When did The Archers go all Eastenders?

Sean O’Connor, the new editor of The Archers recently promised to deliver storylines that are “Shakespearean”, although this one seemed more like something out of Albert Square.

The Archers
BBC Radio 4

It was all Kenton’s fault, I don’t doubt it. When Tom Archer dumped Kirsty in the vestry just moments before they were supposed to exchange vows (24 April, 7pm), it hadn’t been the Ribena spill on her dress that had tipped him, or that his ring had felt too suffocatingly tight when he tried it on in the shop, or even the ominously arty sound of rain on the Ambridge hedgerows the night before, as he agonised his way to Peggy’s house for advice. No, it was Kenton mentioning that on the wedding list Kirsty had specified a “floral teapot”. Which can only mean one thing to the British male: Cath Kidston. Little wonder Tom backed out! There’s nothing more terrifying than a world that starts with cherryade and ends with Brown Owl.

Kirsty’s dumping was met with the sort of howls from listeners that are usually confined to Japanese martial arts classes. I present one slack-jawed text message from my mother, sent seconds after the broadcast: “Who am I what am I where am I?” This was followed three hours later by: “Tom will top himself.”

Although the new editor of the show, Sean O’Connor, recently promised in an interview to deliver storylines that are “Shakespearean”, I confess that Perdita and Florizel in The Winter’s Tale were not the first things that sprung to mind during this particular nuptial meltdown. Kirsty’s cry, EastEnders-ishly relentless, rang down the pews and into Joe Grundy’s ears in a way that could only signal one thing: he was going to have to buy his own lunch at the Bull.

Annabelle Dowler, who plays Kirsty, then bravely took to Twitter for a live Q and A with fans and was soon fielding questions such as: “Who’s the greatest villain – Henry VIII or Tom Archer?” and “Can we . . . slowly burn [Tom] to a crisp like a sausage?” (“A bit harsh!” replied Dowler.)

“Were you not tempted to stray from the script and give Tom a jolly good slap around the face?” asked another. “Think that would have worked quite well on radio.” Dowler’s answer implied that, in truth, the actress was as miffed about this whole turn of events as everybody else. “It would have been a sound engineer doing it,” she wrote, “so I wouldn’t even have had the satisfaction myself!”

Antonia Quirke is an author and journalist. She is a presenter on The Film Programme and Pick of the Week (Radio 4) and Film 2015 and The One Show (BBC 1). She writes a column on radio for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 01 May 2014 issue of the New Statesman, The Islam issue

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Orhan Pamuk's The Red-Haired Woman is playful and unsettling

At times, the novel seems to owe as much to Dostoevsky as to the epics of the long-distant past.

When cultures collide or begin to merge, what happens to their myths? In Orhan Pamuk’s psychodramatic and psychogeographic tale of fathers and sons, the protagonist Cem mentally collects versions of the Oedipus story from across Europe – Ingres’s painting of Oedipus and the Sphinx hanging in the Louvre, Gustave Moreau’s work of the same name, painted 50 years later, Pasolini’s film adaptation, Oedipus Rex. But he also fixates on the epic poem “Shahnameh”, written by the Persian poet Ferdowsi; and in particular the story of Rostam and Sohrab, a reversal of the Oedipus story in which father kills son rather than vice versa. As Cem and his wife travel the world’s libraries to inspect copies, what they learn is “how ephemeral all those ancient lives had been”.

Nor is Cem immune to the act of readerly projection. “Like all educated Turks of my father’s generation,” Cem tells us, “what I really hoped to find on these trips wandering the shops, the cinemas, and the museums of the Western world was an idea, an object, a painting – anything at all – that might transform and illuminate my own life.”

Cem has more reason than many to seek clarification: his own father has been absent – whether for reasons of underground political activity or romantic complications is, for a long time, unclear – for most of his childhood; he and his mother become impoverished and, as he tells us at the very beginning of the novel, his dream of becoming a writer yields to a life as a building contractor. But these matter-of-fact bare bones are deceptive, for what unfolds is a far more fabular account of a life gone awry.

Even beyond his father’s departure, Cem’s life is shaped by his teenage apprenticeship to Master Mahmut, a well-digger of great renown. It removes him from his protective mother’s sphere of influence and immerses him in a world at once simple – long hours of physical labour – and highly skilled. As his and Master Mahmut’s quest for water on a patch of land slated for development runs into difficulties, so their relationship – boss and employee, craftsman and disciple, quasi father and son – becomes antagonistic, beset by undercurrents of rivalry and rebellion. Before too long (and avoiding spoilers) matters come to a head.

Throughout, their story gestures toward the fairytale, as underlined by Cem’s irresistible attraction to a travelling theatre troupe performing satirical sketches and classical scenes in the town near their excavation, and to the red-haired woman of the title. But Pamuk, in the style that characterises much of his work, fuses this material with political and social commentary. Over the three or four decades covered by the narrative, which takes place from the mid-1980s to the present day, the landscape of Istanbul and its surrounding areas literally changes shape. Residential and commercial developments spring up everywhere, many of them courtesy of Cem and his wife Aye, who have named their business after Shahnameh’s murdered son, Sohrab. Water shortages belie the sophisticated nature of these new suburbs, which eventually begin to form an amorphous mass.

Cem is preoccupied by the differences between Turkey and Iran, the latter seeming to him more alive to its cultural past. Turks, he decides, “had become so Westernised that we’d forgotten our old poets and myths”. While in Tehran, he sees numerous depictions of Rostam and Sohrab, and finds himself stirred:

I felt frustrated and uneasy, as if a fearful memory I refused to acknowledge consciously might suddenly well up and make me miserable. The image was like some wicked thought that keeps intruding on your mind no matter how much you yearn to be rid of it.

The extent to which individuals and societies suffer by not keeping their mythic past in mind is Pamuk’s subject, but it becomes more ambiguous when different stories are brought into play. What is the significance of a son who kills his father in innocence rather than a father who kills his son? Which is the more transgressive and ultimately damaging act and should both killers be regarded as guiltless because they knew not what they did?

But, as its title is perhaps designed to suggest, these accounts of fathers and sons omit a key element of the family drama: if paternity becomes a focus to the exclusion of all else, maternal energy must find an alternative outlet. As this strange, shifting novel edges to its conclusion – becoming, in its final act, a noir thriller – that energy makes a dramatic return, changing not only the story but the entire narrative paradigm.

The Red-Haired Woman is a puzzling novel; its intentions are often concealed, and oblique. At times, it seems to owe as much to Dostoevsky as to the epics of the long-distant past; it moves forward by indirection, swapping modes and registers at will. Playful and unsettling, it reprises some of Pamuk’s favourite themes – the clash between the past and the erasures of modernity, so charged in a Turkish context, and the effect on the individual’s psyche – without quite reaching the expansive heights of some of his previous novels. It is, nonetheless, an intriguing addition to his body of work. 

The Red-Haired Woman
Orhan Pamuk. Translated by Ekin Oklap
Faber & Faber, 253pp, £16.99

This article first appeared in the 14 September 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The German problem