Gilbey on Film: who cares about Warren Beatty?

Our film critic spots a publicity stunt

Called upon by City Limits magazine (if the name doesn't ring a bell, ask your parents) to describe his perfect night out, that old romantic Mike Leigh gave a laconic response: "Food, film, fuck."

No excuse, after that, for a lucky lady being squired around town by the director to harbour any illusions about what was on the table. Although you do have to ask: food then film, Mike, and then straight on to the episode of transcendent intimacy? Surely you want the film first, so you can discuss it over grub before putting the cherry on the cake, as it were. Otherwise you run the risk of squeezing the precious post-movie discussion into the bus ride home -- not a problem if you came all the way from Inverness to the Truro Plaza for your big night out, but rather less relaxing if we're talking a brief hop across town.

What you want to avoid at all costs, I'm suggesting, is having any unfinished business and nagging questions intruding where they're not welcome. Nothing puts the dampener on a volcanic torrent of passion quite like one of the participants demanding at an inopportune moment: "And give me one good reason for the continuing employment of Gerard Butler. Go on, just one!"

I was reminded of Leigh's words by the brouhaha over the new biography of Warren Beatty. Now there's a man who would have a marginally different response to the City Limits question. Peter Biskind, author of Star: How Warren Beatty Seduced America, has estimated that Beatty slept with 12,775 women. So I'm guessing that, unlike Leigh, the actor would pass on the food and film. (Not hard to believe. Anyone who saw his last movie, Town and Country, will testify that his interest in cinema is kaput.)

Am I alone in hearing news of this headcount and not really giving a... well, a single one of those things that Beatty did with nearly 13,000 women? It's all priceless publicity for Biskind, a savvy writer, and will doubtless sell more copies of a book that's illuminating about the movie industry. But like most tittle-tattle, this revelation doesn't deepen our comprehension of what's on the screen -- although in Beatty's case it may go a small way toward explaining what isn't. (He is, in cinema at least, the supreme underachiever, the classic example of making a little go a long way.)

I can't recall a single example of beneath-the-duvet gossip that enhanced my understanding of a film, or of anyone's talent. The chief value, as in all such instances, is in the mountains of material it provides for gag-writers, such as these pertinent thoughts from readers commenting on the blog of former sitcom scribe Ken Levine:

"Beatty's address book was so big it had its own address."

"13,000 women? That can't be right. He must have counted one twice."

"Say what you will, Warren Beatty has definitively improved on counting sheep."

"At last we finally know what caused the Great Chalk Shortage of '92 -- it was all those marks on his bedroom wall."

"Some women complain that that Beatty was distant, frustrating, and never really gave them what they wanted. And those are just the magazine interviewers."

"Given the current US population, if you don't know who your father is there's a 1 in 24,142 chance it could be Warren Beatty."

Ryan Gilbey blogs for Cultural Capital every Tuesday. He is also the New Statesman's film critic.

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.

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For the first time in my life I have a sworn enemy – and I don’t even know her name

The cyclist, though, was enraged. “THAT’S CLEVER, ISN’T IT?” she yelled. “WALKING IN THE ROAD!”

Last month, I made an enemy. I do not say this lightly, and I certainly don’t say it with pride, as a more aggressive male might. Throughout my life I have avoided confrontation with a scrupulousness that an unkind observer would call out-and-out cowardice. A waiter could bring the wrong order, cold and crawling with maggots, and in response to “How is everything?” I’d still manage a grin and a “lovely, thanks”.

On the Underground, I’m so wary of being a bad citizen that I often give up my seat to people who aren’t pregnant, aren’t significantly older than me, and in some cases are far better equipped to stand than I am. If there’s one thing I am not, it’s any sort of provocateur. And yet now this: a feud.

And I don’t even know my enemy’s name.

She was on a bike when I accidentally entered her life. I was pushing a buggy and I wandered – rashly, in her view – into her path. There’s little doubt that I was to blame: walking on the road while in charge of a minor is not something encouraged by the Highway Code. In my defence, it was a quiet, suburban street; the cyclist was the only vehicle of any kind; and I was half a street’s length away from physically colliding with her. It was the misjudgment of a sleep-deprived parent rather than an act of malice.

The cyclist, though, was enraged. “THAT’S CLEVER, ISN’T IT?” she yelled. “WALKING IN THE ROAD!”

I was stung by what someone on The Apprentice might refer to as her negative feedback, and walked on with a redoubled sense of the parental inadequacy that is my default state even at the best of times.

A sad little incident, but a one-off, you would think. Only a week later, though, I was walking in a different part of town, this time without the toddler and engrossed in my phone. Again, I accept my culpability in crossing the road without paying due attention; again, I have to point out that it was only a “close shave” in the sense that meteorites are sometimes reported to have “narrowly missed crashing into the Earth” by 50,000 miles. It might have merited, at worst, a reproving ting of the bell. Instead came a familiar voice. “IT’S YOU AGAIN!” she yelled, wrathfully.

This time the shock brought a retort out of me, probably the harshest thing I have ever shouted at a stranger: “WHY ARE YOU SO UNPLEASANT?”

None of this is X-rated stuff, but it adds up to what I can only call a vendetta – something I never expected to pick up on the way to Waitrose. So I am writing this, as much as anything, in the spirit of rapprochement. I really believe that our third meeting, whenever it comes, can be a much happier affair. People can change. Who knows: maybe I’ll even be walking on the pavement

Mark Watson is a stand-up comedian and novelist. His most recent book, Crap at the Environment, follows his own efforts to halve his carbon footprint over one year.

This article first appeared in the 20 October 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Brothers in blood