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The dead zone: why intensive agriculture is failing us, and ruining the planet

Mark Cocker discovers the shocking damage caused by modern food production in Dead Zone: Where the Wild Things Were by Philip Lymbery

The “dead zone” that supplies the title of this highly informed, utterly compelling book is an area of seabed off the Louisiana coast. Philip Lymbery explains that it is caused by a monthly discharge of roughly 112,000 tonnes of fertiliser that is carried down by river systems draining North America’s vast agricultural zones of genet­ically modified corn and soya. The pollutants deplete almost all of the oxygen in parts of the seabed, so the fish and other marine organisms are either killed or driven out.

The worst of the dead zones is the size of the states of Rhode Island and Connecticut combined, and the collapse of the ecosystem, though temporary, is inflicting great damage on American fisheries. It is also replicated in 40 such areas around the US. Worldwide, there are now 400 of them and they are doubling in number every decade.

According to Lymbery, the root cause of the problem is our increasingly globalised system of intensive agriculture. The “Green Revolution”, which has done so much to meet the needs of humanity’s spiralling population – from three billion in the 1960s to more than seven billion today – is predicated on an unsustainable exploitation of water, soil and natural ecosystems. But worst of all in this modern regime is the intensive system of meat production.

As you might expect from a man who is the chief executive of the campaign group Compassion in World Farming, Lymbery explores the consequences for animal welfare. Typical is our abuse of humanity’s most precious bird, the barnyard chicken. Most of the 60 billion reared annually are on a life cycle from egg to table of about eight weeks, during which they have as much living space as an A4 page. High numbers of them are infected with bugs such as campylobacter or salmonella, the latter at a rate up to ten times higher than among free-range fowl.

Animal welfare is a significant subplot, but this book’s primary theme is the consequences of such production methods for the rest of life on Earth. Despite the name, intensive agriculture is astonishingly inefficient. Converting grain or soya to meat protein wastes about two-thirds of the total food value of the original harvest. Beef is the worst, with a conversion rate of 3 per cent. It takes an arable area equivalent to the size of the entire EU to produce feed for the world’s livestock and this, if used more wisely, could yield food for another four billion people. In short, we are growing the wrong things in the wrong way for the wrong purpose.

Like all authors trying to convey large ecological truths, Lymbery has to cast his net widely and follow the chain of consequences across continents. In a chapter entitled “Elephant”, for instance, he explores how the margarine, shampoo and pork chops at your local supermarket are implicated in the loss of Sumatra’s rainforest, one of the most biodiverse areas on Earth. All of these household products require palm oil or palm kernel meal, which is used to feed livestock and even farmed fish. The EU imports half of the global harvest of palm meal, and demand for it is expected to treble by 2050. As the palm plantations expand to meet this demand, so we cause the loss of more Indonesian rainforest and drive the Sumatran elephant, just 2,500 of which are now left, to extinction.

Although Lymbery’s narrative threads are subtle and replete with powerful evidence, he is sometimes unable to explain the process by which people can confront, let alone overcome, the alliance of vested political interests and drug and chemical multinationals that is at the heart of this unsustainable regime. To give one small example, UK soils are in a parlous condition because of our five-decade addiction to chemical additives. Some of the richest peatlands in the Fens are being lost at a rate of two centimetres a year. Lymbery describes a ­Cambridgeshire farm that was test-drilled 200 times to assess its worm population. Not a single worm could be found. It sounds comic, but it should horrify us. Since Darwin, we have known of the invaluable role of earthworms in soil health. Yet when the EU put forward a directive on soil conservation, the UK, along with the governments of four other countries and supported by the National Farmers’ Union, campaigned for eight years to kill off the proposal.

Lymbery may not specify the exact political model that will allow us to challenge this madness, but he does a superb job of equipping us with the hard facts. No author can do more.

This article first appeared in the 30 March 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Wanted: an opposition

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Okja begins as a buddy flick – but ends up in the slaughterhouse

Korean director Bong Joon-ho works with British co-writer Jon Ronson on this tale of genetically engineered superpigs.

If Studio Ghibli, the Japanese animation studio responsible for Spirited Away, were to branch out into live action, the result might be something like Okja – at least in part. It’s the tale of a genetically engineered breed of waddling grey superpigs, not so much porcine in appearance as manatee or hippo-like, created by the twitchy, imperious CEO of a multinational corporation, Lucy Mirando (Tilda Swinton), in the hope of solving a global food shortage.

Each of these docile beasts is despatched to a different corner of the planet to be reared. The enormous Okja grows up in rural Korea, gambolling in the fields with her young companion, Mija (Ahn Seo-hyun).

Okja is no dumb animal – she saves the child from falling off a cliff by using a rope to improvise a sophisticated pulley system. She should be working in crisis management, not ending up on someone’s fork. But eventually the day comes when Mirando’s representatives arrive to claim their several thousand pounds of flesh.

The early scenes borrow the leisurely rhythms of Mija’s idyllic days with Okja; she snoozes on the beast’s vast belly, softly rising and falling in time with her pet’s breathing. Yet once she follows the kidnapped creature to Seoul, where they are taken in by a band of animal rights activists, the film lurches from one style to another. What begins as a tranquil buddy movie finishes up in the blood-soaked slaughterhouse where Okja is due to end her days; it’s as though My Neighbour Totoro had morphed into Fast Food Nation.

The film’s Korean director, Bong Joon-ho, and his British co-writer, Jon Ronson, present viewers with a transaction that reflects the ethical and ecological implications of the story.

We can have our heart-warming tale of the bond between human and animal, but only if we accept also those parts of the plot which demystify that relationship and take it to its industrialised extreme. It’s a bold strategy that has worked before for this film-maker – in The Host and Snowpiercer he used the genres of horror and action, respectively, to smuggle through political and environmental messages.

But Okja risks falling between two stools. Young children who might enjoy the first third (and can see Okja on Netflix the very day it is released in cinemas, easily bypassing the 15 certificate) would be alternately bored and traumatised by the rest of it. Conversely, adults will have an awful lot of whimsy to wade through before reaching the meat of the movie.

There are compensations. The film is sumptuously designed by Lee Ha-jun and Kevin Thompson, and crisply shot by Darius Khondji. Swinton, who played the villain in Snowpiercer as a grotesque northern schoolmarm with oversized gnashers, puts in the distorting dentures once again in Okja as both Lucy and her sister, Nancy, with whom she is locked in an irresolvable rivalry. Lucy is bleached (pink skin, platinum hair, white robes) to the point of invisibility, whereas Nancy is a harrumphing Penelope Keith type in a quilted jacket.

Other capable actors are undone by the unreasonable demands placed on them. Shirley Henderson, as Lucy’s assistant, has been directed to talk at comically high speed for want of any actual funny dialogue, and Paul Dano would be more plausible as a winsome animal rights activist if he weren’t leading the Animal Liberation Front. The group’s portrayal here as a group of touchy-feely flower children (“This is a non-lethal chokehold, OK?” one member says, as he disables a security guard) is laughable.

But no one comes out of Okja quite as badly as Jake Gyllenhaal in the role of Dr Johnny Wilcox, a wacky nature TV presenter who is like Steve Irwin trapped in Timmy Mallett’s body. The film is at its most wrong-headed in scenes where Dr Johnny, left alone with Okja, first forces her to mate with another superpig (a pointless episode that serves no plot function) and then tortures her.

It’s that risky trade-off again: enjoy the knockabout chase sequence in which Okja fires turds at her adversaries, and later you must endure the darker side of the same narrative. It will be a forgiving audience indeed that doesn’t recoil from this approach, which is too much stick and not enough carrot.

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 22 June 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The zombie PM

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