Andrew Ross Sorkin on the financial crisis

An interview with the Samuel Johnson Prize-shortlisted author.

This year's shortlist for the Samuel Johnson non-fiction book prize has been announced. Among the nominations is Too Big to Fail, an account of the collapse of Lehman Brothers by the New York Times journalist Andrew Ross Sorkin. Republished below is Jonathan Derbyshire's 2009 interview with the author -- and you can read Paul Mason's review of the book here.

Too Big to Fail is based on remarkable access to the main players in the financial crisis.

It's very important that the reader is able to see what these people thought and said to each other during this calamitous period. And I think that when you get in the room with them and you get to hear what they were thinking, there are moments where you'll wince and cringe and, in some cases, get immensely frustrated with them. There are very few heroes in this book.

Those involved seemed to sleepwalk towards catastrophe. Why was that?

It's a story of greed, at some level. And it's a story of hubris. It's about a grab for power. I actually think that, in the end, the dollar figure is not necessarily the motivating force. The money is almost a scorecard for everything else. When you see these people in their moments of panic, I'm sure they're thinking about their wallets, but they're also thinking about the power that they have. We talk about institutions that are too big to fail -- I think the story is as much about people who think they are too big to fail.

You argue that Dick Fuld, chief executive of Lehman Brothers, was driven much less by greed than some of the other main players.

Dick Fuld has been villainised, but in the context of this book, he's more of a tragic figure. Remember, Fuld had a billion dollars of stock in the company -- he had more skin in the game than anyone else in the world. And yet he rides it down to $65,000. What does that say? I don't know. And I wouldn't say I'm sympathetic with him per se, but the reason I suggest he's a tragic figure is that there's a big likelihood that we'd have villainised every other CEO had the government not saved them.

Fuld blamed the collapse of Lehman on short-selling. Was he right to do so?

It's very hard to blame the short-sellers for this debacle. There's no question that they exacerbated the problem but, in many ways, there were good reasons to short stocks and I don't think that was what put pressure on these companies. Look at the hedge-fund manager David Einhorn: he saw the writing on the wall earlier and better than most other people. It's the people who have an incentive to find the problem who usually find the problem.

You appear to credit the former treasury secretary Hank Paulson, and his successor, Timothy Geithner, with having foreseen the disaster.

You have all these people who see the train barrelling down the track. And yet they still don't completely get out of the way. You can give them credit for having spotted the train -- that's great. But do I think they mitigated the disaster? Well, that's a larger question. It's hard to argue that they didn't bring us to the brink. But you could also argue that they took us back from the brink. So, for me, it's a much more mixed record. You can't simply credit these people with having foreseen the disaster. You can give Paulson credit for talking about the need for a resolution authority, which he did in June 2008. Tim Geithner is someone else who seemed to be talking about this a lot. But as for actually doing something -- that's another matter.

What about the wider historical context to the crash of 2008?

Many of the seeds of the debacle were sown ten years ago, with some of the issues around monetary policy, sub-prime mortgages, deregulation, the lowering of capital requirements at banks -- all of those things contributed to this. So by the time my book begins, many of the problems are already baked in. What you're watching here is people at the moment of emergency. I originally thought the book would just cover September 2008. But once I started doing the reporting, I realised that the treasury was trying to orchestrate a deal for Lehman with Barclays as early as the spring. It made me rethink the scope and narrative arc of the book.

And politics matters, doesn't it? The repeal of the Glass-Steagall Act in 1999, for example, was crucial.

The repeal of Glass-Steagall allowed the casino to be attached to the bank. Expanding home ownership exacerbated the problem. As did the decision to keep interest rates low for long periods of time. So you have the regulators clearly not minding the store and Wall Street taking advantage of rules that aren't properly enforced.

Andrew Ross Sorkin, the author of "Too Big to Fail", is the chief mergers and acquisitions reporter for the New York Times

Daniel Trilling is the Editor of New Humanist magazine. He was formerly an Assistant Editor at the New Statesman.

Trumbo still
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What the modern-day relaxation of border controls between TV and cinema means for actors

It’s ironic that a man who got his breakthrough in a TV series with cinematic ambitions should now be the star of a movie, Trumbo, which resembles television at its most unadventurous.

Speak to many film professionals today and you will hear the same cry: Give me a series! It’s not only the security of a long-term contract. There is also the attractiveness of high-calibre writing and the relative liberty of working for an AMC or an HBO, a Netflix or an Amazon, compared to a movie studio.

Directors such as Todd Haynes (who made Mildred Pierce for HBO during a seven-year hiatus from cinema that ended last year with Carol) and Steven Soderbergh (who has defected permanently to television and is currently in negotiations for a possible third round of his Cinemax series The Knick starring Clive Owen) both speak of the creative freedoms afforded them in the TV world.

Soderbergh is currently lining up a new HBO show, Mosaic, which will star Sharon Stone and Garrett Hedlund. It’s been described as an interactive, “choose your own adventure” experience that allows viewers to follow different narrative paths, presumably in the manner of the once-popular children’s books: “You find a sword. If you pick it up and slay the dragon, turn to page 48. If you, like, can’t be bothered or whatever, turn to page 65.”

The boundary between TV and film performers was once rigidly patrolled, with television the training ground for cinema; once an actor moved up to the major league, there would be ignominy in returning to the practice yard. It’s a truism to say this is no longer the case.

The traffic of familiar faces flows freely back and forth without snobbery or preconceptions. And though there are still actors who can be TV A-listers while remaining unknown in the film world – Sarah Lancashire (Happy Valley) and Suranne Jones (Scott & Bailey), both former residents of Coronation Street, spring to mind – it is more common now for a performer’s star value to be bankable across the TV/cinema divide.

A case in point is Bryan Cranston, who was a reliable and recognisable TV actor for many years, often in a comic capacity (Seinfeld, Malcolm in the Middle), before he became an outright star for playing an accidental crystal-meth kingpin in Breaking Bad. In Cranston’s case, his TV success must have helped push Trumbo into production, a new film in which he plays the screenwriter Dalton Trumbo (Gun Crazy, Roman Holiday, The Brave One), who continued writing under other names after being blacklisted for being a Communist.

Like some of the other movies that have addressed the same dark period in Hollywood’s history (Guilty By Suspicion, One of the Hollywood Ten), Trumbo is all conscience and no panache. Cranston doesn’t discredit himself in the lead – he is studied, level-headed and workmanlike, and he has one wordless and especially powerful scene, when he is humiliated during a body search before being admitted to his prison cell.

But it’s ironic that a man who got his breakthrough in a TV series with cinematic ambitions should now be the star of a movie that resembles television at its most unadventurous. Sure, he got a Best Actor Oscar nomination. But that figures. Hollywood adores him (rightly so) but it also loves atoning for its sins in drearily respectable dramas like Trumbo.

My favourite example of the richness that can come from the modern-day relaxation of border controls between TV and cinema is the case of Alec Baldwin. Here is an actor whose career has been at various points promising, fascinating and mysteriously self-sabotaging. But Tina Fey’s fiendishly inspired NBC sitcom 30 Rock has been his salvation. Having only caught occasional episodes of it over the years, I am currently picking my way through every minute of it and marvelling at the interplay between Baldwin’s real-life persona and career and that of his character, Jack Donaghy.

When this sort of thing is done badly, it can capsize a scene and even an entire movie – the new superhero comedy Deadpool, which features Ryan Reynolds in character cracking jokes about Ryan Reynolds, is a particularly grisly example. But 30 Rock gets the balance right in a way that creates a dazzling comic frisson.

There are numerous references to Baldwin’s filmography but the boldest overlap yet occurs in the 100th episode when Donaghy launches into a warning against the dangers of movie stars appearing on television. What it amounts to is a précis of Baldwin’s own career:

“Do TV and no one will ever take you seriously again. It doesn’t matter how big a movie star you are, even if you had the kind of career where you walked away from a blockbuster franchise or worked with Meryl Streep or Anthony Hopkins, made important movies about things like civil rights or Pearl Harbour, stole films with supporting roles and then turned around and blew them away on Broadway. None of that will matter once you do television. You could win every award in sight. Be the biggest thing on the small screen [but] you want to hit rock bottom again? Go on network television.”

The joke, of course, is that 30 Rock didn’t sink him – it saved him. Bryan Cranston is a fine actor whose career won’t be waylaid by a few dull choices. But it would be encouraging to see the goodwill he built up from Breaking Bad (or from being great in poor movies such as Argo) being parlayed into movies that took chances or played with the form in some way, as shows like 30 Rock and Breaking Bad have been able to do.

Dalton Trumbo was a firecracker of a writer; it’s a shame that the movie that now bears his name lacks any of the sizzle he brought to the screen.

Trumbo is on release.

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.