Gilbey on Film: the curse of Wild Target

Some movies seem to spell bad luck for everyone involved.

I haven't seen the British remake of the French comedy Wild Target, which opens on 18 June, and is directed by Jonathan Lynn, who cut his teeth writing Yes, Minister. The distributor arranged a single press screening a few weeks ago, which some might interpret as a sign of its less-than-fulsome belief in the movie's worth.

Me? I couldn't possibly comment. (Leslie Felperin, writing in the trade paper Variety, called the new picture "unlovable" and "seldom funny".)

However, I do hold the 1993 original in high esteem. It's a nimble farce about a prim gentleman-assassin (Jean Rochefort) whose ordered life is disturbed when he meets an elegant thief (Marie-Louis Trintignant) and a guileless young goofball (Guillaume Depardieu). The remake stars Bill Nighy, Emily Blunt and Rupert Grint in those main roles. I wonder if these actors were forewarned about the Wild Target curse.

We are used to hearing about productions which acquire "cursed" status because the misfortune quota during or after their completion is higher than the norm (and the film industry norm is pretty high as it is). It's usually horror films on which it never rains but it pours -- The Omen, The Exorcist, the Poltergeist trilogy and Rosemary's Baby being among the most notorious.

The implication is that dalliances with the supernatural can be dangerous to a filmmaker's health, incurring the wrath of some Satanic PR department that doesn't take kindly to mere mortals reporting on the lofty work of Beelzebub. You'll find a lot of US publicists operate on the same principle. That said, the accidents which befell those associated with The Omen -- shootings, bombings, plane crashes -- sound a bit too tame to be the work of any self-respecting Hollywood PR.

But if making a horror movie pisses off the red guy with the horns and the pitchfork, what on earth could a well-paced, effervescent French comedy have done to stir up a karmic shitstorm? Whatever it was, life did not go smoothly for the principal cast members, post-Wild Target.

Marie Trintignant died in 2003, aged 41, after a blow to the head from her partner, Bertrand Cantat, lead singer with the band Noir Désir. She was five days from completing the filming of Colette, a mini-series about the French novelist which she had co-written with her mother, who was also directing.

Guillaume Depardieu was no luckier. The actor, whose relationship with his father Gérard might have been called tempestuous if only it hadn't made the average tempest look like a refreshing summer breeze, already had a history of drug addiction when he came to Wild Target; he also admitted in his 2004 autobiography, Tout Donner ("Giving Everything"), to having worked as a teenage prostitute, sometimes simply to earn his train fare home. But it was a motorcycle accident in 1995 which began a protracted period of suffering that ended in his death. After 17 operations, then the amputation of his right leg after he picked up an infection in hospital, Depardieu died of pneumonia in 2008, aged 37.

Jean Rochefort may not have been quite as unfortunate as his co-stars. But when he suffered a herniated disc in 2000 while shooting Terry Gilliam's The Man Who Killed Don Quixote, this became one of the key factors in that movie's collapse, as documented in the riveting documentary Lost in La Mancha. (Gilliam's film is rumoured to be a reality again at last, with Robert Duvall and Ewan McGregor replacing Rochefort and Johnny Depp.)

Rochefort is a witty and nuanced performer whose career encompasses work with Buñuel, Chabrol, Patrice Leconte and Bertrand Tavernier. But perhaps we should take his willing involvement in Mr Bean's Holiday as further proof of the detrimental effect Wild Target has had on the careers and lives of those who made it.

Of course, it's all mumbo-jumbo. Take any group of people and chart their fortunes over time and eventually you'll turn up a liberal share of bad tidings. But watching the first Wild Target now becomes an unavoidably bittersweet experience because of what followed. And I include in that the subsequent career of the picture's writer-director, Pierre Salvadori , whose first two films marked him out as an appetising mix of Bertrand Blier and Billy Wilder.

After Wild Target, Salvadori made Les Apprentis, which was even better -- a downbeat comedy (of sorts) about two sad-sack friends slipping almost imperceptibly into the gutter. The picture's plangent tone is epitomised by a beautiful opening credits sequence: a series of dissolves on an apartment door which mark the passing of four years, accompanied by the voice of Antoine (Francois Cluzet) as he spends those years trying to compose a letter to the woman who left him. Depardieu plays the gangly loafer Fred, Antoine's flatmate, who memorably tells the woman of his dreams: "When I'm next to you, I think I should have a bath."

Salvadori has worked intermittently since then (he had a minor hit with the romantic comedy Priceless, starring Audrey Tautou). And better that he hit his peak with that initial one-two than never at all. But when you consider the promise that just seemed to evaporate, it's hard not to think: "Curses!"

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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Politics doesn't just connect us to the past and the future – it's what makes us human

To those people who tell me that they’re not interested in politics, I often say: “But politics is interested in you!”

I have long been haunted by a scene in George Orwell’s great novel Nineteen Eighty-Four. Winston Smith, the hero, is forced to watch propaganda films depicting acts of war and destruction. He is moved by something he sees: a woman trying to protect a child by wrapping her arm around him as they are attacked. It’s a futile gesture. She cannot shield the boy or stop the bullets but she embraces him all the same – before, as Orwell writes, “The helicopter blew them both to pieces.”

For Winston, what Orwell calls the “enveloping, protecting gesture” of the woman’s arm comes to symbolise something profoundly human – an expression of selflessness and of unconditional love in an unforgiving world. Scenes such as this we now witness daily in footage from the besieged eastern Aleppo and other Syrian towns, people in extreme situations showing extraordinary dignity and kindness.

I read Nineteen Eighty-Four for the first time in late adolescence. I’d dropped out of sixth-form college without completing my A-levels and was commuting on a coach from my parents’ house in Hertfordshire to London, where I worked as a junior clerk for the Electricity Council. During this long daily journey – sometimes two hours each way – I started to read seriously for the first time in my life.

I was just getting interested in politics – this was the high tide of the Thatcher years – and Orwell’s portrayal of a dystopian future in which Britain (renamed “Airstrip One”) had become a Soviet-style totalitarian state was bleakly fascinating. Fundamentally the book seemed to me to be about the deep ­human yearning for political change – about the never-ending dream of conserving or creating a better society.

Nineteen Eighty-Four was published in 1949 (Orwell died in January 1950, aged 46), at a time of rationing and austerity in Britain – but also of renewal. Under the leadership of Clement Attlee, Winston Churchill’s deputy in the wartime coalition, the Labour government was laying the foundations of what became the postwar settlement.

The National Health Service and the welfare state were created. Essential industries such as the railways were nationalised. The Town and Country Planning Act was passed, opening the way for the redevelopment of tracts of land. Britain’s independent nuclear deterrent was commissioned. New towns were established – such as Harlow in Essex, where I was born and brought up.

To grow up in Harlow, I now understand, was to be part of a grand experiment. Many of the families I knew there had escaped the bomb-ruined streets of the East End of London. Our lives were socially engineered. Everything we needed was provided by the state – housing, education, health care, libraries, recreational facilities. (One friend described it to me as being like East Ger­many without the Stasi.)

This hadn’t happened by accident. As my father used to say, we owed the quality of our lives to the struggles of those who came before us. The conservative philosopher Edmund Burke described society as a partnership between “those who are living, those who are dead, and those who are to be born” – and I find this idea of an intergenerational social contract persuasive.

Progress, however, isn’t inevitable. There is no guarantee that things will keep getting better. History isn’t linear, but contingent and discontinuous. And these are dark and turbulent new times in which we are living.

A civil war has been raging in Syria for more than five years, transforming much of the Middle East into a theatre of great-power rivalry. Europe has been destabilised by economic and refugee crises and by the emergence of insurgent parties, from the radical left and the radical right. The liberal world order is crumbling. Many millions feel locked out or left behind by globalisation and rapid change.

But we shouldn’t despair. To those people who tell me that they’re not interested in politics, I often say: “But politics is interested in you!”

And part of what it means to be human is to believe in politics and the change that politics can bring, for better and worse.

What, after all, led so many Americans to vote for an anti-establishment populist such as Donald Trump? He has promised to “make America great again” – and enough people believed him or, at least, wanted to believe him to carry him all the way to the White House. They want to believe in something different, something better, in anything better – which, of course, Trump may never deliver.

So politics matters.

The decisions we take collectively as ­humans have consequences. We are social creatures and rational agents, yet we can be dangerously irrational. This is why long-established institutions, as well as the accumulated wisdom of past generations, are so valuable, as Burke understood.

Politics makes us human. It changes our world and ultimately affects who we are and how we live, not just in the here and now, but long into the future.

An edited version of this essay was broadcast as part of the “What Makes Us Human?” series on BBC Radio 2’s “Jeremy Vine” show

Jason Cowley is editor of the New Statesman. He has been the editor of Granta, a senior editor at the Observer and a staff writer at the Times.

This article first appeared in the 01 December 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Age of outrage