Gilbey on Film: lovable Roeg

This great British director's movies are enjoying a deserved revival.

Two pieces of Nicolas Roeg-related good news arrived this morning. The first came in the post: a copy of BFI Southbank's March programme, with its long-overdue Roeg season.

It's no exaggeration to say that I grew up on Roeg; my tastes were shaped, and my horizons broadened, by his films. I came of cinema-going age during what is generally considered the start of his downward slide: the first film of his that I saw at the cinema was Castaway in 1986, followed by the unloved curiosity that is Track 29 -- a freaky, Dennis Potter-scripted adult fairy-tale with a mix'n'match cast (Gary Oldman, Back to the Future's Christopher Lloyd and Roeg's wife Theresa Russell, a regular fixture in his work for 12 years beginning with 1979's Bad Timing). The Witches, Roeg's traumatic 1990 adaptation of Roald Dahl's novel, was a gruesome joy right up to the moment of its compromised ending, and went some way toward bringing the director back into favour.

But Cold Heaven, the fraught and creepy psychological thriller that marked his last collaboration with Russell, drifted on to video after a couple of festival screenings; I remember seeing Roeg on a TV arts show around that time, arguing that the film's themes and concerns were not dissimilar from those found in the then-current blockbuster Total Recall. It wasn't a far-fetched claim by any means, but there was palpably the sense that cinema audiences, critics and the industry in general had moved on from Roeg.

Funny to think that films as scandalous (in both formalist and visual terms) as Performance, Don't Look Now and The Man Who Fell to Earth could have become part of the canon, but maybe that was one aspect of the problem: possibly we felt we had all the Nicolas Roeg films we wanted, and we had no further use for any more. So I mourn the fact that Roeg never got to shoot his much-mooted adaptation of Martin Amis's Night Train, or to bring to the screen Paul Theroux's clammy thriller Chicago Loop with James Spader (Theroux had dedicated the novel to Roeg -- with whom he had conjured up the plot -- and Russell). He remained instead effectively relegated to TV, or forgotten, ever since.

As for the question of whether a falling-off in quality had contributed to this general fatigue in our response to him, that is not something I can answer until I've watched the later movies again. Were I to defer now to my teenage self for an opinion, there's every chance he would rave long into the evening without discernment before asking if anyone knows how to get hold of a "This Charming Man" 12-inch for under £20.

The other bulletin from the world of Roeg is the appearance of Don't Look Now at the top of Time Out's just-published Top 100 Best British Films poll, which proves that he is still greatly treasured after all this time (Perfomance, Walkabout and Bad Timing also make appearances further down the list), but also that we have decided collectively to write off the later films and give obeisance to the accepted masterpieces.

Either way, the recognition is reassuring, considering the debt that modern film-makers (Christopher Nolan in Memento, Alejandro González Iñárritu in 21 Grams and Babel, Steven Soderbergh in The Limey, Julio Medem in The Red Squirrel) owe to the fractured, associative storytelling style pioneered by the likes of Resnais and Roeg. It isn't simply a case of throwing the scenes up in the air and cutting them together in whichever order they fall; there's an intuitive quality to Roeg's mosaic textures, so that colours, sounds, words and visual echoes can cause a sudden ricochet effect in the narrative chronology.

I still think of Roeg as one of cinema's great cerebral and emotional forces, yet I didn't vote for any of his films in my own contribution to the poll: were there too many other contenders, or had he just become too familiar to me, so much a part of myself that I had failed even to notice him any more? A bit of the former but more of the latter, I think.

When I got to interview him in 1995 (before the release of his film Two Deaths), he disputed the long-rumoured story that he liked to leave a cinema halfway through whatever film he happened to be watching so that he could imagine the rest himself. It really doesn't matter that it isn't true because it fits: something in that mixture of perverseness and imagination gets close to the essence of Roeg.

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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Politicians and fashion? Why their approach can be telling

My week, from spying on the spies to Theresa May’s fashion charm offensive – and how Sadiq stole hearts.

About nine months ago I was asked if I wanted to spend a morning with Zac Goldsmith, as he appeared to be wakening from the slumber that had obviously taken hold of him when he decided to run for mayor of London. However, after about three minutes in his company (maybe less, actually) I realised that not even his campaign team – let alone voters in the Borough of Southwark – thought he had a hope in hell of winning.

There was only ever going to be one winner, and the enthusiasm with which Sadiq Khan has been greeted by London has been heartwarming. He won the politician award at GQ’s Men of the Year Awards a few weeks ago, and I’d never heard such a roar as he leapt up on stage to collect it. Well, I’ve heard such roars for the likes of Michael Caine, Elton John and Amy Schumer, but rarely for a politician. In fact, the last time there was such fulsome applause for a politician at the GQ awards was when we gave one to a pre-Sextator David Blunkett. Perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised: the last time Noel Gallagher graced us with his presence, he asked: “Is this what a Conservative party conference looks like?”

 

On the dole

The recent past is being hauled over so repeatedly that soon there are going to be ­retrospectives of events that happened only last week. Or next week. On paper, the new exhibition at the V&A in London, entitled “You Say You Want a Revolution? Records and Rebels 1966-1970”, seemed slightly behind the curve, but the reality is very different – as it’s probably the best exhibition you’ll see in London this year.

This is all down to the curation, which was handled by Geoffrey Marsh and Victoria Broackes, the wizards behind “David Bowie Is”, the most successful show in the V&A’s history. It’s a terrific exhibition, although being reminded of the cultural and political insurrection of the Sixties also reminds you of the period’s seemingly innate optimism as a new London was mushrooming into life. Winston Churchill was dead, abortion was about to be made legal and the rise in happiness seemed exponential. Britain was experiencing almost full employment (though the government wobbled slightly in the spring of 1966 when it was announced that the jobless total had gone up to half a million). It never occurred to anyone that there might not be a job
waiting for them when they left school or their red-brick university.

 

Priced out

There certainly won’t be a house waiting for them, not if they intend to live in London. The marketing bods behind the new development at Battersea Power Station came in to make a presentation at Vogue House a few weeks ago, showing us lots of slides and videos about their fabulous ­development. There’s a Frank Gehry this and a Frank Gehry that, a swimming pool, a private members’ club and lots of artisanal independent retailers selling organic rhubarb and fancy beer, blah blah blah.

Their roll-call of “good things” included the ominous words “affordable housing”, but this appears to be anything but. After the presentation, I promptly stuck my hand up and asked them what they actually meant by affordable housing. The answer I got wasn’t satisfactory, so I asked again: “What does your entry-level accommodation cost?” And the very charming man with the lapel-mike coughed apologetically and almost whispered, “£350,000.” At which point I made my excuses and left.

The idea that my daughters can one day get on the property ladder in London is pure fantasy, and they certainly won’t be living in Battersea, or indeed anywhere near it.

 

Back in fashion

Last Thursday, Theresa May hosted her first reception at Downing Street for the British fashion industry, an event that usually takes place twice a year, and which is attended by fashion designers, industry figures, newspaper and magazine editors and the like. ­Samantha Cameron was always a significant supporter of the sector (which contributes more to the country’s GDP than the car industry), as was Sarah Brown before her, and it is instructive that May has decided to follow in their footsteps.

It’s also telling that Mrs Cameron was not only invited to the event at No 10 but turned up, which says a lot about both women. Theresa May is a fundamentally shy person, yet she not only made a pitch-perfect speech in front of a Brexit-sensitive (and quite possibly suspicious) crowd, but chose to embrace the opportunity to espouse the growing importance of an industry that was so closely associated with the wife of her predecessor. There is such a lot of noise at the moment surrounding the PM’s apparent lack of interest in remaining on good terms with David Cameron, so one wonders what, if anything, is going on here. Taken at face value, May’s move at the reception was extremely classy.

 

The spying game

The following day I found myself in Cheltenham for a five-hour briefing on counterterrorism, cyber-defence, drug smuggling and child kidnapping at GCHQ.

I had expected the place to be like the Foreign Office, but it’s actually more like Google, Apple or Nike, and feels as though it could easily be a campus on America’s “Left Coast”.

There is an incredible sense of purpose at GCHQ, a feeling that they are all working for the common good, and frankly I found it infectious. While the denizens of Silicon Valley might be very adept at pushing the frontiers of consumerism, designing training shoes, telephones and algorithms, it felt far more appropriate to be spending time with men and women obsessed with making the world safer.

Dylan Jones is the editor-in-chief of GQ and a trustee of the Hay Festival

This article first appeared in the 22 September 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The New Times