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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Putting the “savage” back in Sauvignon Blanc

This grape is so easily recognised that it might as well wear a name tag, but many varieties are brasher and bolder than you'd expect.

I was once the life’s companion of a man who was incapable of remembering names. This should have bothered him but he’d grown used to it, while I never could. At gatherings, I would launch myself at strangers, piercing the chatter with monikers to pre-empt his failure to introduce me. I was fairly sure that it was the other person’s name he couldn’t remember but I couldn’t discount the possibility that he had forgotten mine, too.

In wine, the equivalent of my bellowing is Sauvignon Blanc. This grape is so easily recognised that it might as well wear a name tag: it tastes of grass, gooseberry, asparagus and, occasionally, cats’ pee. The popularity of its New Zealand incarnation is probably partly a result of that cosy familiarity – which is ironic, given that “Sauvignon”, harking back to its evolution from wild grapes in France, comes from the French for “savage”. Never mind: evolved it has. “Wine is the most civilised thing we have in this world,” wrote the 16th-century author Rabelais, and he was born in the Touraine, where the gently citrusy Sauvignon makes an excellent aperitif, so he should know.

New World Sauvignons are often brasher and bolshier. It is likely that Rabelais’s two best-known heroes – Gargantua, who is born yelling, “Drink! Drink! Drink!” and whose name means “What a big gullet you have”, and Pantagruel, or “thirsting for everything” – would have preferred them to the Touraines. They work well with spice and aromatics, as Asian-fusion chefs have noticed, while the most elegant Loire Sauvignons, Sancerre or Pouilly-Fumé, make fine matches for grilled white fish or guacamole – in fact, almost anything enhanced by lemon. In Bordeaux, where whites principally blend Sauvignon and Sémillon, the excellent Dourthe is entirely the former; 9,000 miles away in Western Australia, Larry Cherubino makes a rounded Sauvignon in a similar style.

Many variations but one distinctive flavour profile – so I thought I was safe asking my best friend, an unrepentant wine ignoramus, whether she liked Sauvignon. Her shrug spurred an impromptu tasting: Guy Allion’s quaffable Le Haut Perron Thésée 2014, from Rabelais’s Touraine; a Henri Bourgeois Pouilly-Fumé Jeunes Vignes; and Greywacke Wild Sauvignon from Kevin Judd. Judd, who was largely responsible for making New Zealand whites famous when he worked for Cloudy Bay, is now putting the savage back in Sauvignon using naturally occurring (“wild”) yeasts that make the wine rich and slightly smoky but are not, by his own admission, terribly easy to control. This was the most expensive wine (£28, although the Wine Society sells it for £21.50) and my friend loved it.

She had expected to prefer the French wines, on the slightly dubious basis that she is Old World: of Anglo-Danish stock, with a passion for Italy. Yet only familiarity will tell you what you like. This is why bars with long lists of wines by the glass provide the best introduction. A favourite of mine is Compagnie des Vins Surnaturels, a Covent Garden joint run by two women, the sommelier Julia Oudill and the chef Ilaria Zamperlin. If the menu – scallops with Worcestershire sauce, croque-madame with truffled ham and quail egg – is delicious, the wine list is fabulous, with at least ten whites and ten reds at 125ml, with prices ascending into the stratosphere but starting at £6.

There are usually a couple of French Sauvignons, although many bottles still don’t name the grapes and the winemaker Didier Dagueneau (the “wild man of Pouilly”), whose wines feature here, preferred the old Sauvignon name Blanc Fumé. Thank goodness Sauvignon, despite its reputed savagery, has the manners to introduce itself so promptly: one sip, and you can move on to the congenial task of getting to know one another.

Next week: Felicity Cloake on food

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 05 February 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Putin's war