Operation Nobel

Obama arrives to claim his prize

It was raining, some will say fittingly, as Barack Obama arrived in Oslo this morning to receive his much-remarked-on Nobel Prize. So bad was the weather, in fact, that Obama was forced to make the trip from the airport to the downtown Nobel Peace Institute in convoy, the usually busy E6 motorway out of town being closed to allow smooth passage.

The Norwegians are used to awful weather, of course, but they aren't used to all this: the helicopters circling overhead, the roads blocked to regular traffic, the probing pat-down of security checks as they make their way around town. Their country has, on the whole, resisted the arrival of Starbucks and other trappings of American culture (Marshall aid excepted, perhaps) -- much more so than the UK, say.

Today, though, they are getting a real taste of America. "Ninety-two million Kroner extra", announced Dagsavisen recently about security arrangements for Obama's visit, only for the figure to be revised upwards by several million kroner a week later. That's the sort of money that would normally go into municipal works, such as district heating, in this part of the world. But today the Christmas market in the large open plaza that abuts the harbour has been closed (it was a security threat), a whole section of town has been cordoned off, and there are more police about than the country even knew it had. The daily Dagbladet has labelled all the fuss "Operation Nobel".

For this, and other reasons, the decision to give this award to the president of the United States of America in just his first year in office is no more universally popular in Norway than it has been around the world. In the lead-up to his visit, some have grumbled about how Obama has cut down on the number of activities the winner is usually expected to undertake. And more than a few have questioned the extra fuss being made about him. But this is what happens when a standing president wins. The Norwegians really have only themselves to thank.

Yet today, their problem is also Obama's problem, for what happens when a Peace Prize-winner announces a troop surge to a war zone, as Obama has done in Afghanistan, is yet to be established. The president was apparently working on that particular aspect of his speech on the flight over from Washington.

On arriving in Norway, Obama made the Nobel Prize Institute his first stop. There, he didn't just sign the book, he practically wrote an essay in it. I would hazard there was more than a penny for those particular thoughts. Left-handed Obama then handed over to right-handed Michelle as she, too, signed the book and he stood back, joking politely with Nobel Committee members.

For a minute, as he looked down, he appeared distinctly proud. But when he turned to the committee -- and perhaps an indication of the tone of the speech to come this afternoon -- he deflected attention from himself. It was their work promoting the cause of peace that he thanked them for.

Then it was off again, to Oslo's regjeringens kvartaler -- the government district -- where he was to meet the Norwegian prime minister, Jens Stoltenberg. Later (around 2pm UK time) Obama will formally receive his prize and give his acceptance speech. Perhaps the weather will have cleared by then.

 

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How Ken Loach's radical vision won him a second Palm d'Or

In Loach's films, authenticity is everything, and when his quest for realism pays off, there's nothing as raw in all of cinema.

On 22 May, at the age of 79, Ken Loach became the first British director to win the top prize twice at the Cannes Film Festival. His previous Palme d’Or, in 2006, was for The Wind That Shakes the Barley, which dramatised the British occupation of Ireland and the origins of the IRA. This time, he won for I, Daniel Blake, the story of an ailing carpenter wrongly declared fit for work by the callous UK benefits system. No wonder Ed Vaizey, the culture minister, could issue only the most grudging acknowledgement, alluding vaguely to “Brit success!” in a tweet that failed to mention either Loach or the film.

The actor and Cannes jury member Donald Sutherland, on the other hand, called I, Daniel Blake “an absolutely terrific movie that resonates in your heart and soul”. It was an incongruous delight to see Loach posing before swarms of paparazzi. He usually disdains such frivolities; he might be red but he’s hardly red carpet. “As a film-maker, you’re forever involved in things that constantly inflate their own importance,” he once complained. Artifice, hyperbole and celebrity hold no appeal. Even film-making itself is full of irritating impediments. “If Loach could make a film without a camera, he would,” said Trevor Griffiths, who collaborated with him on Fatherland (1986).

Authenticity is everything. Unusually, Loach shoots in sequence, even if it requires moving back and forth at great cost between locations. In the days of celluloid, he would forfeit much of his fee to buy more film stock so that his beloved improvisations could roll on and on. When I visited the set of Carla’s Song near Loch Lomond in 1995, Loach gave the actor Robert Carlyle a good-natured ticking off for speaking to me between takes. “I’d rather he didn’t talk to anyone,” he said, “because then he’ll start thinking about things in terms of technique and who he really is, and it’ll all become conscious.”

When the quest for realism pays off, there is nothing as raw in all cinema. Think of the chilling attack on a family home by loan sharks in his 1993 drama Raining Stones, one of the films that began his most successful period, or the climax of Cathy Come Home, made for the BBC in 1966 and arguably his most groundbreaking film. As Cathy (Carol White) has her children taken off her by social workers and police, Loach films the entire traumatic episode in a wide shot with a hidden camera to preserve the reality. The movie led directly to the founding of Crisis.

Conversely, Loach at his worst can be one of the most simplistic sentimentalists out there. The characterisation of the salt-of-the-earth heroes in recent films such as Jimmy’s Hall and Route Irish, or the pantomime-villain Brits in The Wind That Shakes the Barley, shows what happens when action is overpowered by agenda.

Born in Nuneaton, Warwickshire, Loach read law at Oxford but became seduced by theatre directing and acting: he was in a revue for which Dudley Moore composed the music, and understudied in the West End in One Over the Eight. He joined the BBC in 1963, where he brought extra earthiness to Z-Cars before finding his ideal outlet in The Wednesday Play slot that went out after the news. “We were very anxious for our plays not to be considered dramas but as continuations of the news,” he said. He made ten TV films under that banner but it was with his second movie, Kes, in 1969, that he took flight, proving that the gritty and the lyrical need not be mutually exclusive.

His politics was fully formed by this point. Though he has rejected claims that he is Marxist or Trotskyist, he admits that the analysis to which he turned after his disillusionment with Harold Wilson in the mid-1960s was a Marxist one. “The idea of a class analysis was the one we identified with,” he said of himself and his collaborators the producer Tony Garnett and the writer Jim Allen. “What we realised was that social democrats and Labour politicians were simply acting on behalf of the ruling class, protecting the interests of capital.”

This stance was consolidated by a series of run-ins in the 1980s, when he saw his work banned and thwarted by political forces. The transmission of his four-part 1983 television documentary Questions of Leadership, which asked whether the trade union leadership was adequately representing its members’ interests, was delayed and blocked by Labour string-pulling. Which Side Are You On? – a documentary about the miners’ strike – was rejected because of footage showing police violence.

Since his full-time return to cinema in the early 1990s, acclaim has eclipsed controversy. Even if he had not won a Palme d’Or, his stamp is all over other directors who have won that award in the past 20 years. The Belgian social realists Jean-Pierre and Luc Dardenne (Rosetta, The Child) have never hidden their debt to him, while recent winners such as Jacques Audiard (Dheepan) and Cristian Mingiu (4 Months, 3 Weeks, 2 Days) exhibit his mixture of directness, compassion and realism.

If there is anything that defines him, it is his fight, which has made it possible for him to remain one of cinema’s angriest and most effective voices. “In the long term, I guess I’m optimistic because people always fight back,” he said. “The reason to make films is just to let people express that, to share that kind of resilience because that’s what makes you smile. It’s what makes you get up in the morning.”

“I, Daniel Blake” is released later this year

Ryan Gilbey is the New Statesman's film critic. He is also the author of It Don't Worry Me (Faber), about 1970s US cinema, and a study of Groundhog Day in the "Modern Classics" series (BFI Publishing). He was named reviewer of the year in the 2007 Press Gazette awards.

This article first appeared in the 26 May 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The Brexit odd squad