The Folio Prize announces its initial panel of judges

Pankaj Mishra, Nam Le, Sarah Hall and Michael Chabon were drawn at random from a one-hundred strong academy of writers and critics, who will nominate books for the prize. Lavinia Greenlaw will chair the panel.

The £40,000 book prize formerly known as the Literature Prize has announced its panel of judges. This year’s Folio Prize will be chaired by the poet and critic Lavinia Greenlaw, who has said that she is “honoured and delighted to be chairing the jury,” adding that “fiction is finding new forms and writers are resisting all kinds of borders.”

Greenlaw will be joined by fellow writers and critics Pankaj Mishra, Sarah Hall, Name Le and Michael Chabon, who were drawn at random from the prize’s Oscars-style Academy of one hundred “ideal first readers”. Between them they represent Australia (and Vietnam), India, America and the United Kingdom. The Prize is Anglo-centric by definition, being the only literary competition which seeks out English-language fiction written anywhere in the world.

Nam Le, the Australian short story writer and author of Frank O'Connor longlisted collection The Boat (2008), was overjoyed with his selection in the ballot: “I won the lottery!” he said. “I’m looking forward to it: I like the idea of making space in the award ecology for prizes like the Folio – where writers read, nominate and honour other writers.”

The Folio Prize is the most ambitious literary prize germinating in that ecology right now. It has widened the Booker’s remit, and in terms of numbers alone – its academicians, judges, committees of advisors and managers from across publishing and the arts – it cannot fail to make a noise when the initial shortlist is unveiled in February next year. The prize's sponsor, The Folio Society, is a publisher whose mission is to create firm, illustrated editions of classic works of fiction, biography, science and philosophy. The partnership is in itself a statement of the organisers’ hopes from the prize’s longevity.

All rise for the honourable judge Chabon. Photograph: Getty Images.

Philip Maughan is a freelance writer in Berlin and a former Assistant Editor at the New Statesman.

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How did Don’t Tell the Bride lose its spark?

Falling out of the love with reality TV’s wedding planning hit.

Steph, 23, from Nottinghamshire, is standing in a drizzly field wearing a wedding dress. Her betrothed, Billy, is running around in a tweed flat cap trying to make some pigs walk in “a continuous parade”. A man from Guinness World Records is watching with a clipboard, shaking his head. Bridesmaids gaze sorrowfully into the middle distance, each in a damp pig onesie.

Thus ends the second wedding in E4’s new series of Don’t Tell the Bride – and the programme’s integrity with it.

When the classic programme, which follows grooms attempting to plan their wedding (punchline: human males doing some organising), began a decade ago on BBC Three, it had the raw spark of unpredictability. For eight years, the show did nothing fancy with the format, and stuck with pretty ordinary couples who had few eccentric aspirations for their wedding day.

This usually resulted in run-of-the-mill, mildly disappointing weddings where the worst thing that happened would be a reception at the nearest motorway pub, or an ill-fitting New Look low heel.

It sounds dull, but anyone who has religiously watched it knows that the more low-key weddings expose what is truly intriguing about this programme: the unconditional commitment – or doomed nature – of a relationship. As one of the show’s superfans told the Radio Times a couple of years ago:

“It’s perfect, and not in an ironic or post-ironic or snarky way. The format has the solemn weight of a ceremony . . . Don’t Tell the Bride is not about ruined weddings, it’s about hope. Every wedding is a demonstration of how our ambitions curve away from our abilities. It’s a show about striving to deserve love and how that’s rarely enough.”

It also meant that when there were bombshells, they were stand-out episodes. High drama like Series 4’s notorious Las Vegas wedding almost resulting in a no-show bride. Or heart-warming surprises like the geezer Luke in Series 3 playing Fifa and guzzling a tinny on his wedding morning, who incongruously pulls off a stonking wedding day (complete with special permission from the Catholic Church).

For its eight years on BBC Three, a few wildcard weddings were thrown into the mix of each series. Then the show had a brief affair with BBC One, a flirt with Sky, and is now on its tenth year, 13th series and in a brand new relationship – with the more outrageous E4.

During its journey from BBC Three, the show has been losing its way. Tedious relationship preamble has been used to beef up each episode. Some of the grooms are cruel rather than clueless, or seem more pathetic and vulnerable than naïve. And wackier weddings have become the norm.

The programme has now fully split from its understated roots. Since it kicked off at the end of July, every wedding has been a publicity stunt. The pig farm nuptials are sandwiched between a Costa del Sol-based parasail monstrosity and an Eighties Neighbours-themed ceremony, for example. All facilitated by producers clearly handing the groom and best men karaoke booth-style props (sombreros! Inflatable guitars! Wigs!) to soup up the living room planning process.

Such hamminess doesn’t give us the same fly-on-the-wall flavour of a relationship as the older episodes. But maybe this level of artifice is appropriate. As one groom revealed to enraged fans in The Sun this week, the ceremonies filmed are not actually legally binding. “It makes a bit of a mockery of the process that the bride and groom go through this huge ordeal for a ceremony which isn’t even legal,” he said. Perhaps we should’ve predicted it would all eventually end in divorce – from reality.

Don’t Tell the Bride is on E4 at 9pm

Anoosh Chakelian is senior writer at the New Statesman.