Fuming mad in New York

Some thoughts on smoking as the outdoor ban is extended in New York to beaches and parks.

One evening in November 1492, as the wintry chill descended on a stretch of North American coastline, Christopher Columbus welcomed back two exhausted crewmen aboard his ship, the Santa Maria. Luis de Torres and Rodrigo de Jerrez had been sent ahead months earlier on a fool's errand: to search for China in the deep forests of Cuba. On their journeys, the Spanish scouts had witnessed natives "drinking" the smoke emanating from the end of "a musket formed of paper". De Jerrez had been curious enough to partake in this obscure ritual and, in doing so, became the first European to light up, cough and insist to sceptical friends that it was a pleasurable experience, honest. When he returned to his coastal home town of Ayamonte, he was swiftly sent to jail by the Spanish Inquisition; witnesses were so alarmed by the satanic clouds billowing from the corners of his mouth that a seven-year sentence was deemed necessary.

So began the white western world's troubled relationship with the nicotiana tabacum, bane of health-care professionals and tutting parents who insist upon sunning their children in the beer garden of the Prince George on Saturday afternoons (despite knowing that it is commonly used as a smoking area, as the stacked ashtrays suggest). In the Beatles song "I'm So Tired", John Lennon places the blame for cigarette addiction on Queen Elizabeth's goombah, Sir Walter Raleigh, who is dismissed as a "stupid get". It is, however, a curse that has deeper roots in America than in Britain.

Europeans may have "discovered" (or claimed) it when they "discovered" (or wreaked genocidal havoc on) the New World but the practice can be traced back as far as 5000BC, when it was used as part of ritual practices by ancient civilisations across North and South America. The plant has existed in its present form for millions of years: the oldest fossilised specimen, which dates back to the Pleistocene era, was unearthed in the Maranon river basin in north-eastern Peru last year.

The arguments against the evil habit are powerful and largely correct -- in November, a World Health Organisation study found that 600,000 deaths are caused each year by passive smoking, of which 167,000 are children under the age of 15. Smoking reduces your life expectancy by eight to ten years; each puff of smoke contains 60 substances known to cause cancer. More than five million people die every year from smoking-related illnesses, which, in Britain alone, cost £5bn in public spending -- about 6 per cent of the total NHS budget.

This week, councillors in New York State approved an extension of its public-smoking restrictions, prohibiting the yellow of tooth from puffing away on beaches, in parks and even in Times Square. In March 2003, the state introduced its controversial ban in the city's 20,000 bars, clubs and and restaurants, overcoming resistance from anxious bar owners and the 1.3 million local smokers for whom they catered. Yet this latest extension of the law, passed by 36 votes to 12, seems to me to be an excessive move that will only encourage the anti-ban lobby.

According to the BBC, the new rules make it "an offence to smoke in any of the city's 1,700 parks and along 14 miles of coastline". The passive-smoking argument wielded so convincingly in 2003 cannot be applied to outdoor spaces; this gives the impression that the extension is driven by cosmetic, rather than health, concerns. Mayor Michael Bloomberg said, after the vote, "This summer, New Yorkers who go to our parks and beaches for some fresh air and fun will be able to breathe even cleaner air and sit on a beach not littered with cigarette butts." If litter is the problem, surely strengthening litter laws should be enough? Smokers have rights and should be allowed to damage themselves if they want to: the state shouldn't be given more powers over people engaging in legal activities that harm no one but themselves.

The western history of ciggies started with de Jerrez's persecution. In this light, perhaps this invasive development isn't so surprising. Now, off for a smoke...

 

PS. Apologies for the Daily Mail-esque headline.

Yo Zushi is a sub-editor of the New Statesman. His work as a musician is released by Eidola Records.

ANTONIO OLMOS / EYEVINE
Show Hide image

How Ken Loach's radical vision won him a second Palm d'Or

In Loach's films, authenticity is everything, and when his quest for realism pays off, there's nothing as raw in all of cinema.

On 22 May, at the age of 79, Ken Loach became the first British director to win the top prize twice at the Cannes Film Festival. His previous Palme d’Or, in 2006, was for The Wind That Shakes the Barley, which dramatised the British occupation of Ireland and the origins of the IRA. This time, he won for I, Daniel Blake, the story of an ailing carpenter wrongly declared fit for work by the callous UK benefits system. No wonder Ed Vaizey, the culture minister, could issue only the most grudging acknowledgement, alluding vaguely to “Brit success!” in a tweet that failed to mention either Loach or the film.

The actor and Cannes jury member Donald Sutherland, on the other hand, called I, Daniel Blake “an absolutely terrific movie that resonates in your heart and soul”. It was an incongruous delight to see Loach posing before swarms of paparazzi. He usually disdains such frivolities; he might be red but he’s hardly red carpet. “As a film-maker, you’re forever involved in things that constantly inflate their own importance,” he once complained. Artifice, hyperbole and celebrity hold no appeal. Even film-making itself is full of irritating impediments. “If Loach could make a film without a camera, he would,” said Trevor Griffiths, who collaborated with him on Fatherland (1986).

Authenticity is everything. Unusually, Loach shoots in sequence, even if it requires moving back and forth at great cost between locations. In the days of celluloid, he would forfeit much of his fee to buy more film stock so that his beloved improvisations could roll on and on. When I visited the set of Carla’s Song near Loch Lomond in 1995, Loach gave the actor Robert Carlyle a good-natured ticking off for speaking to me between takes. “I’d rather he didn’t talk to anyone,” he said, “because then he’ll start thinking about things in terms of technique and who he really is, and it’ll all become conscious.”

When the quest for realism pays off, there is nothing as raw in all cinema. Think of the chilling attack on a family home by loan sharks in his 1993 drama Raining Stones, one of the films that began his most successful period, or the climax of Cathy Come Home, made for the BBC in 1966 and arguably his most groundbreaking film. As Cathy (Carol White) has her children taken off her by social workers and police, Loach films the entire traumatic episode in a wide shot with a hidden camera to preserve the reality. The movie led directly to the founding of Crisis.

Conversely, Loach at his worst can be one of the most simplistic sentimentalists out there. The characterisation of the salt-of-the-earth heroes in recent films such as Jimmy’s Hall and Route Irish, or the pantomime-villain Brits in The Wind That Shakes the Barley, shows what happens when action is overpowered by agenda.

Born in Nuneaton, Warwickshire, Loach read law at Oxford but became seduced by theatre directing and acting: he was in a revue for which Dudley Moore composed the music, and understudied in the West End in One Over the Eight. He joined the BBC in 1963, where he brought extra earthiness to Z-Cars before finding his ideal outlet in The Wednesday Play slot that went out after the news. “We were very anxious for our plays not to be considered dramas but as continuations of the news,” he said. He made ten TV films under that banner but it was with his second movie, Kes, in 1969, that he took flight, proving that the gritty and the lyrical need not be mutually exclusive.

His politics was fully formed by this point. Though he has rejected claims that he is Marxist or Trotskyist, he admits that the analysis to which he turned after his disillusionment with Harold Wilson in the mid-1960s was a Marxist one. “The idea of a class analysis was the one we identified with,” he said of himself and his collaborators the producer Tony Garnett and the writer Jim Allen. “What we realised was that social democrats and Labour politicians were simply acting on behalf of the ruling class, protecting the interests of capital.”

This stance was consolidated by a series of run-ins in the 1980s, when he saw his work banned and thwarted by political forces. The transmission of his four-part 1983 television documentary Questions of Leadership, which asked whether the trade union leadership was adequately representing its members’ interests, was delayed and blocked by Labour string-pulling. Which Side Are You On? – a documentary about the miners’ strike – was rejected because of footage showing police violence.

Since his full-time return to cinema in the early 1990s, acclaim has eclipsed controversy. Even if he had not won a Palme d’Or, his stamp is all over other directors who have won that award in the past 20 years. The Belgian social realists Jean-Pierre and Luc Dardenne (Rosetta, The Child) have never hidden their debt to him, while recent winners such as Jacques Audiard (Dheepan) and Cristian Mingiu (4 Months, 3 Weeks, 2 Days) exhibit his mixture of directness, compassion and realism.

If there is anything that defines him, it is his fight, which has made it possible for him to remain one of cinema’s angriest and most effective voices. “In the long term, I guess I’m optimistic because people always fight back,” he said. “The reason to make films is just to let people express that, to share that kind of resilience because that’s what makes you smile. It’s what makes you get up in the morning.”

“I, Daniel Blake” is released later this year

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.

This article first appeared in the 26 May 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The Brexit odd squad