TO THE AUDIENCE the sheer preposterousness of what’s happening to him. “How can the same shit happen to the same guy twice?” he says, or words to that effect. I’m not even going to dignify it by checking the quote. If you’ve seen the film then you know the bit I mean. If you haven’t then, well done you!

Bloody hell Harlin, the less polite of us squawked at that point. We are working hard to get through this. Don’t make this more difficult for us than it has to be.

It is called breaking the fourth wall, this bit when characters acknowledge the presence of an audience and, by extension, accept their own fictional status. We have, apparently, Diderot to thank for the idea that the proscenium arch on stage (or the screen at a cinema or on a television) represents a wall through which we can see the characters, but through which they can’t see us. Diderot also coined the phrase “l’esprit d’escalier” (the spirit of the staircase), meaning the witty thing that you think of to say, but it’s too late as you’ve already left the room.

I like his style.

Anyway, breaking the fourth wall, or having the characters recognise the audience or in some other way trespass on the viewers’ territory: you have to use it pretty carefully if you’re going to use it at all. You’ve really got to have a point.

It works brilliantly in comedy. For example the frame-fucking antics in Hellzapoppin’ (1941) or the awe-inspiring Daffy Duck cartoon Duck Amuck (1953) where Daffy tries waging an unwise war with his animator. Even in the 70s and 80s in the Airplane/Police Squad (Naked Gun) movies and Mel Brooks’ final sequence in Blazing Saddles where the action wanders off the Western set and through the film studio it is never less than an amusing device.

However it is a difficult one to pull off in serious (by which I mean non-comical) drama. The only effective example I can bring to mind is the genuinely unsettling sequence in Ringu (1998) where Sadako, the damp antagonist of that creepy film, is shown coming through a TV screen, shockingly breaching the impermeable barrier between viewer and viewed. Any other good examples? Please let me know.

Daffy Duck shows, as usual, how it's done

This is all in my mind (or what, laughably, passes for it just now) because The Archers had one of its fumbles of contemporaneousness today.

The Archers, for you few benighted souls out there who are unfamiliar with it, is a 15-minute daily soap opera on Radio 4. (Actually it is only usually 13 minutes long, and it doesn’t air on Saturday. How pedantic are we being today?)

It started life as a spiffing way for the government, specifically the Ministry of Agriculture, to provide pertinent information to farmers and people with smallholdings in the austerity years after the war when productivity was of immense national importance.

This role has diminished over time, in fact has become inverted as the programme now, whilst never denying its principal dramaturgical purpose to entertain, acts as a way of keeping city-dwelling consumers, such as me, abreast of the realities of life in agriculture (or agri-business) in the 21st Century. There’s a dedicated Agricultural Story Editor and everything.

All sorts of stuff has been covered, and always with more sensitivity and attendance to reality than any TV equivalents would have managed. TB outbreaks and the possible culpability of badgers; protests against GM crops; rural isolation, depression and suicide; alcoholism, gambling and drug addiction. It’s all there, and it’s all been done well, and it’s all the more convincing for its quiet consistency, and the fact that the hysterical drama is massively, massively outweighed by the convincingly quotidian.

Hell of a jaunty theme tune too. Barwick Green by Arthur Wood. Check it out. It’s frequently touted as a possible replacement for our racist dirge of a national anthem. Count me in.

The problem today (August 4th) has been that whilst it is generally easy to accept that Ambridge is a real place, and that the characters are real people, every once in a while an “actual” news event catches the programme out at short notice.

Often in cases like this there is a hastily inserted micro-scene where two random characters (whichever actors were available on the day) bump into each other in church or on the village green and say “Ooo, isn’t it terrible about Princess Di being in a car crash?” Or, “Ooo, isn’t it shocking about that terrorist outrage on the World Trade Centre?” Then we cut back to the rest of the village drinking, fretting, carousing and putting on pantomimes as usual.

Today though, when the UK news has been full of a farming story, not one of the villagers mentioned it.

What has happened in the real world is that some stuff has found its way into the food chain that shouldn’t have. Meat from two bulls which were the offspring of a cloned cow has, through some embarrassing but understandable confusions of jurisdiction, made it into peoples’ fridges. There have been allegations that milk from cloned cows has done so too, but these are vigorously denied by everyone who knows anything at all about it.

There are legal restrictions on the selling of meat sourced from cloned animals in the UK.

The nation is ablaze!

“Tsk tsk,” it said.

Personally I would have thought that any unapproved meat of this ilk would be a hell of a lot more yummy than the macerated organs and pulverised “spare bits” of animal that constitute most burgers, but then I am a fairly relaxed consumer of food. As long as it’s tasty on the way in and reasonably painless on the way out and is produced with joy and without misery and cruelty then I’m up for it.

The only distress I feel about the cloned cattle story is that the whole issue has gone unremarked in Ambridge. My sense of betrayal is immense.