Gilbey on Film: Accidental beauty

We shouldn't think films are ever born fully-formed.

Whenever the filmmaking process is divided into percentages (1 per cent inspiration, 99 per cent perspiration, that sort of thing), it's surprising that such factors as luck or necessity are excluded altogether from the equation. There's a fantasy, one to which I am highly susceptible, that everything which ends up on screen was always meant to be there. Blame it on auteur theory, or simply a child-like faith in the miracle of movies, but there it is.

Occasions when this has not been the case tend to be filed away as freak exceptions. -- think of the devastating final shots of Roman Polanski's The Ghost and Mike Leigh's Naked, both of which were invented on the hoof after shooting had begun. (In fact, Leigh always adheres to this process, as he explained to Amy Raphael in her excellent book Mike Leigh on Mike Leigh: "[T]here's a big difference between the sort of ideas you have before you start shooting a film and what sort of creative process goes on when you've shot 99 per cent of the film, your cinematic juices are flowing and you've got the hang of the film you're making.")

But it was helpful this year on two separate occasions to have myself disabused of the whimsical notion that a film is ever born fully-formed. In these instances, my eyes were opened by two female directors, Kelly Reichardt and Andrea Arnold. (Quite coincidentally, both had just shot their newest movies in the old-fashioned and almost-defunct 4:3 aspect ratio, which produces a square rather than rectangular frame.) Back in March, I met Reichardt to discuss her stark western Meek's Cutoff. One of the most contentious parts of this deliberately intense and slow-moving film was its elliptical ending, which leaves the audience to speculate on what might lie in store for the parched, desperate characters trudging along the Oregon Trail. The enigmatic final shots are so integral to the film's mysteries that I was surprised to learn that a different ending had been planned right up to the day of shooting. Reichardt told me:

The film actually ends a little differently than the script. The sun went down before we got our final shot on the last day, and I came back home without an ending to the movie, which is really devastating. I had to rearrange it in my mind. We didn't have the money to go back out there with all the actors and the animals and the wagons, so it had to become something other than what it was designed to be. I have this little prayer I say, where I tell myself that the lack of means is somehow working in my favour. Often it's true, and it can lead you some place good. In this case, it led me to an ending which was more suited to the film.

You have to be malleable. When I'm making a film, I want the script to be as far along as possible. But then all through scouting locations, the script is constantly changing to fit the places where things will happen. Then the actors come along. Things you've imagined being said in a certain way come out of their mouths sounding completely different, and I don't have a lot of rehearsal time so you have to adjust to that. If you knew how it was all going to be, then it wouldn't be such an interesting process. You read about Hitchcock, and how he said that shooting was boring because you knew everything that was going to happen, but then he wasn't working with our kind of budget or locations. I'm a big planner but it's still important to be open to whatever the day offers you when you're there.

I got an even greater surprise last month when I met Andrea Arnold (whose new version of Wuthering Heights I review in the next issue of the NS). I commended her on a particular moment in her 2006 debut, Red Road, which I consider to be one of the most imaginatively suggestive shots in recent cinema: a CCTV operator trains her camera on a suspicious-looking man who darts suddenly into the long grass on a stretch of waste ground, only for a lean fox to emerge a few seconds later from the other side of the undergrowth, creeping across the deserted road and vanishing into the night. The intimation, of course, is that a metamorphosis of some kind has occurred. I may actually have gasped when I saw that in a cinema for the first time, and I think I gasped again when Arnold revealed to me that the shot was entirely unplanned and fortuitous:

It was an accident; it's not like we had a fox there in the grass, ready to be released! When you're making a film, you often get less than you expect because what you start out with in your heart is such a pure thing, and the obstacles during production can be so immense and brutal. But, every now and then, you get so much more than you could ever have imagined. And the shot with the fox was one of those moments. To see it come out of the grass -- it was such a pure moment. I was delighted! I knew it was going in the film, no matter what. And I'd already written into the script the scene where the characters hear the fox noises later on. If you live in London, as I do, then you hear those awful noises all the time; it's just the strangest sound, like babies being murdered, and I wanted that in the film. The CCTV footage was shot before everything else, and it all just tied in beautifully. When that happens, you're, like, [she raises her eyes heavenwards] 'Thank you!' You feel like you've been given a big present.

And so do we, sitting gobsmacked in the stalls.

"Meek's Cutoff" and "Red Road" are available both on DVD. "Wuthering Heights" is released in cinemas on Friday.

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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Bertie Carvel's diary: What would the French think about infidelity to Doctor Foster?

The joy of debuting a new series, Rupert Murdoch's squeamishness and a sting in the tail.

According to the adage, the first thing an actor does when he gets a job is to go on holiday. And so, having finished our sold-out run of James Graham’s Ink at the Almeida and with the show (in which I play a young Rupert Murdoch) about to transfer into the West End, I’m packing my bags.

But before I can skip town, I’ve one more professional engagement: the press launch of series two of the BBC drama Doctor Foster, which we finished filming at Christmas. I’ve now seen the final cut of all five episodes, and I’m excited to share it with an audience. There’s no substitute for seeing other people’s reactions at first hand, especially with a show that got people talking so much first time around, and it’s electric to sit in a cinema full of expectant journalists and commentators and feel the room respond. Nothing beats this: to put so much into making a thing and then experience an audience’s unmediated, reflexive reaction. When it goes well, you feel that you’ve shared something, that you’ve all recognised something together about how things are. It’s a unifying feeling. A sort of bond.

Cheating spouses

Handling the interviews has been tricky, when there’s so little one can say without giving the plot away. (The first series began with Suranne Jones’s character Gemma, a GP, suspecting her husband Simon of having an affair.) What’s more, lots of the questions invite moral judgements that I’ve tried my best to avoid; I always think it’s really important not to judge the characters I play from outside, but simply to work out how they feel about themselves, to zero in on their point of view. There’s a sort of moral bloodlust around this show: it’s extraordinary. People seem to want to hear that I’ve been pilloried in the street, or expect me to put distance between myself and my character, to hang him out to dry as a pariah.

While I’m not in the business of defending Simon Foster any more than I’m in the business of attacking him, I am intrigued by this queer mixture of sensationalism and prurience that seems to surface again and again.

Shock horror

Oddly enough, it’s something that comes up in Ink: many people have been surprised to find that, in a story about the re-launch of the Sun newspaper in 1969 as a buccaneering tabloid, it’s the proprietor who considers dropping anchor when the spirit of free enterprise threatens to set his moral compass spinning.

I’ve never given it much thought before, but I suppose that sensationalism relies on a fairly rigid worldview for its oxygen – the SHOCKERS! that scream at us in tabloid headlines are deviations from a conventional idea of the norm. But what’s behind the appetite for this sort of story? Do we tell tales of transgression to reinforce our collective boundaries or to challenge them?

For me there’s a close kinship between good journalism and good drama. I’m reminded of the words of John Galsworthy, who wrote Strife, the play I directed last summer, and who felt that the writer should aim “to set before the public no cut-and-dried codes, but the phenomena of life and character, selected and combined, but not distorted, by the dramatist’s outlook, set down without fear, favour, or prejudice, leaving the public to draw such poor moral as nature may afford”.

So when it comes to promoting the thing we’ve made, I’m faced with a real conundrum: on the one hand I want it to reach a wide audience, and I’m flattered that there’s an appetite to hear about my contribution to the process of making it; but on the other hand I think the really interesting thing about the work is contained in the work itself. I’m always struck, in art galleries, by how much more time people spend reading the notes next to the paintings than looking at the paintings themselves. I’m sure that’s the wrong way around.

Insouciant remake

En route to the airport the next morning I read that Doctor Foster is to be adapted into a new French version. It’s a cliché verging on racism, but I can’t help wondering whether the French will have a different attitude to a story about marital infidelity, and whether the tone of the press coverage will differ. I wonder, too, whether, in the home of Roland Barthes, there is as much space given to artists to talk about what they’ve made – in his 1967 essay, “The Death of the Author”, Barthes wrote that “a text’s unity lies not in its origin but in its destination”.

No stone unturned

Touring the villages of Gigondas, Sablet and Séguret later that evening, I’m struck by the provision of espaces culturels in seemingly every commune, however small. The French certainly give space to the work itself. But I also notice a sign warning of a chat lunatique, so decide to beat a hasty retreat. Arriving at the house where I’m staying, I’ve been told that the key will be under a flowerpot. Lifting each tub in turn, and finally a large flat stone by the door, I find a small scorpion, but no key. I’m writing this at a table less than a yard away so let’s hope there won’t be a sting in this tale.

Ink opens at the Duke of York Theatre, London, on 9 September. More details: almeida.co.uk

This article first appeared in the 17 August 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Trump goes nuclear