Putin welcomes tax exile Depardieu with open arms

Putin has offered Gérard Depardieu an escape route from Hollande's 75 per cent tax by granting him Russian nationality.

Vladimir Putin  has today signed a decree that grants Russian citizenship to French film veteran Gérard Depardieu. 

This is the latest development in the brouhaha surrounding the actor's very public opposition to François Hollande's proposed 75 per cent tax on those earning over 1m euros. The proposal was rejected by the French Constitutional Court on Sunday on the grounds it is unfair as it will be applied only to individuals. The President insists that he will push through a revised version of the measure. 

Depardieu expressed his intention to give up his French nationality in an open letter to to French PM Jean-Marc Ayrault, who had previously described the actor as "pathetic" and "unpatriotic".

According to France's civil code, which rules that a person cannot be stateless, Putin's offer of a passport will allow Depardieu to give up his French nationality. His earnings will now be subject to Russian tax, which is fixed at 13 per cent. 

The actor has a warm relationship with the Russian leader, who had  already declared two weeks ago that “If Gérard wants a Russian passport, it is a done deal”. Meanwhile, last week Depardieu was heard in his Parisian restaurant boasting, “Putin has already sent me a passport.”

Depardieu also has close ties with Chechnya's  controversial President Ramzan Kadyrof, who has been accused by human rights groups of persecuting his critics, among other offences. The actor was filmed at Kadyrif's birthday party in October 2012 making a rousing speech in which he cried “Glory to Ramzan Kadryof”. He is well-known in Russia, appearing in television campaigns for a grocery chain, Sovietski bank and a brand of ketchup.

He has recently purchased a home in the Belgian border town of Néchin, where he now officially resides. Almost a third of the town's inhabitants are French, and it is well-known as a tax avoidancpied à terre for France's high-earners. Depardieu reportedly still spends much of his time in Paris.

Vladimir Putin has offered Gérard Depardieu an escape route from higher taxes (Getty Images)
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Limehouse raises the question of when party loyalty becomes political irresponsibility

Labour's “Gang of Four” are brought to life brilliantly at the Donmar Warehouse.

A star of the Labour Party right wing, exiled from the shadow cabinet for deviating from the dominant orthodoxy, rants about how a decent but weak Labour leader, with an election-losing anti-European, anti-nuclear manifesto, risks letting the prime minister get away with whatever she wants.

Laughter shows that the audience gets what the dramatist Steve Waters is up to. Limehouse takes place on 25 January 1981, when a gentle veteran, Michael Foot, seems to be leading Labour to such sure oblivion at the next election that Dr David Owen has summoned his fellow moderates Shirley Williams, Bill Rodgers and (just back from a stint running Europe) Roy Jenkins to Sunday lunch in his kitchen in east London. This meeting led the “Gang of Four”, as they became known, to make a statement of estrangement from Labour that heralded the creation of the Social Democratic Party.

Waters was inspired by a New Statesman interview in which Rodgers wondered if the left-right divide under Jeremy Corbyn might justify a similar evacuation of the pragmatists now. The debates that the play stages – fidelity to party and national tribes against a fear of political and historical irrelevance – feel hotly topical.

Williams, considering an offer to abandon Labour and teach at Harvard, faced then the dilemma of an Ed Balls or Tristram Hunt now. And Labour members today who fantasise about a new progressive grouping might reflect that, while the SDP briefly seemed a plausible alternative to Thatcherism (winning 7.8 million votes at the 1983 election), the middle-class revolution was squeezed externally by two-party domination and internally by disputes over leadership and direction.

But, for all the parallel relevance, the success of Limehouse ultimately depends on the convincing re-creation of an era and its people. Enjoyable period details include the luxury macaroni cheese to a recipe by Delia Smith that Debbie Owen, Delia’s literary agent, chops and fries on stage to fuel her husband’s discussions with his three wary comrades. Waters also skilfully uses the mechanics of a pre-digital world – having to go out for newspapers, going upstairs to answer a phone – to get one character out of the way to allow others to talk about them.

As a good playwright should, Waters votes for each character in turn. Owen, though teased for vanity and temper, is allowed a long speech that honours his status as one of the most memorable orators in modern British politics. Tom Goodman-Hill samples Owen’s confident baritone without going the whole Rory Bremner.

Playing Jenkins, a man celebrated for both a speech defect and rococo cadences, Roger Allam has no choice but to deliver the voice perfectly, which he does. Waters carefully gives the character an early riff about the “crepuscular greyness” of Brussels, allowing Allam to establish the w-sounds and extravagant adjectives. Actor and playwright also challenge the assumption that for Jenkins both to love fine wine and to advocate social justice was inevitably a contradiction.

Debra Gillett refreshingly avoids the scattiness that caricaturists attribute to Williams, stressing instead her large brain and deep soul, in a portrayal that increases the sense of shame that the Tories should lead Labour 2-0 in the score of female prime ministers. As Rodgers (in Beatles terms, the Ringo of the confab four), Paul Chahidi touchingly suggests a politician who knows that he will always be a bag-man but still agonises over whose luggage to carry.

Unfolding over 100 minutes, Polly Findlay’s production has a lovely rhythm, staging the delayed entrances of Jenkins and Williams for maximum impact. Biodramas about the living or recently dead can be hobbled by a need to negotiate objections of tact or fact. Politicians, however, often purchase even the rudest cartoons of themselves for the loo wall, and the real Owen, Williams and Rodgers laughed warmly during, and strongly applauded after, the first night.

At an impromptu press conference afterwards, a genial and generous Owen astutely observed that what at the time was “a very happy day in our house” has been dramatised as tragicomedy. But, regardless of whether Marx was right about history repeating itself the second time as farce, the possibility that farce is being repeated in Labour Party history has encouraged a compelling play that is sublimely enjoyable but also deeply serious – on the question of when loyalty to party can become disloyalty to political responsibility.

“Limehouse” runs until 15 April

Mark Lawson is a journalist and broadcaster, best known for presenting Front Row on Radio 4 for 16 years. He writes a weekly column in the critics section of the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 23 March 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Trump's permanent revolution