The government scraps the UK Film Council

But amid the gloom, is there some good news for British film?

The Culture Secretary, Jeremy Hunt, has announced that the UK Film Council is to be abolished. It is the highest profile name in a list of 55 public bodies that the Department for Culture, Media and Sport wants to cut, merge or "streamline". (The Museums, Libraries and Archives Council will also be abolished.)

The Film Council issues grants and lottery money to develop new films and claims to have supported over 900 films since it was set up in 2000. But the body, which formed a key element of New Labour's cultural project, has not been without its detractors. Notably, the writer Colin MacCabe has accused the council of pursuing the "fantasy" of a Hollywood-style industry at the expense of real innovation. In a piece for Prospect in January, MacCabe wrote:

In preparing this article, I have talked to many producers and have been startled by the level of venom I have encountered. For the UKFC's aggressive commercial strategy, completely at odds with comparable European bodies, has gone hand in hand with the frequent contractual request that they have final cut on a film, overriding both the producer and director. Moreover, as a senior executive of one the most established production companies told me, "it uses the tactics of a Hollywood studio and its monopoly position to bully producers out of decent equity positions.

And others, including the New Statesman's film critic Ryan Gilbey, have decried a lack of risk-taking in British film over the past decade. Last year, in a survey of film under New Labour, Gilbey wrote:

Labour's supportive approach to arts funding has translated at ground level into a happy-clappy positivity: it is chiefly those projects that reproduce the contours of proven hits, or push British life as an inspiring brand rather than a complex reality, that tend to get made and promoted. If you adored Notting Hill, if you can't live without Bend It Like Beckham, you will love this, and this, and this . . .

Hunt suggests that the government will now work directly with the British Film Institute, the body that oversaw film funding prior to 2000. Could this be an opportunity to reform the way films are made in this country? Any optimism might be tempered by the wider context: the Film Council is being abolished as part of a wider attack on public spending. Hunt insists that "government and lottery support for the film industry will continue" -- but how much support, and in what form, remains to be seen.

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

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Time for put-upon Sicily to put out its wines

The high-altitude vineyards of Italy’s largest island produce nectar for the gods, Greek or Roman.

It was Diodorus of Sicily, a Greek historian in the 1st century BC, who wrote of the Gauls’ passionate attachment to wine that they “partake of this drink without moderation . . . and when drunk fall into a stupor or a state of madness”. There was, as yet, virtually no wine made in what would become France, and Italian merchants were making a fortune: in exchange for a jar of wine they received a slave, thus “exchanging the cupbearer for the cup”.

An irritated Gaul – and they were not people to irritate – might have responded that the Sicilians were no slouches on the drinking front, either. They had been making wine for several centuries by the time Diodorus was born, and although some of their grapes had been transplanted successfully to the mainland, a fair bit of what they produced was being consumed by the producers. And who, when drunk, does not approach either catatonia or insanity?

Perhaps the accusations rankle because the Gauls, with their lack of home-grown grapes, their thirst and consequent misbehaviour, were clearly the Brits of the Roman era. Plus ça change, as their descendants might say, although, given that France now has far healthier attitudes to wine than we do, perhaps there’s hope for us yet: just keep expanding the English vineyards, wait a couple of thousand years and – voilà!

Arguably the Sicilians have as many reasons to flee consciousness as we do. Their island may be breath-catchingly beautiful, from the Mediterranean beaches to the slopes of Mount Etna, past Greek temples, Roman ruins and Baroque churches, and their weather so wonderfully warm and dry that they can grow almost anything (a facility that led in the 20th century to a flood of boring wine that almost drowned the island’s vinous reputation for good). But Italy’s slender length is characterised by economic top-heaviness: the north is rich and industrialised, the south poor and rural, and Sicily is as far south as you can get.

The antique feel that tourists find so charming – Tinkers! Fishmongers! Absolutely nothing open between noon and 4pm! – is an indication of a region whose glories lie in the distant past, 2,500 years ago, when Syracuse was a powerful city state at least as large as Athens, praised by Cicero as “the greatest of the Greek cities, and the most beautiful of all”.

Such vicissitudes will make you flexible. Sicily has the adaptability of an island that has seen volcanic eruptions and armed invasions, has been powerful and poor, and been diddled out of its patrimony by cousins from the north as well as criminal-minded brothers from the village next door. Its range of indigenous grapes reflects this. There is spicy, rich Nero d’Avola; light, cherryish Frappato; and Nerello Mascalese, perhaps the most adaptable of all. The best whites are almondy Grillo and the tart, lemonish Carricante, grown on volcanic Etna’s high slopes.

As befits a place so frequently invaded, there are international grapes, too: one of the island’s finest wines, Tasca d’Almerita’s Contea di Sclafani Rosso del Conte, blends Nero d’Avola with Cabernets Sauvignon and Franc. Some top producers, such as Feudo Montoni, stick to indigenous grapes; the formidable Planeta tries practically everything.

The best winemakers have a wilful individuality that those befuddled Gauls would surely have recognised. In the case of COS, a fine triumvirate based in the south of the island, this mental agility has inspired Pithos, wine aged in the ancient clay jars called amphorae. Maybe this is the past catching up with Sicily – or, given the new trendiness of amphorae, just Sicily catching up. Does it matter? The wines are excellent, and entirely distinctive. Surely it is time for Sicily, or at least its finest products, to do a little invading of their own.

Next week: John Burnside on nature

Nina Caplan is the 2014 Fortnum & Mason Drink Writer of the Year and 2014 Louis Roederer International Wine Columnist of the Year for her columns on drink in the New Statesman. She tweets as @NinaCaplan.

This article first appeared in the 19 November 2015 issue of the New Statesman, The age of terror