Gilbey on Film: election special round two

Our critic's verdict on the (other) party political broadcasts.

Another week, another round of party election broadcasts. Presumably there are some people who still can't get enough of the sound of David Cameron saying the word "change." For that section of the public it was good news this week, as the Conservatives issued yet another five-minute campaign film featuring nothing but Dave. Dave in front of Parliament, Dave in messianic black-and-white stills that suggest Anton Corbijn shooting Bono on the Rattle and Hum tour.

My favourite bit occurs between 4:22 and 4:25, where Dave appears to have recently supped from the bottle marked "Drink Me". Either that or he is delivering his address in front of the world's tallest man.

This latest election broadcast is standard Davesville stuff, delivered with shirtsleeves rolled up to suggest a readiness to muck in. (An altogether more illuminating Cameron speech can be found here.) But it's the pushy, badgering tone which really curdles the soul: if that isn't the voice of someone setting out in painstaking terms precisely why you should let him take you in the shrubbery after the Freshers' Ball and show you his Big Society, then I'm George Osborne. (Note to Conservative Party members: George Osborne is your Chancellor.)

Party monster

Elsewhere, the BNP landed a prime-time BBC1 slot for its own mini-movie. It kicks off with the chilling sound of an air-raid siren, and stock footage from wartime Britain. Unfortunately it then switches to Nick Griffin sitting at a desk. Behind him we see a framed picture of Churchill and several shelves of leather-bound volumes, the content of which we can only guess at. (Chinua Achebe first editions? The collected TV Quick 1991-2009?)

Poor Nick spends all his screen time trying and failing to control his bizarrely ambiguous hand gestures as he tells us of his four gorgeous children. I counted ten different examples of involuntary movement in the first minute alone; you'd swear he was trying to describe a Henry Moore with his hands.

This restlessness goes beyond merely emphasising Nick's naturally sleazy demeanour, which is already a cross between Donald Plesence as Blofeld and a second-hand car salesman trying to flog you a Panzer tank. Rather, it reminded me of the scene in Total Recall when Arnold Schwarzenegger has to pass through Martian passport control disguised as a woman, only for his cover to start malfunctioning just as things are going his way. If the BNP leader is undergoing a similar deterioration, it begs the terrible question: what is on the inside of Nick Griffin? And can it be removed with normal household detergent?

From Nick kicking back in his study, we move to a photo-montage of BNP pet hates (mosques, hijabs, an East London street sign in both English and -- say it isn't so! -- Urdu) accompanied by the standard inflammatory fabrications ("Foreigners jump the queue for housing...") and off-the-wall connections ("Politicians lavish billions on asylum-seekers and rich bankers"). There is nothing funny about the BNP's policies and ideology, so it's oddly liberating to see their amateurism paraded so openly in this way.

The broadcast gives off the air of having been assembled around old Amstrads in the back-rooms of dubious hostelries, with someone's brother keeping a look-out; the atmosphere is less Triumph of the Will and more clapped-out Triumph Herald. Sure, they're racists and Holocaust deniers, but do they have to be such cheapskates?

The "talking heads" section is a good example of the shoddiness. There's a young woman pictured outside Café Rouge -- a damning indictment of the grubby French nation's attempt to flood our high streets with mid-priced Poulet Bretonne. "It's not politically correct," she says, "but I'm proud to be British, which is why I'm voting British National Party." The trick with those cue-cards, of course, is not to let your eyes move from left to right as you read from them.

But Ms Proud-to-be-British is practically Fiona Shaw as Hedda Gabler compared to the couple who appear next. "It was us pensioners that built this country..." says a disturbed-looking elderly man. Oh, do try not to appear as though someone is holding a gun to your head as you speak, there's a good chap. The silver-haired woman on his right looks even more terrified. Her hair was blonde before the camera started rolling, you know.

After a killer line from Rajinder Singh -- "I know the BNP very well and I admire them; they are only doing what is natural" -- we are treated to a cameo from Richard Barnbrook, who emphasises important words with little involuntary thrusts of his elbow, as though his hands, which we can't see, are kneading dough out of frame. Then Blofeld pops up to invite us to vote for the BNP to get our own back on politicians. Hmm, revenge or rationality? It's a toughie.

What swings it for me is the image on which the broadcast ends -- a freeze-frame of a supposedly happy BNP-supporting family. Look at the still below, where it appears the youngest child is gripping his sister's arm with one hideously enlarged hand. Is this what we want? Mutant children? You decide. I'm just disappointed that Nick reneged on his promise to eat Marmite on screen.

bnp 

Cliff hanger

The BNP's pitiful effort resembles Avatar next to the English Democrats' campaign film. Someone who resembles Ben Fogle appears in a couple of obvious locations -- outside Parliament, or within sight of the white cliffs of Dover -- to talk us flatly through various unconvincing reasons why England should be completely autonomous. Hands up who resisted the temptation during the cliff-top scenes to call out to our presenter: "Back a bit, back a bit"? Me neither.)

The capper comes when, realising that he hasn't persuaded us, he throws in a bribe: "Oh -- and there's one other proposal I'm sure you'll all support. [I love that mock-spontaneous "Oh".] An extra bank holiday." You know -- for St George's Day. Buying votes with bank holidays, eh? Well, it's original. Can I swap mine for a toaster?

 

An inconvenient truth

After the crudity of the Conservatives, BNP and English Democrats, the soothing visual simplicity of the Green Party feels refreshing and comparatively sophisticated. No hatchet-faced party leaders, no flannel-spouting presenters with dishcloth charisma. Just three rectangular coloured blocks -- red, blue and yellow -- which are joined by a jaunty, rolling green circle representing the only party "who can really make a change."

My favourite colour is green, so I'm already hooked. And this is a winning aesthetic approach. The green circle morphs into a cross (representing healthcare), a radiator (during the bit about caring for the elderly), a safe's combination lock (behind which is stashed money that would otherwise go on bankers' bonuses) and a thought-bubble (the only misjudgement here: it looks more like a storm-cloud made of spinach).

So on top of all the wonderful things they're planning to do, the Green Party proves it is also flexible. Pliable. Easily moulded. Gets in the carpet. Turns stale if left out overnight and has to be thrown away. Oh dear. Maybe this isn't so simple after all.

 

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

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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The joy of only winning once: why England should be proud of 1966

We feel the glory of that triumphant moment, 50 years ago, all the more because of all the other occasions when we have failed to win.

There’s a phrase in football that I really hate. It used to be “Thirty years of hurt”. Each time the England team crashes out of a major tournament it gets regurgitated with extra years added. Rather predictably, when England lost to Iceland in Euro 2016, it became “Fifty years of hurt”. We’ve never won the European Championship and in 17 attempts to win the World Cup we have only won once. I’m going to tell you why that’s a record to cherish.

I was seven in 1966. Our telly was broken so I had to watch the World Cup final with a neighbour. I sat squeezed on my friend Colin’s settee as his dad cheered on England with phrases like “Sock it to them Bobby”, as old fashioned now as a football rattle. When England took the lead for the second time I remember thinking, what will it feel like, when we English are actually Champions of the World. Not long after I knew. It felt good.

Wembley Stadium, 30 July 1966, was our only ever World Cup win. But let’s imagine what it would be like if, as with our rivals, we’d won it many times? Brazil have been World Champions on five occasions, Germany four, and Italy four. Most England fans would be “over the moon” if they could boast a similarly glorious record. They’re wrong. I believe it’s wonderful that we’ve only triumphed once. We all share that one single powerful memory. Sometimes in life less is definitely more.

Something extraordinary has happened. Few of us are even old enough to remember, but somehow, we all know everything that happened that day. Even if you care little about the beautiful game, I’m going to bet that you can recall as many as five iconic moments from 50 years ago. You will have clearly in your mind the BBC commentator Kenneth Wolstenholme’s famous lines, as Geoff Hurst tore down the pitch to score his hat-trick: “Some people are on the pitch. They think it’s all over. It is now”. And it was. 4 - 2 to England against West Germany. Thirty minutes earlier the Germans had equalised in the dying moments of the second half to take the game to extra time.

More drama we all share: Geoff Hurst’s second goal. Or the goal that wasn’t, as technology has since, I think, conclusively proved. The shot that crashed off the cross bar and did or didn’t cross the line. Of course, even if you weren’t alive at the time, you will know that the linesman, one Tofiq Bakhramov, from Azerbaijan (often incorrectly referred to as “Russian”) could speak not a word of English, signalled it as a goal.

Then there’s the England Captain, the oh-so-young and handsome Bobby Moore. The very embodiment of the era. You can picture him now wiping his muddy hands on his white shorts before he shakes hands with a youthful Queen Elizabeth. Later you see him lifted aloft by his team mates holding the small golden Jules Rimet trophy.

How incredible, how simply marvellous that as a nation we share such golden memories. How sad for the Brazilians and Germans. Their more numerous triumphs are dissipated through the generations. In those countries each generation will remember each victory but not with the intensity with which we English still celebrate 1966. It’s as if sex was best the first time. The first cut is the deepest.

On Colin’s dad’s TV the pictures were black and white and so were the flags. Recently I looked at the full colour Pathe newsreel of the game. It’s the red, white and blue of the Union Jack that dominates. The red cross of Saint George didn’t really come into prominence until the Nineties. The left don’t like flags much, unless they’re “deepest red”. Certainly not the Union Flag. It smacks of imperialism perhaps. In 1966 we didn’t seem to know if we were English or British. Maybe there was, and still is, something admirable and casual about not knowing who we are or what is our proper flag. 

Twelve years later I’m in Cuba at the “World Festival of Youth” – the only occasion I’ve represented my country. It was my chance to march into a stadium under my nation’s flag. Sadly, it never happened as my fellow delegates argued for hours over what, if any, flag we British should walk behind. The delegation leaders – you will have heard of them now, but they were young and unknown then – Peter Mandelson, Trevor Phillips and Charles Clarke, had to find a way out of this impasse. In the end, each delegation walked into the stadium behind their flag, except the British. Poor Mandelson stood alone for hours holding Union Jack, sweltering in the tropical sun. No other country seemed to have a problem with their flag. I guess theirs speak of revolution; ours of colonialism.

On Saturday 30 July BBC Radio 2 will commemorate the 50th anniversary of the 1966 World Cup Final, live from Wembley Arena. Such a celebration is only possible because on 16 occasions we failed to win that trophy. Let’s banish this idea of “Fifty years of hurt” once and for all and embrace the joy of only winning once.

Phil Jones edits the Jeremy Vine Show on BBC Radio 2. On Saturday 30 July the station celebrates the 50th anniversary of the 1966 World Cup Final live from Wembley Arena, telling the story of football’s most famous match, minute by minuteTickets are available from: www.wc66.org