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The NS Interview: Mike Figgis, director

“Pride is such a dangerous thing for a film-maker”

Do you remember your childhood in Kenya?
I lived there until I was eight. Coming to a council house in Carlisle was a culture shock. One week, I was in Nairobi; the next, I was in a snowstorm.

What were your early years in Hollywood like?
At first, I sailed through. The first film I made there [Internal Affairs, 1990] was a success, so I went, "What's the problem? This seems easy." But the second was a disaster and I started to get cornered. It was the cliché of the British film-maker who gets caught, like in the Martin Amis novel Money.

Would you describe your work as political?
No, not with a big P. I think you try to reflect some reality about the time that you live in.

What has been your proudest moment?
The corny answer would be, "When I was at the Oscars and Nicolas Cage won . . ." and so on. But I was thinking, "Wow, this is insane." With a complete lack of respect, they rammed Christopher Reeve off the set in his wheelchair while some supermodel licked a man's beard. Pride is such a dangerous thing for a film-maker.

Do you think of yourself as experimental?
I don't do things for the sake of experimentation - it's more for the joy of freshening things up. Film is very repetitive and very conformist. I wouldn't say anyone is pushing the boundaries of film right now.

Are you dissatisfied with the film industry?
Totally. I'm bored and frustrated. If you go into something like the Hollywood system and you have artistic pretensions but, at the same time, you want to make a film that's commercially successful, you realise it's a complete shambles, like British Rail.

What's the problem?
No one communicates and money is wasted. And they change studio heads like we change governments - we don't reform the government, we just change the scapegoats. And they are the same.

Why doesn't anyone shake it up?
They don't want to blow the whistle because they're making a lot of money out of this, and that's the truth.

Do you enjoy exposing the industry?
I love economics. I love going to a film studio and asking: "What's the weekly wage bill? Oh, is that why Tom Cruise costs so much? Are
the economics of film-making in such a mess because we're paying for things we don't need to pay for any more?" Film could be cheap. You're paying for executives, you're not paying for Tom Cruise.

You've directed Lucrezia Borgia for English National Opera. What made you want to do it?
I wanted to do a very traditional opera, with all the corny elements - the high drama, the tragedy, the death.

How did it compare to working in film?
Opera has its advantages - you work for a concentrated period, then you have a performance where the audience boos, claps, whatever. There is a pay-off. I had forgotten it was so terrifying.

Do you read reviews?
I don't. Roman Polanski once said that if you believe the good ones, you are duty-bound to believe the bad ones, too.

Has British film-making got a future?
It has the convenience of a common language with America. As Ricky Gervais said [at the 2010 Golden Globes]: "Now Best Foreign-Language Film - a category that no one cares about." He was absolutely right. If it's got subtitles, forget it.

You shot Kate Moss in a series of commercials for Agent Provocateur. Why?
I had done a lot of commercials. I knew that if you wanted to sell a pair of knickers, someone famous had to wear them. It became a defining moment in the fashion industry. There's a lot of bullshit about art in advertising. It's obsessed with perfection, a fake perfection, designed to make people buy things that they don't want.

Do you think the proposed cuts to arts bodies will damage British art?
I feel sorry for the smaller organisations that need funding; I wouldn't make light of the dam­age the cuts will cause them. But I have a strong belief that artists will come through and find a new language.

Do you vote?
I didn't vote last time, as I wasn't here. Like a lot of people, I felt dissatisfied with the choices.

Is there a plan?
Yes. Your challenge is to work it out.

Is there anything you'd like to forget?
No. I love memory, good and bad.

Are we all doomed?
Absolutely, but in a good way - it's good for everybody to be reminded of the idea that we are not permanent.

Defining Moments

1948 Born in Carlisle. Moves to Nairobi
1964 Plays keyboard in the R'n'B band Gas Board along with a young Bryan Ferry
1980 Founds the Mike Figgis Group fringe theatre company after being rejected by the National Film School
1988 Directs his first film, Stormy Monday
1995 Receives an Oscar nomination for Best Director for Leaving Las Vegas
2011 Directs English National Opera's new production of Lucrezia Borgia

Lucrezia Borgia opened at ENO on 31 January 2011. Tickets at or call 0871 911 0200. Lucrezia Borgia is on Sky 3D, Sky Arts 1HD, Sky Arts 2 HD at 7.30pm on Wednesday 23 February, and live in 3D in cinemas nationwide. See

This article first appeared in the 21 February 2011 issue of the New Statesman, The offshore City

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An English hero for the ages: Ian Botham at 60

Botham blends his sportsmanship and deep-seated passion for cricket with a lust for life.

Begging W H Auden’s pardon, it is possible both to honour and to value the vertical man, and in the case of Ian Botham, who turned 60 on 24 November, it is our bounden duty. No sportsman has given Britons so much to enjoy in the past half-century and no sportsman is loved more. Two decades after he retired from first-class cricket, his reputation as one of life’s champions remains unassailable.

No mere cricketer is he, either. Botham is a philanthropist, having raised more than £12m for various charities, notably Leukaemia and Lymphoma Research. In December, 30 years after his first walk from John o’Groats to Land’s End, he will set off again, in South Africa, where England are on tour. And he really does walk, too, not amble. As somebody who accompanied him on one of his dozen walks said: “You can’t keep up with him. The man is a phenomenon.”

Of all postwar sportsmen, only Bobby Charlton and, at a pinch, Henry Cooper come close to matching Botham’s enduring popularity. But Charlton, a shy man who was scarred by the Munich plane crash of 1958 (and may never have recovered from its emotional effects), has never comfortably occupied a public stage; and Cooper, being a boxer, had a solitary role. Botham, by contrast, spoke for England. Whenever he picked up his bat, or had a ball in his hand, he left spectators in no doubt.

Others have also spoken for England. Bobby Moore and Martin Johnson, captains respectively of England’s World Cup-winning football and rugby teams, were great players but did not reach out to people as naturally as Botham. Nick Faldo, Lester Piggott, Sebastian Coe and, to bring us up to date, Lewis Hamilton have beaten the best in the world, but they lacked those qualities that Botham displayed so freely. That is not to mark them down. They were, and are, champions. But Botham was born under a different star.

It was John Arlott, the great cricket commentator, who first spotted his uniqueness. Covering a match at Taunton in 1974, he asked the young colt to carry his bags up the rickety staircase to the press box, where Arlott, wearing his oenophile’s hat, pulled out a bottle of red wine and invited Botham to drink. Forty years later Botham is a discriminating wine drinker – and maker. Along with his friend and fellow England great Bob Willis, and their Australian wine­making pal Geoff Merrill, he has put his name to a notable Shiraz, “BMW”.

Arlott, with his nose for talent and good company, saw something in the young Botham that Brian Close, his captain at Somerset, was beginning to bring out. Later, Mike Brearley, as England captain, drew out something even more remarkable. As Rodgers and Hammerstein wrote, you’ve got to be carefully taught. And Botham, a fine team man as well as a supreme individual performer, has never withheld praise from those who enabled him to find his voice.

If sport reveals character, then cricket is the game that reveals it most clearly. In no other sport is the individual performance rooted so firmly in a team context. Every over brings a contest of skill and intelligence between batsman and bowler but only a team can win the match. “A cricketer,” as Arlott said, “is showing you something of himself all the time.”

Cricket also reveals national character more than any other sport. Football may be the most popular game in the world but cricket, and cricketers, tell us far more about England and Englishness. It is instructive, in this regard, to hear what Philippe Auclair, a French journalist and author long resident in London, has to say about Botham: “He is essentially an 18th-century Englishman.” In one! It’s not difficult to sense a kinship with Tom Jones, Fielding’s embodiment of 18th-century life, who began his journey, as readers may recall, in Somerset.

A country boy who played for Worcestershire after leaving Somerset, and who lives by choice in North Yorkshire, Botham is an old-fashioned Englishman. Although nobody has yet found him listening to the parson’s sermon, he is conservative with a small and upper-case C, a robust monarchist, handy with rod and gun, and happiest with a beaker in front of him. He represents (though he would never claim to be a representative) all those people who understand instinctively what England means, not in a narrow way, but through something that is in the blood.

Above all, he will be remembered for ever as the hero of 1981. Even now it takes some believing that Botham bowled and batted with such striking success that the Australians, who were one up after two Tests, were crushed. Some of us who were actually at Headingley for the famous third Test – thousands who claim to have been there were not – recall the odds of 500-1 on an England victory going up on the electronic scoreboard that Saturday evening.

Botham made 149 not out as England, following on, beat the Aussies by 18 runs. For three hours the country seemed to stop. In the next Test, at Edgbaston, Botham took five wickets for one run as Australia fell under his spell. Then, at Old Trafford, on a dank Saturday afternoon, he played the most memorable innings of his life and one of the greatest innings ever played by an Englishman: 118 magnificent, joyful runs. Joy: that’s the word. Botham brought joy into people’s lives.

Yet it was the final Test at the Oval, which ended in a draw, that brought from him a performance no less remarkable than those from before. He bowled 89 overs in that match, flat out, continuing to run in when others withdrew with injury. That was the team man coming to the fore. Little wonder his comrades thought the world of him.

Modest, loyal, respectful to opponents, grateful to all who have lent him a hand, and supported throughout a turbulent life by Kath, his rock of a wife, and their three children, this is a cricketing hero to rank with W G Grace, Jack Hobbs, Wally Hammond and Fred Trueman. A feature in the lives of all who saw him, and a very English hero. 

This article first appeared in the 26 November 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Terror vs the State