Free The Ghost Page A

head?” offered Trotman.
    Machin nodded. “Exactly.”
    Cook released a strange noise – somewhere between a sneer and a scoff. Machin glanced at him, but kept focus on his point.
    â€œAny artist who wants his work to engage with a mass audience must engage with them himself to some degree, and Whiteley has committed the schoolboy error of thinking that he only needs to engage with his critics – with the acclaim – and can safely ignore the dissenting voices, because they’re mostly coming from less esteemed circles – the people who still
pay
to see films.”
    Cook was subtlely shaking his head. Trotman spotted it, but stayed locked on to Machin.
    â€œSo, where does this story fall down for you?”
    â€œI think he’s sacrificed plausibility for stylistic indulgence. He obviously wants the film to be seen as some kind of
Midnight Express
update, but the cinematography is all exotic travelogue. He’s infatuated by his filming location and has lost sight of how the character would actually behave in that predicament.
Midnight Express
has its problems, but it tells a similar story in a more accessible – and plausible – way.”
    Cook was now shaking his head so vigorously, the camera was picking up tiny jiggling movements around the edges of the Machin shot. Trotman turned, gearing up a segue from critic to critic, but Cook was quicker on the beat.
    â€œI’m sorry, Dan. That’s crazy talk. We have the most exciting British filmmaker since Lindsay Anderson, and he’s made an absolute masterpiece –
for his second film
. How many other home-grown directors have produced something indelible for their second effort?”
    Machin swivelled slightly to face Cook.
    â€œWelles did it with his first.”
    â€œIt’s hardly like for like.”
    Machin caught Trotman’s eye. There was reassurance in the gesture – confirming he wasn’t about to let the dissent lapse into discord.
    â€œI thought we were discussing the film’s place within the director’s slim body of work, rather than making comparisons with other more established directors.”
    â€œNo, but if you’re going to compare this film to racist drivel like
Midnight Express
, then we can pick and mix other irrelevant references from across cinema history.”
    The comment carried an impressive economy of insult – it managed to dismiss Machin’s taste, implicitly accuse him of xenophobic leanings and discredit the whole tack of his contribution. Machin greeted it with a stunned laugh.
    â€œSo, Dorian. Uh…” Trotman faltered. The director hissed into his earpiece: “Focus on the film!”
    â€œâ€¦what do you think makes
Shifting Sand
so, as you say, indelible?”
    â€œHe’s taken an incredibly difficult subject and presented it from so many different angles – political, social, sexual. And all framed inside this gorgeous photography – like something from Roger Deakins. What’s most amazing is how he doesn’t shy…”
    â€œHitchcock!” Machin interrupted.
    â€œHitchcock?”
    â€œYeah. His second Hollywood feature –
Foreign Correspondent
. Incredibly mature.”
    â€œIt’s a glorified B-movie!”
    Cook could feel his lips gumming together. The pitiless lighting had him surrounded, flaring down from multiple angles, searing through his thinning hair, baking his brain, boiling his blood.
    â€œWell, that’s the conventional wisdom,” said Machin, smugly. “Watch it again, though. It’s actually improved with age. For a film that’s over seventy years…”
    â€œHitchcock wasn’t British, anyway!”
    This was an ominous incision from Cook – calm and measured, but clearly intended to wound. He carried on.
    â€œAnd if filmmaking is all about plausibility, Dan, then you’re dismissing several genres right there. Or maybe you can