Adapt or die

In the battle of the Birdsongs, telly nicks it - just.

Adapt or die, goes the old saying. But in the case of Birdsong maybe it's adapt and die. I've now sat through versions made for the stage (Comedy Theatre) and made for TV (BBC One). In my head this was a Day of Judgement, a Sky Sports Super Sunday. Which one of the two great loves of my life (theatre and telly) would fare the best, or die the least? Showtime!

The adaptation in question is that of Sebastian Faulks's 1993 novel Birdsong. Trevor Nunn had a crack at it a full year ago; I had to wait untill this weekend to get Abi Morgan's BBC comeback. Okay, so it was a really long day.

The book tracks Edwardian Stephen Wraysford's doomed love affair with Isabelle, an unhappily married Frenchwoman in Amiens, before it pitches our damaged, dislocated hero into the horror of the Somme. It's the time-honoured pairing of Eros and Thanatos: sex and death. The carnal turns to carnage, and roiling sex scenes give way to the equally intimate spilling of blood and organs on the battlefield.The novel striates highly personal testament with the sheer statistical might of the First World War. It's a tough brief for both stage and small screen.

Trevor Nunn plied the route of a clunking and rushed literalism. If the book mentions a rose trellis, it's duly cranked into place. If the gendarmerie swarm across the pages, alors the Keystone Kops sont arrivés on stage. The epic sweep is swept, tidily, into Stephen's mouth. Poor Ben Barnes as Stephen must curate history for us, as well as get on with being broken and detached.

TV director Philip Martin nabs a few of theatre's tricks for his scenography. It progresses by synecdoche: the battlefields are lightly suggested. We're shown a detail and we extrapolate the rest, like a wallpaper repeat (my only gripe would be that Ypres looked like the sun-baked Med). Amiens is not much more than a trick of the light (Mr Nunn please take note). Where both adaptations fail, however, is in Faulks's monstrous tunnels under the trenches. No visuals can possibly match a reader's imagination; they shrink and fix into what Joyce snappily called "the ineluctable modality of the visible" (pay attention at the back, Trevor).

Then, ooh la la, there's all that sex. As the lovely Kurt Vonnegut says: "The most popular story you can ever tell is about a good-looking couple having a really swell time copulating outside wedlock, and having to quit for one reason or another while doing it is still a novelty."

In Faulks's version of the most popular story, Isabelle is a soft pat of inert womanhood who needs a Lawrentian reboot. She's a Sleeping Beauty to be, literally, pricked into life. Theatre took the embarrassed vicar approach and ignored the entire messy business. After this Trevor Nunnery, it was good to see the BBC at least have a go at scenes of consensual sex. There was something about the lovely imperfection of Clémence Poésy that somehow made Isabelle less of a cypher: that shocking ink-spattering of dark freckles; that guarded look in her eyes which kept her - despite all the bonking - actually impenetrable.

TV's final, imperious slap to stage is the close-up. The camera can gorge on tiny details, like the erotic brush of two ankles. Against this the theatre seems operatic, mannered. Televisual Birdsong was really all about the close-up on the lead actor's face. In Eddie Redmayne we have a translucent, lambent Stephen. A jolie-laide, as the French say of their women, with a great grouper fish mouth, he is more reactor than actor. His face clouds and clears like the weather. He is enormously watchable.

Bravo to Abi Morgan for her confident chequerboard restructuring (love; war; love). But despite having more time and more resources than the theatre, this show also suffered from abbreviation sickness. When you take the events of Stephen's life at a rolling gallop, you are left with a blur of melodrama. Characters flatten to clichés (the plucky Tommy, lions led by donkeys) and lines turn over-weighty, "There is nothing more, sir, than to love and be loved!" Viewers are also treated as birdbrains by the music, which helpfully semaphores sad bit, sexy bit, with all the subtlety of Children in Need.

On this particular Super Sunday it's a one-nil victory to telly, but the match was a bit scrappy, to be honest, the lads done all right but at the end of the day could have gone either way.

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I worked as a teacher – so I can tell you how regressive grammar schools are

The grammars and "comprehensives" of Kent make for an unequal system. So why does Theresa May consider the county a model for the future?

In 1959 my parents moved me from a Roman Catholic primary school to the junior branch of King Henry VIII, Coventry’s most high-profile grammar. The head teacher berated my mother for betraying the one true faith, but although she was born in Galway, my mum was as relaxed about her religion as she was about her native roots. Any strong feelings about the English Reformation had disappeared around the same time as her Irish accent. Her voice gave no clue to where she was from and – as a result of a wartime commission – the same was true of my father. Together, Mrs and Mr Smith embodied postwar Britain’s first-generation upwardly mobile middle class.

Their aspiration and ambition were so strong that my mother saw no problem in paying for me to attend a Protestant school. Why, you may ask, did my dad, a middle manager and by no means well off, agree to pay the fees? Quite simply, my parents were keen that I pass the eleven-plus.

King Henry VIII School benefited from the direct grant scheme, introduced after the Education Act 1944. In Coventry, the two direct grant schools were centuries old and were paid a fee by the government to educate the fifth or so of boys who passed the eleven-plus. When secondary education in Coventry became comprehensive in the mid-1970s, King Henry VIII went fully independent; today, it charges fees of more than £10,000 per year.

A few years ago, I returned to my old school for a memorial service. As I left, I saw a small group of smartly dressed men in their late seventies. They had strong Coventry accents and intended to “go down the club” after the service. It occurred to me that they represented the small number of working-class lads who, in the years immediately after the Second World War, were lucky enough to pass the eleven-plus and (no doubt with their parents making huge sacrifices) attend “the grammar”. But by the time I moved up to King Henry VIII’s senior school in 1963 there appeared to be no one in my A-stream class from a working-class background.

From the early 1950s, many of the newly affluent middle classes used their financial power to give their children an advantage in terms of selection. My parents paid for a privileged education that placed top importance on preparation for the eleven-plus. In my class, only one boy failed the life-determining test. Today, no less than 13 per cent of entrants to the 163 grammar schools still in the state system are privately educated. No wonder preparatory schools have responded enthusiastically to Theresa May’s plans to reverse the educational orthodoxy of the past five decades.

Nowhere has the rebranding of secondary moderns as “comprehensives” been more shameless than in Kent, where the Conservative-controlled council has zealously protected educational selection. Each secondary modern in east Kent, where I taught in the 1970s, has since been named and renamed in a fruitless attempt to convince students that failing to secure a place at grammar school makes no difference to their educational experience and prospects. That is a hard message to sell to the two-thirds of ten-year-olds who fail the Kent test.

Investment and academy status have transformed the teaching environment, which a generation ago was disgraceful (I recall the lower school of a secondary modern in Canterbury as almost literally Edwardian). Ofsted inspections confirm that teachers in non-grammar schools do an amazing job, against all the odds. Nevertheless, selection reinforces social deprivation and limited aspiration in the poorest parts of the south-east of England, notably Thanet and the north Kent coastline.

A third of children in Thanet live in poverty. According to local sources (including a cross-party report of Kent councillors in 2014), disadvantaged children make up less than 9 per cent of pupils in grammar schools but 30 per cent at secondary moderns. University admissions tutors confirm the low number of applications from areas such as Thanet relative to the UK average. Though many of Kent’s secondary moderns exceed expectations, the county has the most underperforming schools in the UK.

When I began my teaching career, I was appallingly ignorant of the harsh realities of a secondary education for children who are told at the age of 11 that they are failures. Spending the years from seven to 17 at King Henry VIII School had cocooned me. More than 40 years later, I can see how little has changed in Kent – and yet, perversely, the Prime Minister perceives the county’s education system as a model for the future.

This article first appeared in the 22 September 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The New Times