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Plain documentary evidence in the form of lists and nominations tells an unequivocal, if unexciting, story of Russia’s Booker prize, at any rate in its early years. Past Booker winners include such luminaries as Vladimir Makanin (1993) and Bulat Okudzhava (1994). However, slightly deeper investigation shows that it is an unpredictable few of the supposedly predictable big names who have made it onto the shortlist. Each year a longlist with a respectable complement of Bitovs and Aksenovs has been narrowed down to a maximum of six. The topic of exclusions and inclusions has aroused debate regarding not only the literary merits of an author himself but, by extension, also of the cultural health of the world's self-proclaimedly 'most reading' nation.

To an unsuspecting former centre of empire immediately post-collapse, the introduction of the Booker Prize may have seemed an event of negligible importance when competing with the weird and epoch-forming events reported daily by the media. Nevertheless, it arrived in the deflated aftermath of a fervent concentration on 'publitsistika'. Writers had been intoxicated by the novelty of a tacit withdrawal of censorship and the urgency of dealing with an era-ful of suppression, to say nothing of the disorientating upheavals around them. Now, however, they found themselves running out of past facts and opinions for unearthing and examination, while the mere saying of the formerly publicly unsayable no longer served alone as justification for a text. The new prize was thus seized on by those with pretensions to cultural connoisseurship as an opportunity to inject fresh life and direction into creative expression. There was hope, moreover, that it could reaffirm objective aesthetic standards at a time when literature was declining into pure documentation, its creators unmindful that though truth may be stranger than fiction, its simple restatement is no guarantee of artistic worth. Beneath a burden of fairly weighty expectations, then, the Booker has tottered between temporary flurries of squabbling epatage and the indignities of indifference. After only four years, cooperation was discreetly enlisted from a charitable foundation run by Smirnoff plc. By 2000 the name Booker was already a historical relic. Such are the vagaries of the capitalism, of which many Russians saw Booker plc as the embodiment, that essentially the same process has occurred in Britain, with the ailing company's buyout by Iceland. The 28 years's seniority of the UK original, however, means the company name is allowed to hang on in venerable retirement as nominal sponsor, minus the financial obligation.

This highlights the fact that the literary prize's significance lay in prestige rather than profit: clearly cultural respectability did not give sufficient heft to sales figures. Meanwhile, the British public's vagueness as to the Booker prize's prosaic financial sources (wholesale catering) has perhaps been the very reason that the prize itself has garnered a recognition factor and cocoon of edifying associations incompatible with Iceland's favoured trademark of cuddly talking polar bears.

The latter aspects of the prize's reputation managed to precede it to Russia - and have often since produced problems seemingly rooted in irreconcilable cross-cultural differences. The prize-backers' own ambitions, procedures and self-perceptions mingled and became entangled with the process of its actual reception, the naturalisation of the Booker myth, the anticipatory demands and the inevitable disappointment at the points of mismatch.

Those positively inclined have at various times cited the Booker as the most important literary prize in the UK, and in Europe, and in the world - the first claim perhaps justified, the others more spurious. Their originators, of course, need not produce the figures to back the gush. It was these estimations, however, that Booker's Russian supporters adopted, willingly persuaded of the prize's ability to bestow universal glory. In fact, the Booker's installation and progress formed a trail of mutual point-missing. Even Booker plc might have balked at the allegations of one admirer, welcoming a prize: 'venchavshaia ran'she pisatelei Evropy tol'ko do granits zheleznogo zanavesa'. Likewise, even in 1994 certain critics saw the winner's translation into English (with the corresponding boost to sales figures) as a foregone conclusion, in the face of 1992 winner Mark Kharitonov's only eventual and reluctant translation into German. In later years, Viktor Pelevin's Chapaev i pustota, deemed unworthy even of the shortlist, made it into 14 languages.

Misunderstandings, or simple failures of fact-checking, continue beyond the preconceptions. A Russian commentator in 1996, attempting to compare the UK attitude favourably to its Russian version, describes the UK shortlisted works as: 'mrachnye' - in this context not a negative, but indicative of the works' confrontation of Serious Issues and the collective social conscience. This description was thus applied to, among others, Shena Mackay, Margaret Atwood, Graham Swift and Beryl Bainbridge - authors not renowned for high comedy, but neither for irrevocable gloom. MacKay specifically is noted for the palyfulness of her language and luxuriance of metaphor, more (early) Tolstaia than Tolstoi. This misery was then contrasted with the spectacle of Russia's 'pestry karnaval' on other people's money. The critic therefore rebuked by implication Andrei Sergeev's memoirs, which contained an honest examination of the author's behaviour during the purge years, and Viktor Astaf'ev's treatment of the Second World War - on the grounds of frivolity. Generalisation was not all one way: the first jury's Western representative, John Bayley, remarked on Russia's higher standards and richer variety, despite the presence of Ian McEwan's Black Dogs and Michael Ondaatje's English Patient on the UK shortlist.

Inviting Western Slavonic Studies specialists was intended to guarantee an element of neutrality and disinterestedness, a counterweight to, for example, Russian journal editors. Undoubtedly experts in the literary situation, editors simultaneously had their own pet causes to promote and sales figures to boost. The element of experience supposedly possessed by those familiar with the British award's system should reassure at a time when the country was still confronting: 'ustoiavsheesia nedoverie ko vsemu svoemu' - but could be alternatively interpreted as an attempt to reinforce Russia's inferiority complex for the benefit of UK cultural interests. After all, these were essentially alien imports: 'fig kotorym poniat' zagadochnuiu slavanskuiu dushu'. (This accusation is dubious, however, in that it issued from a self-styled guru of the postmodern - to allow for anything as nebulous as a Slavonic Soul in the midst of the 90s' global village smacks of self-contradiction).

Taking up such doubts and running, the journal Den', for instance, condemned the entire affair as a pernicious Zionist plot, citing the fact that the first winner was Jewish. Similar comments came from Eduard Limonov, and cultural observers of his ilk - this prize was an imperialist strategy to undermine pure Russian culture. Even from the less extreme were hints of feeling slighted by an assumption that Russia was incapable of directing its own artistic, never mind economic, development. This led to yet more, less generously inclined, misconceptions. One Russian jurist bemoaned the condition that the prize must go to a single winner, the: 'zapadny mentalitet' being inimical to his country's innate cultural generosity. That year in Britain Barry Unsworth and Michael Ondaatje went halfers. Likewise in 2000 the contemporary UK novel was lampooned for the: 'chisto angliiskii kharakter deistvuiushchikh lits i konflikt na urovne 'povedenie, ne dostoinoe dzhentlemena'' - against entries by a Japanese, an Irish and a second generation Italian author, with the eventual winner Canadian. Attitudes of this type sit well alongside their reverse; John Bayley's view could be construed as the equally predictable reaction of the post-colonially guilt-ridden, determinedly relativist literary liberal.

As Smirnoff glitz began to take over, a shade of nostalgia entered the critical articles of those present from inception. The Booker was recalled as: 'blagotvoritel'nost' s ektsentricheskim ottenkom'. A mere ten years into the award's existence, such hindsight is fitting as a manifestation of what is often seen as a major, if subconscious, aspect of the Booker spirit, with its flavour of disintegrating empire. It can be juxtaposed with the pragmatism of Sir Michael Caine himself, for all his personal interest in backing a Booker myth. According to him: 'premia uchrezhdalas' iz vpolne delovykh soobrazhenii'. It was launched in the UK as a ploy to draw attention both to the company name as it transferred operations from the now independent Commonwealth countries, and to its new literary-financial enterprise. This was a mutually-lucrative legitimate tax-dodge: Booker purchased an author's publishing rights, thereby receiving income from sales of existing and production of new editions , while the author avoided various levies.

Russia at first seems a surprising choice for annexation. However, it is a self-consciously literate country, 'samai chitaiushchaia strana', and therefore evidently more receptive than developing countries with lower literacy rates. Unlike many areas with full literacy, meanwhile, Russia presented an open field for such an award, as opposed to, for example, the USA, which already had several competitions of its own. Thirdly, newly-liberated Russia did offer a vague market potential, again in contrast to even more poverty-stricken developing nations or their opposites, the western countries whose markets were effectively already saturated. The traditional outside view of the Russian novel as a vast tome battling with intricate philosophical questions encouraged a smug sense of true cultural appreciation, handily combined with a second, ostensibly incompatible, western stereotype, of Russia as a romantic enigma. Cultural tourists were therefore provided with the respectable thrill afforded by a mixture of the momentous and exotic.

As the years passed, the critics betrayed their disillusion. The administration of, and literary standards propagated by, the Booker Prize had no apparent point of contact with Real Life. The general public, having more pressing concerns, tended to ignore it altogether, and critics who felt excluded deplored its cliquiness. Even in 1992 the jury composition is familiar and predictable: 'do boli'. With the final aim of establishing the prize as solely Russian-run, a Management Committee was set up in 1995. Its membership, however, was hardly comforting. Initial participants were Galina Belaia, Lev Anninskii and Andrei Nemzer, as close to household names as cultural critics can be and ubiquitous in the literary world's 'tusovka'. Their co-members were Sergei Borovinov, editor, Vitalii Babenko, publisher, and Arsenii Roginskii a writer and historian of the same liberal inclinations as his fellows. There was widespread feeling that juries and managers each had a personal strategy leading in to self-absorbed infighting and the result that prizes were bestowed: 'komu ne zhalko'. In other words, actual quality was overlooked in favour of status, and the selected winners tended either to be a nonentity who plummeted back to obscurity immediately after the acceptance speech, or a big name who would scarcely notice an addition to the multitude of honours already accumulated. Even the physical award then, disregarding any surrounding aura, brought no benefit. As the Marketing Director of Vagrius, a relatively highbrow publishing house, explained, the contest was run by people: 'zanimaiushchiesia veshchiu v sebe i dlia sebia, no ne dlia chitatelei'.

In essence this echoes UK circumstances, but these are mitigated by this country's size, the fact that it is less exclusively centralised and by its relatively healthy publishing industry. In addition, the 'in-crowd' factor has prompted efforts at populism - with odds offered in betting shops, newspapers stirring up 'people's debates', involvement of figures from lighter entertainment media and some hugely successful film adaptations. Nonetheless, it remains a milieu dominated by those with Oxbridge connections, graduates and tutors of the University of East Anglia's creative writing course, various other professional academics, media pundits, tokens (that year's man from the provinces), publishers and the select circle of writers-critics whose occupation consists of producing books for review by friends whose books in their spare time they review.

In Britain, it took at least ten years before any notion of popularity could arise. Then in 1980 the award was contested by so-called literary heavywights Anthony Burgess and William Golding, the ceremony accompanied by rumours of threats, tantrums and behind-the-scenes histrionics. The newspapers talked up the showdown, but it could not truthfully be said to have shaken civil society. Mini-controversies over fixing, jury incompetency and shock winners have perpetuated at least low-key levels of interest. So in 1993 Geoffrey Hoskings could rue the intrusion on the purity of the Russian version's literary ideal by garish western commercialism. He then goes on to compare it to the Lenin prize, in fact suggesting that the Booker had become establishment, and acquired a mystique and conclusiveness that could leaven the unsavoury intrusion of hard cash. The Russian media recognised that the Booker had begun to form a new literary 'generalitet', and to dictate new norms, an observation made wit h is some ambivalence. Systematising standards permitted stability in a culture with its blueprints whisked from under it; on the other hand, these might simply be precursors of a new conservatism, as unnatural as the Socialist Realist restraints preceding it.

Even doubts, though, were positive acknowledgements. In 1996 came accusations that Booker already 'marzhinaliziruetsia'. In 1997, asked his opinion of the shortlist, the previous year's winner denounced it outright; he was not only 'razocharovan' but 'skandalizovan'. He was alone in this condition - the announcement of the winner was practically unnoticed. That year's cause celebre actually centred on Booker's sworn rival, the cunningly named Antibooker. The recipient, Sergei Gandlevskii, returned the prize in protest firstly against confusion surrounding the payment of travel expenses to attend the presentation, and secondly against being taxed on the prize money, inspired not, he insisted, by cupidity but the need to retaliate to a slight on his: 'chelovecheskoe dostoinstvo'. And by 1999, there were so many awards competing for so little readership attention, that: 'Seichas tol'ko lenivyi ikh ne poluchaet'.

Nevertheless, literary papers in 2000 compared the good old days of 7 years ago when the shortlist was announced in the old hall of Moscow's Foreign Language Library, a more fitting setting, it was considered, than the present year's Oil Club. The final presentation took place in the Marriott Grand Hotel, where amongst the besuited 4businessmen and their glamorous sidekicks the writers were merely: 'sluchainye'. The decision provoked no audience response; as one observer commented: 'vsem nadoela maloperspektivnaia polemika' - a worrying state of affairs if conflict is indeed the impetus to cultural development. This was a pattern followed at 2001's Moscow book market: the foreign publishers' pavilion was muted and businesslike while in the Russian pavilion visitors took camel rides, symphony orchestras played, and the publishers themselves displayed exemplary pragmatism: 'ne vse schitaetsia v rubliakh. Est' i drugie zadachi, bolee vazhnye...'; anyone familiar with Russian literary argument could complete the sentence with a reference to the writer and publisher's spiritual duty to the people. The interviewee continues: '...naprimer, imidzh izdatel'stva'. The west seems to have been beaten at its own game.

Simultaneously, some have managed to appropriate the moral high ground. While recent British Bookers have tended to downplay shades of elitism, emphasising the 'good read' aspect, many of the Russian participants have approached the project far more seriously (humourlessly?). The first winner, accepting the award, took up on the prize's behalf its responsibility as a guide towards re-establishing the writer's: 'chuvstvo obshchei dukhovnoi zadachi'. There lingers a residual sense that literature, not only in the prize-giving realm, can indeed be credited with something as portentous as a: 'zadacha'. Accompanying ceremonies, though, are useful as platforms, allowing commentators to gain the recipient's perspective on the importance of his profession. So Solzhenitsyn, receiving the American National Arts Club prize in 1993 warns of a conspiracy of the avant garde, whose aim is to: 'sotriasti ne tol'ko vsiu kul'turu, no i samu zhizn'; and if true artists fail to stand firm, this plot will bring about 'opasneishee padenie chelovecheskovo dukha na Zemle'. Equally apocalyptic, though not uncommon in any society at present, are some of the critics' laments regarding the imminent death of literature. In 1997, one writer equated it with the death of: 'otechestvennoi kul'tury', bringing on the disappearance: 'russkogo naroda', in turn provoking, with this loss of some mystical power exerted on the planet's spiritual equilibrium, world history's: 'povorot v tupik' (another opinion being that as prophet of doom he hopes to arouse enough argument to forestall the catastrophe he predicts, thereby saving his own career - no culture naturally means no cultural criticism). While the criteria for a Booker winner modestly restrict themselves to a vague: 'luchshe', the Solzhenitsyn prize is somewhat more explicit in its demands, namely for a work that: 'obladaet vysokimi khudozhestvennymi dostoinstvami, sposobstvuet samopoznaniiu Rossii, vnosit znachi tel'ny vklad v sokhranenie i berezhnoe razvitiu traditsii otechestvennoi literatury'. One possessing all these qualities would be award-worthy indeed.

There is still the occasional voice of reason. Alla Marchenko, in 1994, reminded readers that: 'my ved' ne o nravstvennosti tut tolkuem, a o literature'. Precisely the point, however, is that traditionally (at least since Belinskii decided so) for Russians the two have allegedly been inseparable. That same year, for instance, an actual jury member misses the point entirely, insisting that novels had been shortlisted not: 'po predpochteniiu, a - pri prochikh ravnykh - po nravstvennomu (quality)'. One of the selected authors, Mikhail Levitin, reinforced this by declaring that the duty of art lies in bestowing form on nightmare and chaos - not such an innovative concept, but normally politely relegated to theoretical textbooks consulted only by the academically inclined, not espoused by moonlighting film directors at the year's allegedly most glamorous literary happening. Whether the difference is attributable to traditional British reticence, or does reflect something not just more vociferous but essentially irreconcilable in the two nations' approaches to the concept of art is another topic for debate; in the meantime we can compare the reaction of Peter Carey on being named this year's British prizewinner, a concise, 'I'm delighted', and departure for dinner.

The literary prize has been something of an institution in 20^th-21^st century Russian literature, but public reception measured itself according to values diametrically opposing the western norm. The association of prizes with prestige was rejected; particularly in the mid to end Soviet period they were generally despised, and any writer awarded them immediately discredited in the eyes of 'serious' art. For the most important, named for Lenin and then Stalin, comprised no mystery as to what qualities impressed the judges (uncritical praise of the state and absurdly insincere optimism being two of the most obvious). The Union of Writers prizes sought the same criteria on a smaller scale, the Union's remit being to cater to publications in the neglected regions, and to ensure the efficiency of indoctrination in the provinces. There were moves to fill this gap after 1991 - at any rate to replace the original idea of a token of esteem, albeit motivated by different criteria for conferral. A new prize was founded by the impressive-sounding 'Kommissia pri prezidente rossiiskoi federatsii po gosudarstvennym premiiam RF v oblasti literatury i isskustva', beginning by offering 10 million roubles, subsequently suitably inflation-adjusted, to a novel that: 'prodolzhaet luchshie traditsii rossiiskoi slovesnosti'. Alternatively, but already in the realm of foreign patronage, in this case German, there was the Pushkin prize of 40,000 marks; even here, however, there are public assumptions about the partiality of those who decide just who is worthy, past judgments notably tending to favour the so-called: 'shestidesiatniki' and associates of the Russian PEN-klub. Also in this category is the Penne prize, co-sponsored by the National Reserve Bank with Italian support, the winner guaranteed translation into Italian. Then there is the Triumf, to the tune of $20,000, perceived as simply a spiritually capitalist version of the former state prizes. The position of the communist nomenclatura is now occupied by the new, monied elite (frequently the same people in any case), with the happy awardees, once the: 'generalitet' (a polite noun approximating 'servile mediocrities'), replaced by the new: 'establishment'. Then again, there is the Antibuker, founded in 1995 by Boris Berezovskii's Nezavisimaia gazeta - apart form an attempt to annoy Booker's associates (the first year's prize was $12,501, a dollar more than Booker came up with), the actual niche it was intended to occupy is unclear, as both Booker and AntiBuker's short- and longlists often feature the same names.

More outspokenly cause-serving are, for example, the Solzhenitsyn Prize, launched in April 1998. A very clear vision of the type of work meriting reward, the ability to offer what was then the highest monetary prize available ($25,000) a jury consisting exclusively of yes-people and Solzhenitsyn's own inarguably iconic status meant that 'literary qualities' in this case became identical with 'personal predilection'. Slightly more covertly, the organisation Otkrytoe obshchestvo's culture and arts programme runs open competitions to promote projects that will: 'sodeistvovat' vsestoronnemu razvitiiu kul'tury v Rossii v sootvetstvii s ideiiami i tsennostiami otkrytogo, demokratichiskovo obshchestva'. With such stipulations, it is unsurprising to learn that the organisation is funded by George Soros; different qualitative measures are applied, but these prizes too are dependent on whim and myth-generation (in these instances of the miracle of a free society or the transformatory role of the creative giant), and as ideologically biased, as their communist forerunners. An intriguing contrast is presented by the 'new wave' of literature arriving from beyond the Urals around the time of the first Booker competition, one of its proteges, Aleksandr Ivanchenko, appearing on the 1992 shortlist. This surge of bright young talent was financed by Belaia bashnia, an insurance company that rejected both imputations of altruism and commercial brand awareness-raising. The directors claimed simply that noone was writing the sort of literature they wanted to read - so they began paying people to fill that gap. An idea which may have aroused horror in those who see art's function as something more elevated than mere entertainment, but in fact only bearing witness to a return to old-style patronage, whereby wealth (rather than pure politics) dictated the subject matter. The artist fulfilled the conditions laid down and the Sistine Chapel ceiling was the result. Less attention-grabbing, but numerous, are the 'otraslevye' awards, distributed within various genres, for instance science fiction - evidence of the instinctive clustering of the embattled. When existence is perilous, there is safety in numbers, and these groupings are miniatures of the only slightly more self-assured literary 'tusovka' converging around metropolitan comprehensiveness.

All in all, then, despite its relative diversity now the prize-giving field in Russian literature is still believed to reward behaviour rather than output, with the (sometimes conscious) goal that its adjudicators: 'vystraivaiiut dogovornye ierarkhii', in a replication of the role they had always hitherto fulfilled.

Triumphant tales from Britain of miraculously escalating sales figures following a Booker win have not cut any ice with its Russian counterpart. According to the director of Gran' publishing house, the measurable effect so far has been a laconic: 'uspekh nulevoi'. Recent marketing ploys being pondered include deliberately increasing the print runs of books featured on prize lists, distributing copies via supermarket chains, promoting internet shopping - in effect, bombarding the potential reader into submission.

As for the sponsors themselves: literary prize sponsorship in Britain is to some degree seen as class targeted. The 'target', however, is precisely the class Russia lacks, an absence for which social theorists tend to blame economic instability. Identification of a market sector does not automatically bring that sector into being. Perhaps, then, the marketeer's best strategy would be the nurturing of an alternative attitude to consumption, by edging out the prevalent brash consumerism of monetary wealth's first flush with a subtler image of cultivated reticence and intellectual snobbery. It has been suggested that value to the sponsor be calculated by the total cost of the enterprise over the number of namechecks in the press; as a wholesaler, though, Booker's gain from name-recognition amongst the ordinary public would be minimal, while the profitable alternative of attracting shareholders is precluded by the general dearth of capital and absence of a properly regulated stock market.

With this in mind, has the Booker had any palpable effect on the literary scene, aside from providing the critics with the pleasant diversions of feasting and bickering? There have been accusations that it: 'vkonets isportil' literature: - in order to be considered, authors were forced to adopt the novel form rather than the supposedly more traditional 'povest'' or 'rasskaz', as otherwise publishers would reject them as non-contenders and thus less likely profit sources. This viewpoint ignores the fact that the very reason shorter works were favoured was the country's lack of outlets for publishing such longer works; for 'tolstyi dzhurnaly', shorter is more manageable. With the free market, such restrictions, in theory, need no longer apply. Solzhenitsyn, in the speech mentioned above, seemed inclined almost to praise censorship; or at any rate tight self-control, this latter understandable given the recent flourishing of unbridled linguistic 'rasputstvo' and tiresome, grandly deluded self-analysis. But if certain restraints are indeed to be welcomed, there is no reason why one of them should not be the imposition of form - numerous sonnets, for example, have been written celebrating the honing qualities of their own poetic form. With regard to theme there does not seem to be any selectivity at work in either Britain or Russia, though the present role of each country within the wider course of history means the Russian contingent inevitably has more of an eschatological outlook, Britain, with its notorious insularity, preferring the smaller detail and the resurrection of the neglected individual buried beneath the sweep of historical generalities. A keywording experiment comparing shortlisted British works against a random control sample proved relatively inconclusive; the former showed above-average occurrences of the words 'grey', 'lost', 'dog', and the spoken phrase: 'I'm sorry'. A similar experiment using cognate words managed to highlight certain thematic similarities, of loss, sadness and regret. This, however, is not necessarily attributable to the gloom of the Booker juries, as the lists are as likely to be the effect of this downbeat attitude - after all, they only have available those works that have actually been written - as its cause.

Michael Caine recalled that the British prize's initiator, Jock Campbell, liked to cite a company's duties not only to its clients and shareholders, but also: 'pered obshchestvom'. The Booker helped fulfil this obligation, presumably as a disseminator of culture. Given the Booker director's social position this standpoint as to what constituted culture was probably synonymous with the very Leavis, conservative canon that has in recent years been subjected to charges of elitism and subjectivity. To this extent, then, the Booker could be accused not so much of imposing criteria as (unconsciously) perpetuating them. Besides, earlier works now acclaimed as masterpieces, by the likes of Dostoevskii and Dickens, were equally market-driven, their shape dictated by publishers providing for journal audiences and their appetite for cliffhangers. This type of control is thus not solely a symptom of mature capitalism. Prize-giving is patronage of a slightly different nature in that the artist-sponsor relationship is not upheld throughout the creation of the work. The novel (or painting, or ballet) is presented as a finished piece, arrived at independently; the connection is established on a shorter-term basis perhaps analogous to the speed of the contemporary mass economy and information society. Now, too, the sponsor tends to be in it strictly for the money, rather than with any expectation of raising its own cultural brows. All this may truly be antipathetic to the ideals of art; on the other hand, anyone used to working to deadlines will be familiar with the consciousness that without the unavoidable date, the work would never be completed, and many artists are quoted praising these outside demands for their galvanising effect. The conclusion, however, must be that real independent creation exists only when conveniently accompanied by an independent income, for someone like Tolstoy; maybe, though, the higher skill consists of combining the needs for both income and self-expression, and transcending them, call it the Pushkin paradigm. Pushkins are rare, and the Booker certainly has not uncovered any serious pretenders; but while it (and others like it) exists, despite the aspersions cast in its direction, there will always be the hope that something truly special is out there and just awaiting its space on this year's shortlist.