DIARY
Invitations to election-night parties are arriving. This time I shall be free to accept. For the past three elections I have been caught up in the election result pro- grammes — being one of the many BBC foot-soldiers out in the constituencies wait- ing patiently for my particular result to be declared, then enjoying some 30 seconds of glory while talking down the line to David Dimbleby. The truth is, the waiting wasn't always patient and the glory was sometimes eclipsed. In 1992, I was monitoring the Political arrival of Glenda Jackson. This was a newsworthy count and, as well as the usual home teams of BBC and ITN, some 50 foreign journalists and cameramen were gathered at Camden town hall for what was seen as more than a British event — our answer to Merlina Mercouri. Julian Barnes, no less, was there for the New Yorker. Glen- da — perhaps eager to shed the spangles of showbiz and foil any inclination on people's part to brand her a luvvie — had scarcely been seen to smile throughout the cam- paign. Even as she was declared the winner, she displayed churlish hauteur towards the world's media. Prevailed on to set up their forest of cameras in an adjacent hall, the waiting newsmen were stunned when Ms Jackson peremptorily decided not to appear and was swept off instead to a cele- bration with her supporters. Perhaps she'll allow herself to smile this time round.
0 ver recent weeks, juries have been assembling to decide the Bafta awards for 29 April. I was one of the jurors choosing Which arts programme deserved the Huw Wheldon award. We have each watched some eight hours of shortlisted candidates, then gathered in a circle among the sub- dued lighting and comfortable plush of one of Bafta's viewing theatres. The pro- cedures are now quite complicated, each Juror signing an individual form each time a shorter shortlist is agreed. This palaver stems from an embarrassment some years ago, when Prime Suspect somehow came out as the top drama, despite the fact that four drama jurors declared publicly that they had voted for Verity Lambert's pro- duction of Alan Bleasdale's GBH. The truth of what happened couldn't be fully established, as all the paperwork had been thrown away. Our signed documents will be kept for a year. As to our arts pro- gramme shortlist, several interesting facts emerged: the best programmes are still as good as they ever were; programme-mak- ers still strive to explain the obscure and elusive with great flair; a vivid, intelligent Personality remains one of the best ways of communicating ideas. This made our final decision very tough indeed. Even I
JOAN BAKE WELL
don't know the result, as voting was secret. The paperwork, you know.
Amy taxi-driver delivered me to the Royal Opera House at 5 p.m. on Monday, he wondered, 'Are they doing two perfor- mances tonight, then?' No. I was merely doing six hours of the House's triumphant production of Wagner's Die Meistersinger von Nurnberg which has won critical plau- dits from all directions. As a consequence, there was not a seat to be had. Queues for standing room and returns already stretched round the building by 9 a.m. that morning. At the tumultuous final curtain, Gwynne Howell, who sang Pogner, was presented with the ROH's silver medal for long service. He had sung Pogner back in 1983 when I first heard this stupendous work. Then, Geraint Evans had sung Beckmesser. This time it was sung by another ROH stalwart, Thomas Allen, whose acting is now as fine as his singing. So the Opera House has a hit on its hands. Market forces would suggest, play it long, to full houses, make a goodly profit so that you will be less dependent in future on sub- Scouting for boys sidy. It can't work like that. First, no singers could put their voices through such exact- ing roles without days of rest in between; second, musicians' careers are booked and tied up years in advance; third, the Opera House has obligations to its ballet company as well. Glib solutions to arts funding don't work, I'm afraid.
So farewell, then, to the Department of National Heritage. Labour's arts policy document arrived and told me that Labour intend to rename it. The Tories, of course, deserve credit for setting it up at all in 1992, when under David Mellor it was swiftly dubbed the Department of Fun. But for Labour heritage as a concept is proba- bly too redolent of moneyed toffs, stately homes and dusty collections rarely visited. So what next? Will they have the courage to go for 'Department of Culture', a term that in its broadest sense can cover all we make and do, but which smacks to some of Soviet-style diktat, the sort that persecutes rather than encourages artists? My fear is that they will opt for one of those mealy- mouthed phrases — 'cultural industries' or, 'creative economy' — designed to justify the arts merely as vehicles of employment and tourist income. In fact, Labour's arts policy pulls off several very neat shifts in emphasis. Instead of dealing with how to fund the arts infrastructure of the country — something that creates an impression of institutions lapping up subsidy — Labour talk is all of how more people can have more access to the arts for the least cost. This is exactly the remit of the first Arts Council set up in 1946. In the 1990s, it is a bold and refreshing concept. But beyond suggestions for free theatre nights and stu- dent arts cards lies something which, if they mean it and can do it, just might improve all our lives. 'The ministry will be expected to make a contribution to achieving the goals of our cultural policy.' And again, 'The huge importance of British architec- ture and design will be a fundamental con- sideration in all government policy.' So can we look forward to better buildings — schools, hospitals, even government depart- ments? Certainly the document raises hopes.
Meanwhile, lighter talk is of who the Labour arts minister will be. John Cunning- ham is not felt to have much care or flair for the arts. Mark Fisher has toiled long and hard and would make an excellent min- ister. But the arts world itself seems increasingly in favour of one particular name — Peter Mandelson.
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