Do we still need a single individual to set the agenda? Photo: Hulton Archive/Getty
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Is the age of a newspaper’s “imperial editor” over? Or just beginning?

Now that we have infinite space on the internet and huge volumes of data about what people read, is there a role for the powerful individual who shapes a publication according to personal taste?

In January of this year, the editor of The Daily Telegraph, Tony Gallagher, was fired. Editors get fired a lot, so this wasn’t surprising in itself. But Gallagher was highly regarded by his staff and thought of as having done a first-rate job by industry observers.

At first, it was assumed the sacking had been administered on the whim of the paper’s proprietors, the Barclay brothers. But there turned out to be a strategic reason for the change. Speaking at a conference last month, Jason Seiken, the executive in charge of the Telegraph Media Group, explained the new thinking:

“For traditional news organisations, particularly newspaper organisations, we’ve traditionally had a culture of the imperial editor who divines what the audience, the customer, wants, and acts on that through the editor’s vision. What is just as important these days is data, information, knowing the customer, making sure the customer has a voice in the coverage.”

In other words, it wasn’t that Gallagher hadn’t been doing a good job. It’s that his job had become obsolete. Editors, in the sense of powerful individuals who rely on their experience, intuition and taste to decide what readers can see, are surplus to the requirements of a modern news organisation.

You can see the logic. The role of editor emerged in an era of constraint: there are only so many words and pictures you can fit into fifty pages of newsprint. We now live in the age of abundance, in which anything and everything can be published. There is, in theory, less need for an editor to say what works and what doesn’t.

We also live in an age of instant and continuous feedback. We don’t need editors to intuit what is or isn’t going to be popular: we can look at the data. Huffington Post and Upworthy run different headlines for each story and let readers decide which wins: it’s the survival of the stickiest. As consumers, our choices of what to read or listen to are much more likely to be defined by ‘the crowd’ – our friends on Facebook or Twitter – than by individual arbiters.

So will editing soon be a dead skill, as obsolete as sextant navigation? I’m not so sure.

When Steve Jobs returned to Apple after his wilderness years – or rather, its wilderness years – he found a company that was making a seemingly endless profusion of products: there were a dozen versions of the Macintosh alone. On the face of it, this frenzy of product development was evidence of a desire to please the customer, by anticipating their every need. Jobs saw it as a sickness.

Midway through a long product review session, he snapped. Making his way to a whiteboard, he wrote down all the current product lines. Then he started crossing them out. By the time he had finished, only four were left. He told his stunned executives to cancel everything else.

One of the lines he saved became the iMac, which was to be the company’s biggest success since the Macintosh. Another was the Macbook Pro, still one of its best selling laptops. Apple was back on the road to success. “Deciding what not to do is as important as deciding what to do,” Jobs said later.

In corporate terms, Steve Jobs was the model of what Seiken calls the “imperial editor”. To an exceptional extent, he fashioned a company and product range that embodied his personal philosophy. He edited out of Apple’s product lines everything that didn’t fit his vision, as well as every feature of Apple’s products that weren’t necessary to their primary functions.

As for the customer - well, Jobs didn’t give a stuff about the customer. Actually, that’s not quite right. He cared very, very deeply about one customer: himself. He divined what customers wanted before they knew it, through the medium of his own taste.

Not all companies can or should be run like Apple under Jobs. But Apple had and retains one very powerful advantage: it is different. Whether you’re a fan or not, Apple products, and its brand, are absolutely unmistakable. That’s why Apple can price its phones and tablets higher than anyone else and still sell more of them. As Nigel Hollis, of the marketing research organization Millward Brown, put it recently, “Being different is the key to a brand being able to charge a price premium.”

Being different is the part of the puzzle to which media executives like Seiken haven’t yet found a convincing answer. News is a commodity. If a newspaper wants to charge more money to readers and advertisers, it needs to be compellingly different in the way it reports and presents its stories. But in the digital age, newspaper brands are finding it harder than before to give a reason for readers to click through to them rather than anyone else.

One solution to invent a new kind of format, like Quartz, with its distinctively short and contrarian takes on current affairs; Buzzfeed and its wickedly compulsive listicles, or the new data-driven ventures, FiveThirtyEight and Vox.

But generalist news organizations want to offer everything at once: news, opinion, data, features, video, podcasts and memes. The imperative to have a distinctive “voice” in the marketplace is therefore all the greater, and all the more difficult to achieve.

One of the ways to meet it will probably always be to have a powerful editor, who is in tune with the historic values of the brand, and can act as a prism for the incoming content, bending it into a unique and inimitable spectrum. The kind of editor who will ignore the data from time to time.

A/B testing of headlines and stories can tell you that readers prefer to A to B but it’s less good at telling you whether a certain kind of story is you. Similarly, there’s little to gain from getting the result of an A/B test if both A and B are lame ideas in the first place. Editors who can set unreasonably high standards for their staff,  as Jobs did at Apple, will always be valuable.

It’s no coincidence that there’s really only one British newspaper that can truly said to be thriving, off and online. The Mail’s Paul Dacre may be retiring soon. But don’t be too quick to assume he’s the last of an old breed.

Ian Leslie is a writer, author of CURIOUS: The Desire to Know and Why Your Future Depends On It, and writer/presenter of BBC R4's Before They Were Famous.

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Erdogan’s purge was too big and too organised to be a mere reaction to the failed coup

There is a specific word for the melancholy of Istanbul. The city is suffering a mighty bout of something like hüzün at the moment. 

Even at the worst of times Istanbul is a beautiful city, and the Bosphorus is a remarkable stretch of sea. Turks get very irritated if you call it a river. They are right. The Bosphorus has a life and energy that a river could never equal. Spend five minutes watching the Bosphorus and you can understand why Orhan Pamuk, Turkey’s Nobel laureate for literature, became fixated by it as he grew up, tracking the movements of the ocean-going vessels, the warships and the freighters as they steamed between Asia and Europe.

I went to an Ottoman palace on the Asian side of the Bosphorus, waiting to interview the former prime minister Ahmet Davu­toglu. He was pushed out of office two months ago by President Recep Tayyip Erdogan when he appeared to be too wedded to the clauses in the Turkish constitution which say that the prime minister is the head of government and the president is a ceremonial head of state. Erdogan was happy with that when he was prime minister. But now he’s president, he wants to change the constitution. If Erdogan can win the vote in parliament he will, in effect, be rubber-stamping the reality he has created since he became president. In the days since the attempted coup, no one has had any doubt about who is the power in the land.

 

City of melancholy

The view from the Ottoman palace was magnificent. Beneath a luscious, pine-shaded garden an oil tanker plied its way towards the Black Sea. Small ferries dodged across the sea lanes. It was not, I hasten to add, Davutoglu’s private residence. It had just been borrowed, for the backdrop. But it reminded a Turkish friend of something she had heard once from the AKP, Erdogan’s ruling party: that they would not rest until they were living in the apartments with balconies and gardens overlooking the Bosphorus that had always been the preserve of the secular elite they wanted to replace.

Pamuk also writes about hüzün, the melancholy that afflicts the citizens of Istanbul. It comes, he says, from the city’s history and its decline, the foghorns on the Bosphorus, from tumbledown walls that have been ruins since the fall of the Byzantine empire, unemployed men in tea houses, covered women waiting for buses that never come, pelting rain and dark evenings: the city’s whole fabric and all the lives within it. “My starting point,” Pamuk wrote, “was the emotion that a child might feel while looking through a steamy window.”

Istanbul is suffering a mighty bout of something like hüzün at the moment. In Pamuk’s work the citizens of Istanbul take a perverse pride in hüzün. No one in Istanbul, or elsewhere in Turkey, can draw comfort from what is happening now. Erdogan’s opponents wonder what kind of future they can have in his Turkey. I think I sensed it, too, in the triumphalist crowds of Erdogan supporters that have been gathering day after day since the coup was defeated.

 

Down with the generals

Erdogan’s opponents are not downcast because the coup failed; a big reason why it did was that it had no public support. Turks know way too much about the authoritarian ways of military rule to want it back. The melancholy is because Erdogan is using the coup to entrench himself even more deeply in power. The purge looks too far-reaching, too organised and too big to have been a quick reaction to the attempt on his power. Instead it seems to be a plan that was waiting to be used.

Turkey is a deeply unhappy country. It is hard to imagine now, but when the Arab uprisings happened in 2011 it seemed to be a model for the Middle East. It had elections and an economy that worked and grew. When I asked Davutoglu around that time whether there would be a new Ottoman sphere of influence for the 21st century, he smiled modestly, denied any such ambition and went on to explain that the 2011 uprisings were the true succession to the Ottoman empire. A century of European, and then American, domination was ending. It had been a false start in Middle Eastern history. Now it was back on track. The people of the region were deciding their futures, and perhaps Turkey would have a role, almost like a big brother.

Turkey’s position – straddling east and west, facing Europe and Asia – is the key to its history and its future. It could be, should be, a rock of stability in a desperately un­stable part of the world. But it isn’t, and that is a problem for all of us.

 

Contagion of war

The coup did not come out of a clear sky. Turkey was in deep crisis before the attempt was made. Part of the problem has come from Erdogan’s divisive policies. He has led the AKP to successive election victories since it first won in 2002. But the policies of his governments have not been inclusive. As long as his supporters are happy, the president seems unconcerned about the resentment and opposition he is generating on the other side of politics.

Perhaps that was inevitable. His mission, as a political Islamist, was to change the country, to end the power of secular elites, including the army, which had been dominant since Mustafa Kemal Atatürk created modern Turkey after the collapse of the Ottoman empire. And there is also the influence of chaos and war in the Middle East. Turkey has borders with Iraq and Syria, and is deeply involved in their wars. The borders do not stop the contagion of violence. Hundreds of people have died in the past year in bomb attacks in Turkish cities, some carried out by the jihadists of so-called Islamic State, and some sent by Kurdish separatists working under the PKK.

It is a horrible mix. Erdogan might be able to deal with it better if he had used the attempted coup to try to unite Turkey. All the parliamentary parties condemned it. But instead, he has turned the power of the state against his opponents. More rough times lie ahead.

Jeremy Bowen is the BBC’s Middle East editor. He tweets @bowenbbc

This article first appeared in the 28 July 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Summer Double Issue