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We’ll Take Manhattan (BBC4)

Rachel Cooke wonders: Was fashion in the 1960s really this wet?

Rachel Cooke wonders: Was fashion in the 1960s really this wet?

I tend to get Jean Shrimpton and her near contemporary Celia Hammond muddled up. One of them now spends her time worrying about cats (this is Hammond, as it turns out) and the other one (Shrimpton, then) owns a hotel in Penzance. You can see how the confusion occurs. Shrimpton might have been, as fashion types will have it, the first "iconic" model of the 1960s, as different from the girls in pearls who came before her as flares are from drainpipes. But let's be honest: in context, this means very little.

Look at early photographs of her now and there is something so dull-eyed about her beauty, a bland reticence in the place where most of us have a personality. I'm not remotely posh myself but, these days, I think I prefer Norman Parkinson's bosomy aristos to David Bailey's vapid twiglets.

In part, this is a matter of taste. I do love the 1950s aesthetic. Give me paste jewellery and a proper handbag over a minidress and white plastic boots any day. It's also that I can imagine the posh girls' voices: loud, affected, entitled. When I think of the Shrimp, I hear only silence.

Did We'll Take Manhattan (26 January, 9pm), a film about how Bailey shot the Shrimp in New York for Vogue and Changed Fashion Photography Forever, make her any less blurry? No. This Jean Shrimpton, as played by Karen Gillan and written by John McKay, wouldn't have said "Boo!" to a goose. Truly, I've seen puddles less wet, with the result that the film shot itself painfully in the foot. Instead of cheering on our two young upstarts as they stormed Condé Nast, a tight-assed bastion of cashmere twinsets and prissy rules, I found myself sympathising with Lady Clare Rendlesham (Helen McCrory), the snooty Vogue editor whose job it was to rein Bailey in.

For one thing, she was ten times sexier than Shrimpton. For another, she had better eyelashes, hats and coats. Mostly, though, it was the way that, while Shrimpton's lip trembled at the merest setback, Rendlesham shouted loudly at the men around her, at which sound they would mostly snap to attention.

Not that she wasn't cartoonish. They all were. If the costumes were totally Mad Men, the dialogue owed its greatest debt to Absolutely Fabulous. Portraying Rendlesham as a dinosaur was unfair: as I understand it, she was mostly a champion of the new. Declaring, in 1964, Paris fashion to be dead, she gave the cover of Queen, where she later worked, a black border to prove it.

Meanwhile, Diana Vreeland (Frances Barber), the horse-faced doyenne of American Vogue, was depicted as a ranting mad woman, with barely a hint of her wit or good taste (though I did laugh when, on hearing that Shrimpton was from the country, she said: "Bucks? What is that? Dallas?").

As for Bailey . . . Jeez. If he'd launched into a few verses of "You've Got to Pick a Pocket or Two", I would not have been surprised - though admittedly, his cockney sparrow routine would have annoyed me an awful lot more had he not been played by the mesmerisingly handsome Aneurin Barnard. (Barnard spoke throughout with his teeth clenched, a tick that had the blood rushing embarrassingly to various of my capillaries.) That said, he was perhaps a little too beautiful. It was him the camera loved, not his muse-model, who seemed, at times, almost dowdy by comparison.

And did everyone at Vogue House really applaud the terrible twosome as they returned triumphant to London with a contact sheet crammed full of edgy, sensibility-changing shots? Hmm. I can't make up my mind about this one. When I worked on a fashion magazine, it managed to be, as these places usually are, both a hell-fest of bitchiness and a sickly outpost of luvvie-style phoney compliments. Also, never underestimate how seriously fashion people take fashion.

To you and me, Bailey's trip to Manhattan is hardly up there with the impressionists metaphorically storming the Salon de Paris. But to fashion people . . . well, it is. When Vreeland said - this particular piece of baloney wasn't, alas, in the film - that the bikini was "the most important thing since the atom bomb", she wasn't being facetious.

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 30 January 2012 issue of the New Statesman, President Newt

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Cake or Death: why The Great British Bake Off is the best thing on television

Those who are complaining that the show has “caved in to political correctness” have missed the point.

The Cake is a Lie. That’s what viewers of the Great British Bake Off, now in its fifth season, are complaining about in the run-up to this week’s final. Out of thousands of amateur bakers who applied, three have made it through the gruelling rounds of Mary Berry’s disapproving pucker and faced down blue-eyed Cake Fascist Paul Hollywood’s demands without a single underbaked layer or soggy bottom in sight - and two of them aren’t white. The subsequent crypto-racist whining from PC-gone-madattrons in the press - one paper suggested that perhaps poor Flora, who was sent home last week, should have baked a "chocolate mosque" - runs against the whole spirit of Bake Off.

The charge is that the competition is not merit-based, and the entire basis for this complaint seems to be that two out of the finalists are of Asian origin - which makes total sense, because everyone knows that white people are better than everyone else at everything, including baking, so obviously it’s political correctness gone mad. The fact that last week Nadiya Hussain, a homemaker from Luton who happens to wear a hijab, baked an entire fucking peacock out of chocolate biscuits had nothing to do with it.

For those of you who mysteriously have better things to do with your time than watch 12 British people prat about in a tent, let me tell you why all of this matters. The best way to explain what's so great about The Great British Bake Off is to compare it to how they do these things across the pond. In America, they have a show called Cupcake Wars, which I gamely tuned into last year whilst living abroad and missing my fix of Sue Perkins getting overexcited about Tart Week. 

Big mistake. Cupcake Wars is nothing at all like Bake Off. Cupcake Wars is a post-Fordian nightmare of overproduction and backstabbing filmed under pounding lights to a sugary version of the Jaws soundtrack. Contestants mutter and scheme over giant vats of violent orange frosting about how they're going to destroy the competition, and they all need the prize money because without it their small cupcake businesses might fold and their children will probably be fed to Donald Trump. Every week a different celebrity guest picks one winner to produce a thousand cupcakes - a thousand cupcakes! - for some fancy party or other, and it’s all just excessive and cutthroat and cruel. Cupcake Wars is Cake Or Death.

Bake Off is quite different. Bake Off is not about the money, or even really about the winning. Bake Off is a magical world of bunting and scones and dapper lesbian comedians making ridiculous puns about buns and gentle, worried people getting in a flap about pastry. There are very few hysterics. Legend has it that if anybody has a real breakdown in the middle of a signature bake, presenters Mel Giedroyc and Sue Perkins stand next to them repeating brand names and swear-words so the cameramen can’t use the footage, and don’t you dare disabuse me of that fact, because I want it to be true. The prize money, in a desperately British way, is almost never mentioned, nobody tries to sabotage anyone else’s puff pastry, and at the end whoever has to leave gives a brave little interview about how it’s a shame but they tried their best and they were just happy to be there and they’re definitely going to do some more baking almost as soon as they get home. 

Bake Off is the theatre of the humdrum, where fussy, nervous people get to be heroes, making macarons as the seas rise and the planet boils and the leaders of the world don't care that they've left the oven on. I’m always a little bit frightened by people who can bake, because I can’t even make a muffin out of a packet, although one danger of watching too much Bake Off is that you become convinced you ought to give it another try, and I apologise to my housemates for making them eat my savoury vegan chilli-chocolate cookies (don’t ask). They say that if you can bake a cake, you can make a bomb, and by that logic I should definitely be kept away from the explosives when the zombie revolution comes- but the Bake Off contestants are probably the sort of people who will be Britain’s last line of defence, quietly constructing landmines and apologising that the stitching on the flag of insurrection isn’t quite perfect. People with this specific and terrifying personality type are that are precisely the reason Britain once had an empire, as well as the reason we’re now rather embarrassed about it. 

For now, though, Bake Off is a gentle human drama about all the best bits of Britishness- and diversity is part of that. In fact, this isn’t even the first time that two out of three finalists have not been white - that was two years ago. But something seems to have changed in British society at large, such that the same scenario is now more enraging to the kind of people who get their jollies from spoiling everything lovely and gentle in this world with casual bigotry - they know who they are, and may their Victoria sponges never rise and all their flatbreads turn out disappointingly chewy.

Britain is getting harder and meaner, and even Bake Off is not immune. In the first season, it was more than enough to bake a half decent brioche. This season an affable fireman got sent home because the grass on his miniature edible Victorian tennis court was not the right shade of green, and I’m not even joking. In one of the challenges the bakers had to produce an arcane french dessert that looked like the turds of a robot angel, and most of them actually managed it. The music is getting more dramatic, the close-up shots of flaky chocolate pastry and oozing pie-lids more reminiscent of 1970s pornography. It’s all a bit much.

The human drama, though, is as perfectly baked as ever. Lovely Flora, the baby of the bunch who missed out on a spot in the final because her chocolate carousel centrepiece was slightly wonky, was actually one of my favourites because she's so deliciously millennial, with her pussy-bow collars and obsessive, Type-A attention to detail. Paul the Prison Officer was a delight, mainly because he looked so much like Paul Hollywood- cue six weeks of two enormous men called Paul having bro-offs over bread, nodding and trading gruff, dudely handshakes over the specific crunchiness of biscotti. One week, Prison Officer Paul produced a giant dough sculpture of a lion's head and Judge Paul gave him a special prize and then they probably went off into a gingerbread sweat lodge together and it was the manliest moment ever in Bake Off history.

This is what Bake Off is about, and that’s why the people who are complaining that something other than merit might have been involved in selecting the finalists have missed the point entirely. The point of Bake Off is not to determine the best amateur baker in the land. That's just the excuse for Bake Off. Even the gentlest TV show needs a vague narrative structure, and otherwise there'd be no tension when someone's blancmange collapses in a heap of eggy foam and broken dreams. But in the end, when all's said and done, it's just cake. If your ornamental biscuit windmill has a soggy bottom, well, nobody died, and you can probably still eat the pieces on your way home to have a cup of tea and a little cry. 

That's the point of Bake Off. None of it really matters, and yet it consistently made me smile during a long, weary summer of geopolitical doomwrangling when absolutely everything else on television was unremitting misery. I hope Nadiya wins, because she’s an adorable dork and I love her and she gets so worried about everything and I want nothing remotely distressing to happen to her, ever; I expect Tamal Ray, the gay doctor whose meat pie had me drooling, is the best baker overall, but I can’t be objective there, because I keep getting distracted by his lovely smile. Ian Cumming, the last white person in the tent (apart from both of the presenters and both of the judges) is a little bit dull, which is a problem, because of all the delicious treats produced on the show, Ian's are the ones I would probably eat the most. I want his tarragon cheesecake in my face immediately. I would just rather have a conversation with Nadiya while I'm doing it.

But at the end of the day, it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter! And that’s the utter, unremitting joy of Bake Off. It’s possibly the last show on earth where in the end, it doesn’t matter who wins, as long as everyone gave it their best shot and had a laugh over a disastrous scrambled-egg chocolate tart or two, because ultimately, it’s just cake. And that’s marvellous. Now let’s all have a nice fat slice of perspective and calm down.


Now listen to a discussion of the Bake Off on the NS pop culture podcast:

Laurie Penny is a contributing editor to the New Statesman. She is the author of five books, most recently Unspeakable Things.