Nick Broomfield: “She very much reminded me of Margaret Thatcher”

The documentary maker on Sarah Palin, Mitt Romney and sex in Bedford.

After your last two projects, the drama films Ghosts and Battle for Haditha, what inspired you to return to your old style?

I’ve worked with lots of different styles. I did a couple of low-budget features using real people to act as themselves and I had embarked on a feature, The Catastrophist, using actors, and there was this endless process of getting it off the ground, so I thought it would be good to recharge my batteries and go back to my roots. Plus there were other things. There’s always an interaction between the personal and the work. My father had just died and was anxious to go and do something on the spur of the moment. The thought of going off to Alaska was actually rather appealing at that time.

Many of your subject seem to see themselves as victims, even when they’re not. Is that fair?

I think that’s true. [Palin] very much reminded me of Margaret Thatcher, who in her later years would only allow herself to be interviewed by designated interviewers. Sarah Palin was exactly like that. She only would be interviewed by Fox News. I think the paranoia you’re talking about comes with power. It’s somebody with an absolute philosophy who isn’t interested in people who disagree with them. None of them were interested in democracy and open discussion, or a belief that several brains looking at a problem will come up with a solution better than your own. They’re all very reluctant to embrace criticism and regard it as a destructive thing.

How big a role do you think Palin’s parents play in her life?

I think she’s incredibly close to her parents. Her father was her science teacher and track coach. Apparently as well as being somebody who was rightfully very popular as a teacher – he had all these mammoths and dead animals – he was incredibly brutal to people. I don’t think Sarah was a natural athlete and she was always trying to get his respect and approval. Basically, nothing was ever good enough. It’s interesting she married Todd, who was the best basketball player, the one star they had. She was always devoted more than anything else to impressing her father and having him on board, and he’s somebody who absolutely sees the world in black and white tones: you’re either with him or you’re against him.

Why are those who loved her so reluctant to embrace Mitt Romney?

Well, firstly he’s a Mormon. He’s not a fundamentalist Christian. He doesn’t embody all those fundamentalist positions. He’s changed his position on abortion, which is a fundamental thing for them. He’s changed his position on things like health care, so I think he’s basically toadying to the extreme right because he knows he needs their support to carry the Republican party in the election. But no one really believes that he’s a dyed-in-the-wool fundamentalist in the way Sarah Palin or Michele Bachmann are. I think Romney is regarded as an outsider.

I see she has a TV show now.

She’s been under contract with Fox for some time. I think Murdoch regarded her as a rising star and believed in a lot of the stuff she was saying. Believed in her populism. That she was a great demagogue and had a loyal following. Maybe believed mistakenly that she was going to be vice-president and that his empire would benefit from her philosophy...

How many of you were there working on the film?

In Alaska there was a researcher who was looking at archives, contacting people and making phone calls, then somebody doing all the technical side of things – film making has become more and more technical: downloading footage, coming along on shoots, keeping everything going – and then Joan Churchill was the camerawoman and I was doing sound. So there was basically four of us. In post-production we probably had another three researchers. The Sarah Palin film was a frustrating film and it was very hard to get footage for stuff. It required more people than normal.

Do you think people have started to distrust you?

I think certain people do. I guess Sarah Palin obviously did. I think when I was doing things like Aileen or Kurt & Courtney, Biggie and Tupac, everything was fine, but I think probably right-wing politicians and those kinds of people do distrust me. And of course everything has got more difficult with the internet. You can find out what somebody’s done and how they’re perceived.

What are you up to now?

I’m just finishing an undercover film I did with the same journalist who I worked with on Ghosts, Hsiao-Hung Pai. She did a stint as a housemaid in a Chinese brothel in Bedford. Based on those studies we did another undercover film which is called Sex in Bedford and should be out some time in the new year.

Did you manage a cameo?

I did actually visit once, but no, I didn’t make a guest appearance as an evening customer.

"Sarah Palin: You Betcha!" and the "Nick Broomfield Documentary Collection" are available now on DVD from Universal Pictures (UK).

Nick Broomfield. Photo: Getty Images.

Philip Maughan is a freelance writer in Berlin and a former Assistant Editor at the New Statesman.

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The amazing lawnmower man

How ex-bank manager Clive Gravett became obsessed with Edwin Beard Budding, the inventor of the lawnmower.

It’s midday in the Museum of Gardening. Clive Gravett, the founder, curator and owner of most of the exhibits here, is pondering a relatively unimportant item in his collection: a glass tube, about a foot long. “Blown glass,” says Gravett, leaning in close, “so it’s probably early Victorian.” This, he explains to a curious visitor, is the work of George Stephenson, the “father of railways” and inventor of an early miner’s safety lamp. It’s a device for straightening cucumbers.

Stephenson’s triumphs are listed on a plaque nearby, but this museum, located in a corner of a garden centre in Hassocks, West Sussex, is one of few places on Earth where a luminary of Stephenson’s stature must stand in the shadow of a more exceptional figure. The Museum of Gardening is a shrine to Gravett’s hero Edwin Beard Budding, who in 1830 made one of the great intellectual leaps of the 19th century. He invented the lawnmower.

Budding was one of those bright-eyed tinkerers so common in the 1800s – a “machinist”, according to his epitaph. Legend has it that he was sitting one day at a cloth-cutting apparatus, watching a bladed cylinder travel over wool and cleanly remove the nap. He glanced out of the window to where men were working a lawn with scythes, and had a sudden moment of inspiration. Surely this cutting cylinder could be used just as easily on grass as on cloth?

In that instant, the lawnmower was born. “And it’s barely changed to this day,” explains Gravett, a sinewy man in his early sixties with icy blue eyes that thaw when he gets excited. “Compare it to the fine-turf mowers of today. It’s the same thing. You have a roller, a cutting cylinder, and a drive. That’s his design.”

Gravett was destined to fall for Budding. The son of farm labourers, he wanted to follow his father into horticulture. “I planned to stay on the farm but my mother said, ‘You don’t want to end up like us, living on tithed property.’ She gave me a bit of a push.” Instead, he went into banking and – smart, energetic and blessed with an unforced quirkiness – rose to be branch manager.

“Thirty-five years later I was very disillusioned,” he says. “I’d seen a lot of colleagues waylaid by stress, and I thought: ‘No, you’re not going to do that to me.’ We got our branch to the top of the list and I resigned, and accused [then RBS chief executive] Fred Goodwin of corporate bullying in my resignation letter.”

He then started up a small horticultural business. It was while tending the gardens of a retired solicitor in Ditchling that he discovered four old mowers in the garage. “He said he wanted to dump them,” Gravett remembers. “I took them away, found there was an old lawnmower club, and it went from there.”

Gravett is cagey about how many lawnmowers he owns, but it’s somewhere around a hundred. That’s not many, he suggests, given that antique lawnmowers are hardly pricey. It might seem excessive, though, given that there’s no lawn on his property. Many of his mowers reside at the museum. They are huge and bulky and strangely insectoid in the 19th century, with motors coming in about 1904, and then the weight drops away until the Flymo arrives in the 1960s – a gorgeous piece of domestic futurism, more manta ray than machine. “A lot of collectors are quite funny about Flymos,” he observes.

Gravett loves to talk about the magic of restoring a lawnmower. “Some Ransomes mowers can be difficult to date,” he says, “until you strip the cutting blade back to the metal and see 1907 or 1911, and you’re the first person to see that since it was put together.” His real passion, however, is research. It’s the research that brought him to Budding.

Born in 1796, the illegitimate son of a farmer (“his mother was probably the housemaid”), Budding was a clever child, training in carpentry and then engineering. As well as the lawnmower, he designed an early pepper-box pistol, and in the 1840s, a few years before his death, he invented the screw-adjustable spanner. None of these made him much money: they arrived too early. His lawnmower was so ahead of its time that he had to test it at night – “possibly because of prying eyes”, Gravett says, laughing, “but possibly because people would think he was stupid”.

Today, Gravett remembers Budding though his museum and charity, the Budding Foundation, which supports young people across education, training and sport. He is still looking out for lawnmowers, and urges everybody he meets to check their shed for forgotten treasure.

There is one machine he doesn’t have in his collection: a Budding. “Nobody has a Budding,” he sighs. “He probably made a few thousand, but the wars gobbled up scrap metal. Even so, I like to think one might be found.”

But Gravett managed to get close to his hero a few years ago when he took a trip to Dursley in Gloucestershire, where Budding is buried. “Nobody had written about his grave, so I decided to find it. I researched the churchyard, and the council provided me with a map to the plots.” The border fence had been moved twenty years earlier after six graves were taken away. When he found Budding’s plot, it was right up against the new fence. “We’re lucky we didn’t lose him.”

The grave, like Budding’s legacy, showed signs of neglect. It was overgrown and covered with brambles. Gravett lights up at the memory. “I cleared all the brambles off, and then, since I happened to have a 100-year-old lawnmower in the back of the truck, I hefted it over the fence.

“I mowed as close as I could to his resting place.” 

This article first appeared in the 05 January 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Divided Britain