Wendy Cope, photographed by the New Statesman.
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Wendy Cope interview: "I can't die until I've sorted out the filing cabinets"

As Wendy Cope donates her archive of correspondence and diaries to the British Library, is the literary world at last taking her seriously?

"Let's go back to this thing about there being a story," Wendy Cope says as we sit on a bench by the canal in Ely. "There's a story of how a depressed primary school teacher became quite a well-known poet."

She is being characteristically understated. Cope is one of the best-known and among the bestselling British poets of recent decades. Her first collection, Making Cocoa for Kingsley Amis, was full of "the kind of poems journalists enjoy". As a result, it became, by her own admission, almost too successful. "I've never been more famous than I was, suddenly, in 1986," she says. "I did find it very difficult to cope with all the demands that were being made on me."

She quickly decided that she didn't want to become "some sort of media personality, always on radio quiz shows", and retreated to her study. She observes, with a touch of pride, that she is one of the few poets who don't need to supplement their income by teaching creative writing courses.
Her major works have been irregular, though consistently well reviewed: Serious Concerns in 1992, If I Don't Know in 2001 and Family Values this year. This summer she sold her "archive" - 40,000 emails and 15 boxes of notebooks, diaries, letters and memorabilia - to the British Library. "When it went, I was thoroughly glad to see the back of it," she says. "I've been saying for years: 'I can't die until I've sorted out the
filing cabinets.' I wanted it to be in a safe place, and available if anyone's ever interested in doing serious studies of my work."

The week after our meeting, I visit the archive at its new home in King's Cross. Going "backstage" at the British Library is an oddly thrilling experience - all swipe cards and temperature-controlled rooms. Down a narrow row, there it sits, sandwiched between the effects of the surrealist poet David Gascoyne - whose boxes contain a toothbrush, a tie and a notebook - and the organist Reginald Moore. The cartons are neatly labelled: "Poems about me", "Nuisances", "Unpublished writing" and my favourite, "Things I said no to".

The collection won't be catalogued and ready for scholars for another year, but Rachel Foss, curator of modern manuscripts, has prepared a selection of items to show me. As Cope promised, they tell the story of how a depressed schoolteacher found her poetic voice.

But first, a brief detour. The path that led me to that riverbank in Ely opened one Christmas morning in the 1990s. My mother had bought me, a bookish teen, a set of poetry volumes. Among the masculine heavyweights of the 20th century - Hughes, Heaney, Eliot, Larkin and Auden - was a slim volume. On its cover was a fridge, empty apart from a pint of milk. It was Cope's Making Cocoa for Kingsley Amis. Here, for the first time, were poems in a voice I could identify with; a writer who felt that white wine and buses were fit subjects for poetry. As time went on, I began to notice that the feather-light observations came wrapped in skilfully crafted verse. ("It's not that I'm against free verse, but even free verse has a certain shape, a certain rhythm, and there is technical stuff that you need to learn," she says now.) Here are the first lines of "Rondeau Redoublé":

There are so many kinds of awful men -
One can't avoid them all. She often said
She'd never make the same mistake again:
She always made a new mistake instead.

Each line of this is reused as the last line of the following stanzas, and the poem finishes with the first half of the first line ("There are so many kinds") as a truncated last line. A roundel like this is a finicky structure and rhyme scheme for any poet to choose. Those meticulously catalogued boxes should have given me the clue: the reader is in the presence of a perfectionist.

Apart from a series of poems in the persona of a male writer, Jake Strugnell, the other main attraction of Making Cocoa is a set of reworkings: Eliot, Emily Dickinson and Robert Frost. The Waste Land ends up as five rather jaunty limericks, which conclude:

No water. Dry rocks and dry throats,
Then thunder, a shower of quotes
From the Sanskrit and Dante.
Da. Damyata. Shantih.
I hope you'll make sense of the notes.

“Oh yes," she says. "Even the snobby poets conceded the parodies were quite good."

Flashes of candour

Wendy Cope's story begins in 1945, when she was born in Erith, Kent. She was an unremarkable schoolgirl, but at the age of four and five-twelfths - her report from West Lodge prep school is specific on this point - she was already "very keen" on poetry. Her next school, Farringtons, awarded her only a B++ in English at 16, but it did agree that "Wendy's ability to penetrate to the heart of a question is of great value".

Two years later, her grades were good enough for her to go up to St Hilda's, Oxford, to study history, but she was unhappy there, suffering from the depression that later blighted her twenties. "I didn't do very well because I had all these problems," she says. "And then I became a primary school teacher, which was good in some ways, but I felt that I wasn't really using my brains in the way I wanted to . . . I was living on my own for the first time, without flatmates. The nice ones had got married and I'd got fed up with the rest. There was no one to talk to and that got me writing."

Then, three things happened. In 1971, her father died; soon after that, she went into psychoanalysis to deal with her depression; and she started writing poems. "I got in touch with all sorts of powerful feelings that I didn't know I had. I needed to do something with them, and writing poems turned out to be helpful. I think I had been very oppressed by my mother and it was something to do with just creating a space where I was free, inside my own head - and then extending this space on to a piece of paper."

Cope's mother is a strong presence in her latest collection, Family Values. It is, she says, a far better book than If I Don't Know, which came at "a dry period in my writing life". These flashes of candour keep appearing; earlier, she had said that she and her partner, Lachlan Mackinnon, had ended up in Ely because they couldn't afford to live in Cambridge: they'd ploughed their savings into a buy-to-let flat in 2009 and had to sell it at a loss. Until earlier this year, they lived in a "lovely big house" provided by Winchester College, where Mackinnon taught English for 30 years, but they lost that when ill-health forced him to take early retirement. "Selling the archive had everything to do with leaving that house. There were two things: one was the money, the other was the space. We had to move somewhere smaller."

Poetic tension

But indiscretion is not Cope's default mode: this is a woman who wrote, in a poem called "How to Deal with the Press": "When tempted to confide, resist/Never trust a journalist." As she argues: "I've said what I'm prepared to say in my poems, and then journalists think that you're going to tell them a whole lot more." Interviewing her is less a seductive pas de deux and more like a bullfight: every time I charge at the red cloth, she steps aside. Is there anything she'd like to forget? She bridles. "If there was, I certainly wouldn't tell you." A few minutes later, she brings it up again: "I wonder if anyone gets trapped into answering that question?"

Cope is a writer caught between the urge to hold back and the desire to unburden. She wants her archive studied, but only after she dies. She admits that the surface humour of the early collections covered up the depression she endured for years. The big change came with her mother's death in 2004, which freed her to write about their dysfunctional relationship and her consequently unhappy childhood. In Family Values, she recalls her mother reading to her and teaching her to swim: "For all that, I am grateful./As for the rest, I can begin/To imagine forgiving her". Her mother was one of the few not won over by Making Cocoa; she disliked its references to sex.

The archives bear out this tale of inhibition. Cope says that she publishes only 60 per cent of what she writes and in her notebooks covered in wrapping paper are poems far more bare and intimate than she has included in any collection - one of which she emails and gives me permission to quote here for the first time. It is dated 10 November 1978, five years before the publication of Making Cocoa, when she was still struggling to find her voice:

And is it better
Thus to burn
And blacken
Sheets of paper
Than to trace
these patterns
with my fingers
on your skin?

The idea of strangers rummaging through the records of her most private thoughts troubles her. She knows that allowing scholars to study her development as a writer will help her future reputation, yet she qualifies this, talking of "a desire to be known and be understood, but not necessarily while I'm alive". In the stacked boxes are three volumes of autobiography, abandoned in 2003, which Foss tells me cover many of the same incidents found in Family Values. There are also diaries - Cope describes them with relish as "a good read" and "Bridget Jones on speed" - which will stay sealed until after her death.

Andrew Motion, a former poet laureate who has known her since the 1980s, agrees that she is caught between confession and repression. "In the early poems, there is a kind of masking going on," he tells me. "She literally adopts the persona of Strugnell. You're not so sure in the more recent stuff what is her speaking in her own self and what isn't. I think there's been a gradual move towards the candidly autobiographical." He believes that greater happiness has allowed her to let more melancholy into her work. "I don't want to say these are suddenly overwhelmingly sad poems but the sadness is much more conspicuous than it used to be."

He hopes that Family Values finally establishes her as the rightful heir to Philip Larkin. "Comic poets do get short shrift, because they're made to seem light," he says. "And there is a skip in her step, but these are perfectly serious poems. She does take from [Larkin] and makes her own something about melancholia that's very true to our human experience."

Cope has her own take on this idea. "A friend of mine wrote a really good poem about being in a pub playing darts, and I said: 'What your poetry needs is a bit more beer and darts, and not quite so much nature.'"

As you would expect, the c-word - comedy - is one that exercises her greatly. From the start of her career, she came up against the casual snobbery of the poetry world, which assumed that any work that made you laugh was unlikely to make you think. Recently, she says, a panellist on BBC2's Review Show dismissed her work as "comfortable Home Counties stuff". "I don't set out to be humorous," is her slightly frustrated response to the inevitable question. "The interesting thing is that you don't often meet a poet who doesn't have a sense of humour, and some of them do keep it out of their poems because they're afraid of being seen as light versifiers. I know one poet - a good friend of mine, I won't mention his name - and reading his poems you would never know he's interested in sex or having a pint of beer. It's all so high-minded."

I ask if she was treated badly by the establishment when her first collection became such a success, and her journalists-are-out-to-trap-me antennae bristle. "I have to be careful what I say . . . The poetry world hasn't been very nice to me, so I'm not going to say warm, glowing things about the community of poets."

Isn't that a side effect of being popular? She agrees. "I bet historians hate Simon Schama. I bet they spit at the mention of his name. But certainly it is a problem with poetry that, as soon as anyone comes up with anything that people enjoy, poets all gang up and say: 'But this is not good.'"
That said, she is friendly with several poets - her partner is one, after all - and the archives contain notes from Craig Raine, Gavin Ewart, Dennis O'Driscoll and Blake Morrison. There is even a congratulatory letter from Kingsley Amis, whose ego must have been soundly stroked by the success of the collection bearing his name. A 1992 postcard from Ted Hughes praises her "deadpan fearless sort of way of whacking the nail on the head when everybody else is trying to hang pictures on it".

Artistic integrity

Yet the feeling of being an outsider still lingers, even if some of her old spikiness has softened. Motion attributes this to her happy relationship with Mackinnon, with whom she has lived since 1994. There is also her age - 66. "I think people don't get envious of older poets - you've got time to catch up with them," she says. "I hope I've won the respect of some people by going on, having artistic integrity."

And go on she does: unencumbered by her boxes of memories, she squeezes in writing between answering "millions" of emails and giving readings. Handing over the archive seems like a step towards canonisation, though Cope sees it differently - "like getting ready to die". So, how would she like to be remembered? "The nicest thing anyone can say about my poetry is that it is true . . . One of my favourite quotes is by Schubert. He said: 'I give to the world what I have in my heart, and that is the end of it.'"

Helen Lewis is deputy editor of the New Statesman. She has presented BBC Radio 4’s Week in Westminster and is a regular panellist on BBC1’s Sunday Politics.

This article first appeared in the 28 November 2011 issue of the New Statesman, The rise of the muslim brotherhood

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Are we taking Woody Allen for granted?

In some ways, Allen is a prisoner of the independence from Hollywood he fought for so long to protect.

Do you know what a state Annie Hall was in when it first emerged from the editing room? Maybe you’ve heard that its original title was Anhedonia – referring to Alvy Singer’s inability to experience pleasure – but it wasn’t just a title. That was the film that Allen shot: a Fellini-esque stream of consciousness, honeycombed with flashbacks to Alvy’s Coney Island childhood, featuring a murder mystery, a Nazi interrogation dream, an elevator trip to hell and a basketball game between a team of philosophers and the New York Knicks.

“Terrible, completely unsalvageable,” said Allen’s co-writer, Marshall Brickman, of the film they saw as a rough cut in late 1976. Only one thing worked: the subplot involving Alvy’s romance with Annie Hall. “I didn’t sit down with Marshall Brickman and say, ‘We’re going to write a picture about a relationship,’” Allen later said. “I mean, the whole concept of the picture changed as we were cutting it.”

His reaction to the success of Annie Hall – his biggest hit at the box office at the time and the winner of four Academy Awards – was the same reaction he had to any of his films that went over too well with the public: he disparaged it, while quietly absorbing its lessons. Bits and pieces of Annie Hall showed up in his other films for the next two decades – Alvy’s Coney Island childhood resurfacing in Radio Days, the murder mystery in Manhattan Murder Mystery, the elevator trip to hell in Deconstructing Harry – while reshoots and rewrites became a staple of most of his pictures, granting him the freedom almost of a novelist working through successive drafts.

“It was remarkable what he did for me,” Diane Keaton later said of Allen’s ear for Annie’s Chippewa Falls language: self-conscious, neurotic, a little jejune in her attempts to sound smarter than she is, “flumping around, trying to find a sentence”. Annie Hall was a breech delivery, as indeed it had to be, as the first film of Allen’s that was almost entirely taken over by another performer, a voice other than his. As a kid growing up in Brooklyn, Allen studied the great magicians and in many ways his greatest achievement as a director has been to make himself disappear.

Introverts often grow up thinking that they are invisible – a fear, perhaps, but a strangely comforting one and something of a sustaining fantasy should they become famous. These days, Allen has the invisibility of ubiquity, noiselessly producing a film every year for critics to take a whack at: is it good Woody or bad Woody?

Allen is a figure occluded by the scandals and speculation of his private life, which still sends tabloid Geiger counters crackling, some two decades after his break with Mia Farrow. The headlines could almost be the pitch for a Woody Allen film, were it not that Allen has already made it. In Zelig, the chameleonic hero is, you may remember, “sued for bigamy, adultery, automobile accidents, plagiarism, household damages, negligence, property damages and performing unnecessary dental extractions”, before finding redemption in some Lindberghian derring-do – an accurate forecast, in a sense, of Allen’s return to making crowd-pleasers in the mid-1990s. Except that Zelig was released in 1983. On the rise and fall of Woody Allen, Allen, it seems, was there first.

His 46th film opens in cinemas on 11 September. In Irrational Man, Joaquin Phoenix plays Abe Lucas, a dishevelled, alcoholic philosophy professor who decides to pull himself out of his funk with a spot of murder, which has long replaced masturbation as the favoured activity of the Allen male. I’ll leave it to Allen’s old shrinks to tease out the connection between comedy and murder, spotted by Freud in Jokes and Their Relation to the Unconscious – why else do we talk of comedians “killing” it, or “slaying” their audience, if not for the release of hostility common to both? And I’ll leave it to the critics to decide the relation of Irrational Man to the earlier Match Point and Crimes and Misdemeanors.

The problem with late Allen is not that the films are bad necessarily but that they are sketchy: spindly and dashed off, the result of a too-easy passage from page to screen. Allen’s has to be the shortest in show business. A film a year, as regular as clockwork, with zero studio interference. He is the one genuine success story to emerge from the big, hairy, super-freak auteurist experiment of the 1970s – the auteur of auteurs. Francis Ford Coppola crashed and burned. Martin Scorsese crashed and came back. Robert Altman was driven into exile, Terrence Malick into early retirement. Who would have guessed that the only film-maker to keep chugging along would be the writer of What’s New Pussycat?

It may tell us something about auteurism as an idea, certainly as a production model in Hollywood, which has always reacted to success by throwing money at it, granting film-makers ever greater control – a dubious drug denying them the artistic constraints and collaboration in which their creativity first flourished. It vacuum-packs their talent.

The one-man-band aspects of Allen’s career mask the juice that he gets from his co-conspirators: Keaton, but also Dianne Wiest, Farrow and Judy Davis. Most of his biggest box-office successes have been co-written: Annie Hall and Manhattan (with Brickman), Bullets Over Broadway (with Douglas McGrath). “The first thing he says is, ‘If you’re not comfortable, change it,’” said Wiest of working on Hannah and Her Sisters.

“It’s as if he’s got a feather in his hand and he blows it and it goes off in a dozen directions,” said Jeff Daniels after starring in The Purple Rose of Cairo. It’s a lovely image, for that is what the film is about: the unruliness of creation running disobediently beyond its creators’ grasp. This is the great Allen theme. It is the theme of Bullets Over Broadway; of his other great farce about artistic creation, “The Kugelmass Episode”, his New Yorker short story about a professor of humanities who drops into the pages of Madame Bovary to conduct an affair with its heroine; and of his one-act play Writer’s Block, in which the characters of an unfinished manuscript push open the drawer and take over the author’s Connecticut house. It is the theme of all of the romances, too, in which women grow, Pygmalionishly, beneath the green fingers of the Allen male, only to outgrow and leave him.

The biggest dead patches in his work, on the other hand, have come when he was most cut off from collaborators: the run of movies he made in the late 1980s and early 1990s with Farrow, clenched in silent agony and overdosed in brown; or the series of comedies that he dug out of his drawer for DreamWorks in the early 2000s – The Curse of the Jade Scorpion, Hollywood Ending, Any­thing Else – long after he had lost interest, or could summon the energy for farce.

In some ways, Allen today is a prisoner of the independence from Hollywood he fought for so long to protect. He encourages his actors to change his scripts as much as they want, but who is going to pluck up the courage to tell the quadruple Oscar winner that kids don’t “make love” any more, or fall for “nihilistic pessimism”, or name-drop O’Neill, Sartre and Tennessee Williams? Jason Biggs, the star of American Pie and American Pie 2 and Allen’s lead in his 2003 film Anything Else? I think not.

One should, however, resist the temptation to give up on him. Midnight in Paris moved with the sluggishness of melted Camembert but Blue Jasmine had the leanness of a cracked whip, in part because in Cate Blanchett Allen found a collaborator willing to go the distance with him on a theme close to his heart: female vengeance. “Take after take after take of very exhaustive, emotional scenes,” recalled Alec Baldwin. “I sat there at the end of the day and thought, ‘She is unbelievable.’”

If Allen’s early films mined comedy from Thurber-like fantasists and romantic Machiavels and his mid-period work drew rueful comedy from reality’s refusal to co-operate, his late work seems most preoccupied by the painful urge to peel the world of illusion, to see it stripped bare. He is now at work on his 47th film, starring Blake Lively, Kristen Stewart, Jesse Eisenberg, Parker Posey and Bruce Willis – and the excitement there is surely at the thought of Willis, once the king of the wisecrack and exploding fireball, now 60, collaborating with a film-maker deep into his own twilight. Both men could well find each other’s groove, or, better still, shake one another out of it. Yipikaye, pussycat.

Tom Shone’s “Woody Allen: a Retrospective” will be published by Thames & Hudson on 11 September

This article first appeared in the 27 August 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Isis and the new barbarism