Just Because

18 June 2012

There’s a thing we say in our family: Just because….

It’s a something my brother Anthony used to say, when he was a boy. When in trouble, he would start to explain himself, “Just because I forgot my boots…” and burst, before he could say more, into tears of despair.

Our Dad thought it was hilarious, and it has since been adopted family-wide as shorthand for ‘sorry’. I forgot your birthday? Just because. Your present is late? Just because. It is, inevitably, a much deployed expression.

And today I deploy it myself, for having neglected to send my fabulous Dad anything for yesterday’s Father’s Day. Again.

Here he is (below) at the recent opening of Reading University’s Film TV and Theatre Building, named after Anthony. One can only imagine the pride and the pain of attending such an event; celebrating a son prematurely taken. Our Dad handles these things with dignity and, always, a joke.

He is responsible for many aspects of our family’s collective personality. We have inherited, extended, developed and downright copyrighted so many of his attributes. His pleasure in playing on words. His boyish, infectious humour. And we aspire to his unfailing, sentimental love; his willingness to question the status quo; his satisfaction in simple things – food, family, a pack of well-worn playing cards.

Whenever there was a gathering of the Minghella clan – there are a lot of us now (a plague of Minghellas? a rash? a canzona?) – Anthony used to turn to Dad, point to all the kids, partners and grandchildren, and say, proudly, “All this is your fault!”

Ah. It’s hard to imagine saying that nowadays. The family is incomplete. And that joke belonged to Anthony.

It brings a tear to the eye, but Dad has a line for crying too: “Why are you laughing on the wrong side of your face?” You’ll find that line all across Anthony’s work, and mine.

In a few days’ time, our wonderful Dad will be 91. I should send him something now.

Meanwhile, here’s to you, Dad. It IS all your fault, and I love you and thank you and – in case I do forget – just because.

Made In Downing Street’s Rhetoric

Today, David Cameron is going to make the argument that austerity (or cuts or, as he recently tried to call it, “efficiency”) is an essential prerequisite to growth. This is because the Coalition thinks it is “winning the argument on deficit reduction, but losing the argument on growth”. (These are Nick Robinson’s words, but they sound to me like they’ve come straight out of Downing Street.) The phrasing is of course disingenuous, because it seeks to separate the responsibility for the flatlining economy from the policy – and rhetoric – on the deficit. They are bound up. They cannot be separated.

Labour will argue that no matter how hard the Coalition seeks to shirk responsibility, this recession has been Made In Downing Street, and the public knows it is true.

But is it also true that you can reduce the deficit at the same time as enjoying growth? Of course it is. They must go hand in hand. But here’s what cannot happen: you can’t expect cuts or austerity or efficiency to PRODUCE growth. You must have a strategy for growth which goes beyond “straining every sinew.” (There are debates to be had about shrinking the state in order to “allow” the private sector to flourish. They’re rubbish arguments at the best of times, and in times of recession they are positively dangerous. The results of austerity at home and in Europe are there for all to see.)

And you can’t bang on, as the Coalition has done for reasons of political expediency about the “mess” left by the last government, about how it’s the worst it’s ever been, about the need for drastic cuts across the board, without people eventually hearing you. They will hear you and they will be expecting redundancies and they will be expecting their benefits to be cut and they will be expecting their wages to fall back and they will be expecting their savings to shrink and they will be bracing themselves against the dire storm ahead. It will be a wet winter, a snowy Christmas, the wrong leaves on the line… messing up not just this quarter or that, but messing up the picture for years. Nobody in their right mind will spend, and no business in its right mind will invest. You do not need to be an economist to understand this story. In fact I sometimes wonder if it helps not to be an economist.

But the politics, if not the economics, are easy to see. The Coalition’s very existence depends on its self-proclaimed formation “in the national interest”, in a time of crisis, to fix the economic mess. It simply has to talk about how dirty our house is, in case we start to wonder how much we need the cleaner. Whereas, in the past, chancellors and prime ministers have benefitted from talking the economy up, this government has wrapped its identity around economic despair. It has committed itself to talking the economy down. That’s why it is “losing the argument on growth”. It cannot make an argument for growth at all. It is a problem entirely of its own, cynical making.

There’s a strange idea going round at the moment – eg on Newsnight last night – to the effect that there has been no austerity yet (and, by implication, the Coalition needs to be more brutal). It’s true that the planned cuts have only kicked in by, perhaps, 10%. But that misses the point. Everybody knows deep cuts are in the system, and it is that knowledge, that expectation – constantly justified and reinforced by rhetoric of dire portent – which has already generated the reaction to austerity. That reaction is stagnation and fear, and it has been entirely produced by the merchants of doom in Downing Street.

Jack Davenport on Anthony Minghella

13th May, 2012

These memories of Anthony were written by Jack Davenport for a proposed book on Anthony’s work by Meghna Mudaliar. Many thanks to Jack and Meghna for permission to share them here.

The night I arrived in Rome to start work on Ripley, I met Anthony in an almost comically perfect family restaurant in Trastevere. He was so happy and excited to be setting out on what was clearly a labour of love in the most complete sense. The film would show his adoration of Italy, the home of his ancestors; it would be a meditation on how social exclusion can corrupt a sense of self.

My not-so-hidden terror at working with a man whose previous film had garnered nine Academy Awards evaporated almost instantly in his embrace. Literally. Ant was one of the most effusively tactile people I have ever met. He used touch the way other people use words. It is a measure of the gentleness of the man that his continual pummelling and kneading never felt like an invasion, but simply an extension of his not inconsiderable powers of communication.

My nervousness at working with Ant stemmed from the fact that he was the first true artist I had ever been directed by. I remember how alarming it was receiving notes from him on set. Often, the open-endedness of the emotional world one is trying to create, means that discussing variations in performance can be a relatively free-form discussion, almost a gentle negotiation. With Ant however, his note giving was positively laser-like in it’s precision. Much of this was of course to do with the fact he had written the script. It was a case of knowing the topography of his story so well that he knew exactly what he was after, at all times. Which is not to say he was bullying or domineering, he just directed with a clear-eyed exactness that was rare indeed.

Somebody told me early on in our rehearsal period for the film that my character, Peter Smith-Kingsley (who in the novel appears in only one scene), had become in Ant’s writing an amalgam of qualities that he most admired in people. I found this information frankly terrifying, but Ant put it to me slightly differently. He said that Peter was the only character in the story who was comfortable in their own skin, and it was this quality that attracted Tom Ripley. A big part of that attraction was also bound up in Peter’s profession as a musician. Music saturates the film, and is used by many characters to say things they cannot express themselves. Ant’s insistence that I learn to conduct the Stabat Mater piece and play the piano, was the greatest excavation tool he gave me for the character. He would give me beautiful selections of music to help me get inside Peter’s head. I’m sure Ant would have endorsed the Walter Pater quote about all art aspiring to the condition of music. Indeed, that idea seems to be one of the major themes of the film.

I remember a story Anthony told me about a gift he had been given one the first day of shooting by his editor, the great Walter Murch. Walter had presented Anthony with a lacquered box filled with tiny hand-tied scrolls, one for each day of principal photography. Each one contained an aphorism that Walter had chosen and written out. Anthony said he would open one at random first thing, and then ponder it while he stood in the shower. He told me how strange it was that whatever the scroll said, there would be a moment during the day’s filming where it’s sentiment would prove to be weirdly pertinent. I always thought you must be able to inspire friendship and loyalty of a higher order to receive a gift like that. I still get a kick out of thinking how much fun Walter would have got making those scrolls, and how much pleasure Anthony received every morning as he rolled ‘Professor Murch’s Thought for the Day’, around his head.

The last time I saw Ant, we bumped into each other on a bridge in Austin, Texas. I was shooting a movie, and he was in town to support his son Max at a film festival. He was so proud, and so easy in the role of not-being-the-centre-of-attention. It was an honour to know Anthony Minghella- he was a man of huge achievement who wore his success as lightly as anyone could. I miss him terribly.

– Jack Davenport, September 2008

Reading University

10.5.12

To Reading University, where – with pride, sorrow, pride – we attended the opening of the new (Anthony) Minghella Building for Film, TV and Theatre.

David Puttnam did the opening honours. Anthony would have been delighted, embarrassed, delighted.