Culture and money

No one should doubt that festivals have an economic impact - but are the claims made for them overst

At a recent conference to discuss the story so far for ‘Liverpool Capital of Culture’, Phil Redmond, its lugubriously amusing creative director and all-round TV deity, put it bluntly: "Culture is not just about people holding hands and singing songs. It’s about bringing people together. It’s about footfall. With footfall, people spend cash. With cash you get regeneration. That’s what it’s about."

A trot-through of the relevant statistics suggested that his city can indeed walk tall at the moment. An estimated £35m worth of worldwide media coverage on the back of the opening event featuring Ringo Starr; 800,000 visitors from 189 countries since January; more than 2.75m people have attended a cultural event in that time; plus a 25 per cent to 65 per cent increase in attendances at major attractions.

The list was formidable. If you think about regeneration in terms of a physical action - with more blood pumping into the system, and greater vitality reaching every bodily part - then, on that basis, Liverpool’s regeneration - as a direct consequence of Capital of Culture - has some of the miraculous properties of a reincarnation on Doctor Who.

How long-lasting the process will be, can’t be certain; the city looks set to withstand some of the recession’s worst buffeting as more people look closer to home for their holidays, but even if things tail off in 09, it looks safe to say that Liverpool’s transformation is beyond easy reversal.

The pattern of a surge in economic activity as a result of cultural festivities is discernible across the country. Take three of the festivals that have just been and gone: The Brighton Festival, Norfolk and Norwich Festival and Fierce! in Birmingham.

As at 2006, when an economic impact survey was compiled, Brighton Festival was estimated to contribute £20m to the local economy every year, while Brighton Dome and Festival employs 260 people, and attracts £750,000 in sponsorship per annum.

Jonathan Holloway, artistic director of the Norfolk and Norwich Festival claims that his festival’s cultural offering brings a calculable benefit to a deprived region of Eastern England. "With 20 per cent of the audience coming from outside the region, we estimate that in all about £4m is pumped into the economy." Last year there were some 70,000 visitors - this year he anticipates the number would approach 100,000. One startling indirect social benefit, he suggests, is that crime levels drop during street festivals.

Finally, although Fierce! is a modestly sized, cross-arts programme, the positives for Birmingham were defined starkly in 2004: 32 per cent of questionnaire respondents had travelled over 20 miles to the event, and nearly a quarter of respondents (23 per cent) came from more than 50 miles away.

The Arts Council’s research that year (Festivals and the Challenge of Cultural Tourism) found that festival visitors from more than 20 miles away spent on average £145.71 per day and stayed an average of 3.5 nights per visit. An estimated 100,000 plus people annually engage with the festival’s programme, we’re told. You don’t have to be a maths whiz to realise that Redmond’s equation about footfall applies here too.

So does that mean that any benighted urban - or even rural - location with a name, a car-park and a marketing strategy can set itself up with a festival and watch the regenerative cash flow in? Holloway, former events manager at the National Theatre, sounds a strong note of scepticism: "I do think there’s a tendency to put two or three events on one plate and call it a festival. Creatively, we should have huge expectations of festivals. I expect them to transform people’s lives for the better - I have no truck with the idea of festivals as a marketing tool."

All in all, festivals can bring tangible - and less tangible - benefits; you can’t measure things like civic pride and a greater sense of a collective identity but clearly the uplift that flows from a well-run arts festival isn’t limited to the satisfying ping of cash registers. When the planning and execution go well, you should get a virtuous circle of increased economic, social and artistic vibrancy. The motor of passion behind it, though, has to be the desire by artists to engage people - and, well, ensure they enjoy themselves.

The danger lies when the claims made on behalf of festivals become not only overstated but the very raison d’etre of the festival. And I can think of no better instance of this than LIFT (the London International Festival of Theatre) which starts this week. For the best part of two decades, LIFT played an invaluable role in bringing over the best work from overseas that its co-founders Rose Fenton and Lucy Neal could find. About five years ago, shortly before they handed their baby onto Angharad Wynne-Jones, the organisation became intensively introspective.

The artistic programme this year looks pretty thin. There are ‘four global reports from Australia, the Pacific, China and Canada’ - which translates as four dance and performance pieces by relatively unknown practitioners. It’s hard to work out what you’d rush to spend your money on. There’s little to catch the casual eye besides an insistent need on LIFT’s part to ‘get into conversation’ with people. At the heart of that is something called the Lift Parliament, described by Jude Kelly, artistic director of the South Bank as "one of the most important cultural developments for London in the coming decade". This is "a new concept in performance space where artists from around the world and the people of London can gather together to share stories, exchange knowledge and imagine and rehearse new futures".

Forgive the reliance of press-release quotes at this point but the Lift parliament, along with many parliaments one could mention, seems to have an instinctive love of hard-to-apprehend hot-air. Maybe I’ll be proved wrong when I step inside this strange vertical portable venue, when it pitches up at the South Bank - and get stuck into meaningful discourse with another dropper-by. But to pretend that dialogue around art can be as transformative as art itself and as empowering as political enfranchisement strikes me as a kind of evasive piety. To change the world you need to engage with the political system not hang out in a surrogate hive. To make a change, you’ve got to make the leap - not just catch a LIFT.

Lift Festival 2008 Stratford Park, Newham E15. 12–21 June. Tickets: 0844 412 4317 Lift

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The French millennials marching behind Marine Le Pen

A Front National rally attracts former socialists with manicured beards, and a lesbian couple. 

“In 85 days, Marine will be President of the French Republic!” The 150-strong crowd cheered at the sound of the words. On stage, the speaker, the vice-president of the far-right Front National (FN), Florian Philippot, continued: “We will be told that it’s the apocalypse, by the same banks, media, politicians, who were telling the British that Brexit would be an immediate catastrophe.

"Well, they voted, and it’s not! The British are much better off than we are!” The applause grew louder and louder. 

I was in the medieval city of Metz, in a municipal hall near the banks of the Moselle River, a tributary of the Rhine from which the region takes its name. The German border lies 49km east; Luxembourg City is less than an hour’s drive away. This is the "Country of the Three Borders", equidistant from Strasbourg and Frankfurt, and French, German and French again after various wars. Yet for all that local history is deeply rooted in the wider European history, votes for the Front National rank among the highest nationally, and continue to rise at every poll. 

In rural Moselle, “Marine”, as the Front National leader Marine Le Pen is known, has an envoy. In 2014, the well-spoken, elite-educated Philippot, 35, ran for mayor in Forbach, a former miner’s town near the border. He lost to the Socialist candidate but has visited regularly since. Enough for the locals to call him “Florian".

I grew up in a small town, Saint-Avold, halfway between Metz and Forbach. When my grandfather was working in the then-prosperous coal mines, the Moselle region attracted many foreign workers. Many of my fellow schoolmates bore Italian and Polish surnames. But the last mine closed in 2004, and now, some of the immigrants’ grandchildren are voting for the National Front.

Returning, I can't help but wonder: How did my generation, born with the Maastricht treaty, end up turning to the Eurosceptic, hard right FN?

“We’ve seen what the other political parties do – it’s always the same. We must try something else," said Candice Bertrand, 23, She might not be part of the group asking Philippot for selfies, but she had voted FN at every election, and her family agreed. “My mum was a Communist, then voted for [Nicolas] Sarkozy, and now she votes FN. She’s come a long way.”  The way, it seemed, was political distrust.

Minutes earlier, Philippot had pleaded with the audience to talk to their relatives and neighbours. Bertrand had brought her girlfriend, Lola, whom she was trying to convince to vote FN.  Lola wouldn’t give her surname – her strongly left-wing family would “certainly not” like to know she was there. She herself had never voted.

This infuriated Bertrand. “Women have fought for the right to vote!” she declared. Daily chats with Bertrand and her family had warmed up Lola to voting Le Pen in the first round, although not yet in the second. “I’m scared of a major change,” she confided, looking lost. “It’s a bit too extreme.” Both were too young to remember 2002, when a presidential victory for the then-Front National leader Jean-Marie Le Pen, was only a few percentage points away.

Since then, under the leadership of his daughter, Marine, the FN has broken every record. But in this region, the FN’s success isn’t new. In 2002, when liberal France was shocked to see Le Pen reach the second round of the presidential election, the FN was already sailing in Moselle. Le Pen grabbed 23.7 per cent of the Moselle vote in the first round and 21.9 per cent in the second, compared to 16.9 per cent and 17.8 per cent nationally. 

The far-right vote in Moselle remained higher than the national average before skyrocketing in 2012. By then, the younger, softer-looking Marine had taken over the party. In that year, the FN won an astonishing 24.7 per cent of the Moselle vote, and 17.8 per cent nationwide.

For some people of my generation, the FN has already provided opportunities. With his manicured beard and chic suit, Emilien Noé still looks like the Young Socialist he was between 16 and 18 years old. But looks can be deceiving. “I have been disgusted by the internal politics at the Socialist Party, the lack of respect for the low-ranked campaigners," he told me. So instead, he stood as the FN’s youngest national candidate to become mayor in his village, Gosselming, in 2014. “I entered directly into action," he said. (He lost). Now, at just 21, Noé is the FN’s youth coordinator for Eastern France.

Metz, Creative Commons licence credit Morgaine

Next to him stood Kevin Pfeiffer, 27. He told me he used to believe in the Socialist ideal, too - in 2007, as a 17-year-old, he backed Ségolène Royal against Sarkozy. But he is now a FN local councillor and acts as the party's general co-ordinator in the region. Both Noé and Pfeiffer radiated a quiet self-confidence, the sort that such swift rises induces. They shared a deep respect for the young-achiever-in-chief: Philippot. “We’re young and we know we can have perspectives in this party without being a graduate of l’ENA,” said another activist, Olivier Musci, 24. (The elite school Ecole Nationale d’Administration, or ENA, is considered something of a mandatory finishing school for politicians. It counts Francois Hollande and Jacques Chirac among its alumni. Ironically, Philippot is one, too.)

“Florian” likes to say that the FN scores the highest among the young. “Today’s youth have not grown up in a left-right divide”, he told me when I asked why. “The big topics, for them, were Maastricht, 9/11, the Chinese competition, and now Brexit. They have grown up in a political world structured around two poles: globalism versus patriotism.” Notably, half his speech was dedicated to ridiculing the FN's most probably rival, the maverick centrist Emmanuel Macron. “It is a time of the nations. Macron is the opposite of that," Philippot declared. 

At the rally, the blue, red and white flame, the FN’s historic logo, was nowhere to be seen. Even the words “Front National” had deserted the posters, which were instead plastered with “in the name of the people” slogans beneath Marine’s name and large smile. But everyone wears a blue rose at the buttonhole. “It’s the synthesis between the left’s rose and the right’s blue colour”, Pfeiffer said. “The symbol of the impossible becoming possible.” So, neither left nor right? I ask, echoing Macron’s campaign appeal. “Or both left and right”, Pfeiffer answered with a grin.

This nationwide rebranding follows years of efforts to polish the party’s jackass image, forged by decades of xenophobic, racist and anti-Semitic declarations by Le Pen Sr. His daughter evicted him from the party in 2015.

Still, Le Pen’s main pledges revolve around the same issue her father obsessed over - immigration. The resources spent on "dealing with migrants" will, Le Pen promises, be redirected to address the concerns of "the French people". Unemployment, which has been hovering at 10 per cent for years, is very much one of them. Moselle's damaged job market is a booster for the FN - between 10 and 12 per cent of young people are unemployed.

Yet the two phenomena cannot always rationally be linked. The female FN supporters I met candidly admitted they drove from France to Luxembourg every day for work and, like many locals, often went shopping in Germany. Yet they hoped to see the candidate of “Frexit” enter the Elysee palace in May. “We've never had problems to work in Luxembourg. Why would that change?” asked Bertrand. (Le Pen's “144 campaign pledges” promise frontier workers “special measures” to cross the border once out of the Schengen area, which sounds very much like the concept of the Schengen area itself.)

Grégoire Laloux, 21, studied history at the University of Metz. He didn't believe in the European Union. “Countries have their own interests. There are people, but no European people,” he said. “Marine is different because she defends patriotism, sovereignty, French greatness and French history.” He compared Le Pen to Richelieu, the cardinal who made Louis XIV's absolute monarchy possible:  “She, too, wants to build a modern state.”

French populists are quick to link the country's current problems to immigration, and these FN supporters were no exception. “With 7m poor and unemployed, we can't accept all the world's misery,” Olivier Musci, 24, a grandchild of Polish and Italian immigrants, told me. “Those we welcome must serve the country and be proud to be here.”

Lola echoed this call for more assimilation. “At our shopping centre, everyone speaks Arabic now," she said. "People have spat on us, thrown pebbles at us because we're lesbians. But I'm in my country and I have the right to do what I want.” When I asked if the people who attacked them were migrants, she was not so sure. “Let's say, they weren't white.”

Trump promised to “Make America Great Again”. To where would Le Pen's France return? Would it be sovereign again? White again? French again? Ruled by absolutism again? She has blurred enough lines to seduce voters her father never could – the young, the gay, the left-wingers. At the end of his speech, under the rebranded banners, Philippot invited the audience to sing La Marseillaise with him. And in one voice they did: “To arms citizens! Form your battalions! March, march, let impure blood, water our furrows...” The song is the same as the one I knew growing up. But it seemed to me, this time, a more sinister tune.