Carla Bruni. Photo: Getty
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Antonia Quirke on radio: Carla Bruni's last tango in Paris

Oh, Paris. So nostalgic, so mythical. “Do they say that in English – mythical? Ah, yes! So mythical!”

Carla Bruni's Postcards from Paris
BBC Radio 2

“’Allo, this is Carla Bruni, with my third and final postcard from Paris to you!” Another fascinating hour listening to music by Claude Nougaro and Charles Aznavour while wandering the City of Light in the company of the former first lady of France (4 June, 10pm).

Bruni – model, actress and nouvelle chanson performer – is a woman entirely swept away by the big picture. Oh, Paris. So nostalgic, so mythical. “Do they say that in English – mythical? Ah, yes! So mythical!” If you were ever to throw caution to the wind and visit Paris yourself, then Carla strongly suggests forgetting the guidebook and just strolling through the parks.

All of them are nostalgic and romantic. There’s the Jardin des Tuileries, for example, “which is square and green”. And all the museums, too, which are “so beaudiful. But best to walk with a boyfriend because this is definitely romantic.” When Carla walks these streets herself, she can’t help but think about Hemingway and Joyce and the great Irish poet Yeets. Quel homme. “The memories, the history . . .”

Mysteriously, the theatres in Paris can be big but they can also be small. “For lots of people,” marvels Carla, “and for a little amount of people, too. We have all the opportunities for theatre in Paris!” Bruni sighs.

Her voice is gorgeously musical – frequently low and woozy, always full of a velvety fire. Occasionally she slows, allowing the listener to drink it all in, or even scribble things down, as though this were an informal kind of salon for some of the most interesting people in Parisian public life – artists, scientists, and so on. Simple rustic food, rough bread and cheese and sophisticated musings about British punk (“The Clash could never have been Swiss”). Anything to get people away from the chambre de TV and wandering the green and square parks of Paris!

Most of all, Carla thinks she would like to visit Scotland. Who knows? Maybe one day, thinks the listener, after she is released from the isolation unit. “It must be so nice. The castles. I don’t know how much time you need to go from south to north or east to west but I’m sure it’s possible, non? I’d love to do it with the kids, or with my man. So nice. So romantic!”

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 11 June 2014 issue of the New Statesman, The last World Cup

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Utopian tale of Milton Keynes weaves together social history and memoir

Meanwhile Bake Off squares up to the BBC's new Family Cooking Showdown.

Central Milton Keynes: you’ve never seen anything like it, as the song on the Eighties promotional flexi-disc used to go. This is rubbish, of course. With its dreary shopping centres, boring-looking estates and endless roundabouts, Milton Keynes looks, at the beginning of the 21st century, like the newer and more depressing parts of lots of other places – the only difference being, I suppose, that it comprises nothing but these parts. Conceived in 1967 and developed from scratch in green fields at a cost of £1.5bn, the new town’s great and unsolvable problem is that it has no immemorial heart, no superannuated soul. It wants for layers, and therefore for mystery and concomitant charm. Yes, some people will claim, if pushed, to love it: “The trees!” they say, as if London and Birmingham have no parks at all. But their praise, when it comes, always sounds to me rather shifty, like they’re avoiding telling you that any minute now they’ll be catching a train to somewhere lovelier and more exciting.

The film-maker Richard Macer (Absolutely Fashion: Inside British Vogue) caught a train to somewhere more exciting when he went to university at the age of 18, but a few months ago, shortly before both he and Milton Keynes hit 50, he returned, shacking up with his parents in his childhood home in order to make a documentary about the town (screened, now, as part of BBC Four’s Utopia season). As a child, he told us, he felt MK was a bit of a joke: those wretched concrete cows. But in adulthood he was sweetly protective, offering us Elisabeth Frink’s sculpture Horse and the shiny travertine floors of its Grade II-listed shopping centre by way of two delights (after which he did start to struggle somewhat). In what way had the town formed him, though? This was harder to say. As a teenager, he attended a comprehensive where, once a month, pupils were invited to devote a whole day to an activity such as trampolining; every Tuesday, his family ate macaroni cheese. Basically, he might have been anywhere.

Still, I loved his film, which wove social history and memoir pretty seamlessly together. Cunningly, Macer’s voice and his camera did different things. If the former was kind and occasionally fulsome, the latter told another story. Interviewing Anthony Spira, the current director of MK’s purpose-built gallery, the narrative was all about the importance the town planners placed on culture for the masses. But beyond the window, things looked ever cheerless: another dual carriageway, yet more traffic lights. Touring the town with members of the Roundabout Appreciation Society, all the chat was of these structures’ essential beauty: those covered with greenery are referred to by fans as “Titchmarshes” and “Monty Dons”. When Macer and the others disembarked their vehicle for a closer look, however, it seemed to me they should really be known as Ballards or Burgesses (for those noted dystopians). “Wouldn’t it be nice if all cities were like Milton Keynes?” asked the TV marketing campaign for the town. Macer’s wry and quietly assertive film revealed that the correct answer to this question is still: “No, it really wouldn’t.”

How many cooking shows can a country take? It may be that we will shortly have had our fill. If the cynicism currently emanating from Channel 4, the new home of The Great British Bake-Off, doesn’t do it – Sandi Toksvig, its presenter, recently revealed that she doesn’t really care for television – then surely The Big Family Cooking Showdown will. “Be nice or leave,” said a sign in the home of one of the families competing in the first episode, a decorative fixture that might just as well, alas, have been a stage direction. Everyone is just so bloody kind: not only its presenters, Zoe Ball and Nadiya Hussain, who spend their time hugging everyone and everything, but also its judges, the cookery teacher Rosemary Shrager and the chef Giorgio Locatelli. Do the latter have chemistry? No. Shrager is a bit too mistress-at-St-Trinian’s for that. But in his Klein-blue jacket, Locatelli, at least, is a sight for sore eyes: a majestic loaf of artisanal sourdough compared to the plastic sliced white that is Paul Hollywood.

Rachel Cooke trained as a reporter on The Sunday Times. She is now a writer at The Observer. In the 2006 British Press Awards, she was named Interviewer of the Year.

This article first appeared in the 17 August 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Trump goes nuclear