Bob Dylan, Richard Wager. . . what algorithm could contain both? Photo: Pierre Guillaud/AFP/Getty Images
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SEO and algorithms? Numbers can't match up to plain good taste

Truly independent expertise can never be swayed. Numbers, on the other hand, can be manipulated reasonably easily.

After 30 years in business, Video City on Notting Hill Gate has been forced to shut. The much-loved DVD shop in west London was a victim of soaring business rates, escalating property prices (leading to the flight of bohemia) and, finally, the modern technology of streaming films on the internet.

I feel a personal debt of thanks. The films that have left a lasting impression on me in the past few years were mostly recommended to me by staff at Video City – The Lives of Others, a superb take on life in 1980s East Berlin; the Argentinian thriller The Secret in Their Eyes; Marriage Italian Style, starring Marcello Mastroianni.

They were much too smart, however, to think that good cinema had to be art-house or foreign-language. The best recommendation of all was Friday Night Lights, the television series about a high-school American football team in small-town Texas that hovers somewhere between Shakespeare and Home and Away.

It is true that the DVD rental store, like the CD shop, is a business model in apparently irreversible decline. Yet this column is not just a futile lament inspired by nostalgia. Some technological advances are victimless. With the exception, perhaps, of the bank teller, the ATM has been good for everyone. Sometimes, however, a new convenience comes with grave costs that emerge only slowly.

Visiting Video City was an experience, not a convenience. It was independent in every sense, an independence founded on disinterested expertise. Instead of deals with Hollywood studios and PR departments, its only leverage was good judgement. Its staff kept recommending good films, so customers kept going back.

To borrow a phrase from public service, this expertise was supplied at the point of delivery. And the expert had skin in the game. So the business relied on trust: the consumer trusted the knowledge and taste of the vendor. None of this applies to the industry that has replaced shops such as Video City: internet streaming. Because there is no human being present during the sale, streaming is good at providing you with what you already knew you wanted – or thought you wanted. It is bad at leading you towards things you didn’t know you wanted. As Henry Ford pointed out, “If I’d asked my customers what they wanted, they’d have said a faster horse.”

Instead of human expertise, streaming companies use an algorithm to make “recommendations” based on customers’ buying or search history. Amazon uses a similar technique. The algorithms are improving all the time but they usually make a central assumption that poorly serves a whole category of viewers and readers. Algorithms push viewers towards works in the same genre.

But what if you don’t have any genre preferences? What if you care only about quality (or, at least, your perception of quality), regardless of subject matter or genre? Using the four rentals I mentioned earlier as a guide, I might be recommended Spanish-language films about an American-football-playing prostitute. My wider aesthetic tastes tend towards Richard Wagner, Vikram Seth, Roger Federer and Bob Dylan. No algorithm is likely to capture all of these.

This has a troubling knock-on effect on the creative industries, as well as on consumers. It reinforces two forms of risk aversion. First, it encourages derivative works that try to cling to the coat-tails of recent successes. Second, genre dependency discourages artists – or those preoccupied with finding a reliable market – from moving between genres and seeking challenges. After one success, writers and directors are advised to spin it out in a series, a dubious franchising of the creative process.

Yet a common characteristic of the superb talents I listed above (with the exception of Federer) is that no sooner had they mastered one genre than they moved towards an entirely different one – usually by inventing or reinventing it.

It is also a misconception that doing business on the internet inherently tends towards democracy, as it uses numbers to gauge tastes. Quite the reverse. Truly independent expertise can never be swayed. Numbers, on the other hand, can be manipulated reasonably easily.

This is what happens when a firm offers to supply “search engine optimisation”. The product on sale here is the conscious and deliberate manipulation of the apparently democratic results that come up when words are typed into an online search engine. The larger a firm’s budget, the easier it is to pretend that its product – whether it is a service, a good or a person – is the most searched-for item when that cluster of words is typed into Google. “Democratic” ranking, to a degree, can be bought.

What about chat rooms and viewer reviews? With the decline of professional criticism (by which I mean properly paid professional criticism), people are increasingly likely to turn to amateur reviews. Most of these are doubtless authentic. The creative industries, however, have become all too worldly about social media “campaigns” that are designed to look spontaneous and organic.

In his book The New Few, Ferdinand Mount makes the persuasive point that ­corporate systems naturally tend towards oligarchy. The big players in any game have a self-interest in achieving a lockout of smaller upstarts.

With the extinction of a small, independent DVD shop in west London, a tiny bulwark against corporate control of the film industry has been lost. And it is another ­defeat for the true expert – the noble middleman – who makes his living by steering us gently towards what we didn’t know we wanted.

Ed Smith is a journalist and author, most recently of Luck. He is a former professional cricketer and played for both Middlesex and England.

This article first appeared in the 09 July 2015 issue of the New Statesman, The austerity war

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Let's face it: supporting Spurs is basically a form of charity

Now, for my biggest donation yet . . .

I gazed in awe at the new stadium, the future home of Spurs, wondering where my treasures will go. It is going to be one of the architectural wonders of the modern world (football stadia division), yet at the same time it seems ancient, archaic, a Roman ruin, very much like an amphitheatre I once saw in Croatia. It’s at the stage in a new construction when you can see all the bones and none of the flesh, with huge tiers soaring up into the sky. You can’t tell if it’s going or coming, a past perfect ruin or a perfect future model.

It has been so annoying at White Hart Lane this past year or so, having to walk round walkways and under awnings and dodge fences and hoardings, losing all sense of direction. Millions of pounds were being poured into what appeared to be a hole in the ground. The new stadium will replace part of one end of the present one, which was built in 1898. It has been hard not to be unaware of what’s going on, continually asking ourselves, as we take our seats: did the earth move for you?

Now, at long last, you can see what will be there, when it emerges from the scaffolding in another year. Awesome, of course. And, har, har, it will hold more people than Arsenal’s new home by 1,000 (61,000, as opposed to the puny Emirates, with only 60,000). At each home game, I am thinking about the future, wondering how my treasures will fare: will they be happy there?

No, I don’t mean Harry Kane, Danny Rose and Kyle Walker – local as well as national treasures. Not many Prem teams these days can boast quite as many English persons in their ranks. I mean my treasures, stuff wot I have been collecting these past 50 years.

About ten years ago, I went to a shareholders’ meeting at White Hart Lane when the embryonic plans for the new stadium were being announced. I stood up when questions were called for and asked the chairman, Daniel Levy, about having a museum in the new stadium. I told him that Man United had made £1m the previous year from their museum. Surely Spurs should make room for one in the brave new mega-stadium – to show off our long and proud history, delight the fans and all those interested in football history and make a few bob.

He mumbled something – fluent enough, as he did go to Cambridge – but gave nothing away, like the PM caught at Prime Minister’s Questions with an unexpected question.

But now it is going to happen. The people who are designing the museum are coming from Manchester to look at my treasures. They asked for a list but I said, “No chance.” I must have 2,000 items of Spurs memorabilia. I could be dead by the time I finish listing them. They’ll have to see them, in the flesh, and then they’ll be free to take away whatever they might consider worth having in the new museum.

I’m awfully kind that way, partly because I have always looked on supporting Spurs as a form of charity. You don’t expect any reward. Nor could you expect a great deal of pleasure, these past few decades, and certainly not the other day at Liverpool when they were shite. But you do want to help them, poor things.

I have been downsizing since my wife died, and since we sold our Loweswater house, and I’m now clearing out some of my treasures. I’ve donated a very rare Wordsworth book to Dove Cottage, five letters from Beatrix Potter to the Armitt Library in Ambleside, and handwritten Beatles lyrics to the British Library. If Beckham and I don’t get a knighthood in the next honours list, I will be spitting.

My Spurs stuff includes programmes going back to 1910, plus recent stuff like the Opus book, that monster publication, about the size of a black cab. Limited editions cost £8,000 a copy in 2007. I got mine free, as I did the introduction and loaned them photographs. I will be glad to get rid of it. It’s blocking the light in my room.

Perhaps, depending on what they want, and they might take nothing, I will ask for a small pourboire in return. Two free tickets in the new stadium. For life. Or longer . . . 

Hunter Davies is a journalist, broadcaster and profilic author perhaps best known for writing about the Beatles. He is an ardent Tottenham fan and writes a regular column on football for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 16 February 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The New Times