Lunch With the FT: 52 Classic Interviews Page 5

  Fincher is in the frame to direct her in the forthcoming Cleopatra, but Jolie hints that we may see less of her on screen in future. ‘As Brad and I get older we’re going to do fewer films. I’ve been working for a long time, he’s been working for a long time … we’ve had a nice run and don’t want to be doing this our whole lives. There are a lot of other things to do.’

  China is on her list of places still to explore, and she would love to see Burma, ‘but not in the wrong circumstances’, given that the country is under the control of an oppressive military junta. ‘And Iran. I’d love to go to Iran.’ Her dream, however, is to ‘cross the Sahara. It takes 28 days … it would have to be on a camel. I wonder if I could do it in pieces and station the kids along the way,’ she muses.

  I tell her it sounds ideal for their nomadic family and we stand to say goodbye. There’s no handshake this time, although she leans forward to kiss me on each cheek. Then she walks away through the now half-empty restaurant, out into the California sunshine, back to work.

  23 DECEMBER 2005

  Albert Uderzo

  Asterix and the national treasure

  The 78-year-old illustrator of the famously rebellious Gaul is somewhat at odds with recent violent protests in France

  By John Thornhill

  The French sommelier, normally the most solemn of men, could resist no longer and approached Albert Uderzo to ask if he would like a little magic potion from the wine list. Asterix’s ‘father’ smiled indulgently, as if hearing the quip for the first time, and opted for a splendid bottle of Pouilly-Fumé instead.

  Uderzo, who along with René Goscinny invented the cartoon characters of Asterix, Obelix and the world-famous village of potion-drinking, boar-eating, Roman-bashing Gauls, is regarded as a national treasure in France. On meeting him, it is easy to understand why.

  In spite of his 78 years of age, Uderzo sparkles with a gentle humour and a boyish charm, retaining an inquisitive interest in the foibles of the French and the wider wonders of the world.

  In the chintzy pink dining room of the Hotel Raphael, close to the Arc de Triomphe, he is treated with fond reverence by the restaurant’s punctilious staff. Dressed in a smart blue blazer, with a broad, handsome face and swept-back silver hair, Uderzo blends smoothly into the elegant surroundings.

  The subject of the month has been the real-life violence that has raged across France’s poorer banlieues, with 10,000 cars having been torched by disaffected youths. Uderzo has strong views on the issue, having grown up in an Italian immigrant family in Clichy-sous-Bois, where the ‘appalling’ riots first erupted. ‘I know this banlieue very well. In my day we had fun in the streets but we never thought about setting fire to cars,’ he says indignantly. ‘Sometimes I have the impression of living on another planet. The world has completely changed and I do not think it is for the better. It is for the worse.’

  The illustrator seems pained by talk of social breakdown and the shirking of parental responsibility and visibly relaxes when the conversation turns to the contents of the menu – a matter of serious attention – and the origins and character of Asterix himself.

  ‘You must go back 46 years,’ he says with the cadences of a natural storyteller. ‘Asterix was born in 1959. We met a publisher who wanted a cartoon book for children drawing on French culture and history. Asterix represents the first lesson of history that children learn at school.’

  Goscinny, who wrote the words, and Uderzo, who drew the illustrations, let their imaginations roam freely in creating Asterix since little was known about the era in which the Gauls lived apart from the facts that they fought fiercely among themselves and were heavily influenced by Druidic rites. ‘Little by little Asterix evolved into the person we know today. But,’ he adds with a chuckle, ‘if we had known how long Asterix would have gone on then we would have paid more attention to the details in the first album.’

  That first album about the little Gallic warrior was published in 1961. Its opening sentences, repeated in every subsequent album, have become one of the most famous refrains in children’s literature: ‘The year is 50 BC. Gaul is entirely occupied by the Romans. Well, not entirely … One small village of indomitable Gauls still holds out against the invaders.’

  The stirring tales of how a band of cunning Gauls outwits and outfights Julius Caesar and his legions have become an international publishing phenomenon. The albums, now beloved by three successive generations, have been translated into 110 languages and dialects – including Afrikaans, Welsh, Hebrew and Occitan – and have sold more than 320m copies.

  Although Goscinny died of a heart attack in 1977, Uderzo has continued to release new albums single-handed – although he admits they lack the ‘genius of humour’ that spilled from the pen of his late collaborator.

  In truth, the latest album, Asterix and the Falling Sky, the 33rd in the series, is not the greatest of Asterix’s adventures, veering off into new territory by including alien characters inspired by Walt Disney cartoons and Japanese manga comics. It has, nevertheless, still proved a bestseller in the run-up to Christmas.

  Contrary to press speculation, Uderzo denies this album was intended to conclude the series. ‘No, no, no, it is not the last. Certain journalists believed this because the cover was the mirror image of the first Asterix album. That is indeed the case but it was not at all my intention to suggest it would be the last album. I can say that for one simple reason: my life is the work that I do. The day will never come when I will say that I have nothing more to do with this character. I certainly hope that I will have more ideas.’

  Confessing that he does not frequent fancy restaurants (the Raphael hotel has been chosen by his publisher for its convenience), Uderzo opts for a simple meal of smoked salmon followed by filet of sole.

  I am only slightly more adventurous in choosing salmon and the filet of bar. But there is sophistication in simplicity: the food is presented to perfection and is sweetly complemented by the Pouilly-Fumé.

  To many readers, Asterix has come to personify the French, with their infuriating, and occasionally endearing, contradictions, their determination to defy the US (the modern-day Rome) and their defiance of a homogenized, globalized future. As one political commentator recently observed: ‘Asterix is the citizen who is enamoured with liberty but thirsty for equality, the taxpayer who is pro-public service but anti-tax, the voter who would like to change everything but stamps his feet at the mention of reform. Asterix is neither from the right nor from the left but he is quite simply French.’

  Uderzo says his Gauls were indeed created to reflect contemporary French characteristics but he suggests they also appear to enshrine eternal and universal values.

  ‘In every country it is the same thing: the more we are under the sway of globalization, the more people feel the need to rediscover their roots,’ he says.

  It seems paradoxical that while Asterix, the character, is viewed as the champion of anti-globalization, Asterix, the international publishing phenomenon, is the undoubted beneficiary of a globalizing world.

  ‘The Gauls are the French of today,’ Uderzo says. ‘But that raises the question: why do they work so well abroad? Perhaps it is because thanks to globalization we all resemble each other. We have the same tastes, the same desires, the same problems. I think that is important.

  ‘Perhaps another reason is that Asterix has become a release valve for everyone. I think that is why he attracts young people, even unconsciously, because they do not like being under submission to anyone. They want a magic potion, not so that they can invade another country but so that they can defend themselves in their own home and quickly resolve all their problems.’

  One of the most amusing features of the Asterix albums is the depiction of foreigners, be they Romans, Belgians, Britons, Germans or Spaniards, who are – mostly playfully – lampooned according to their national stereotypes, as seen through French eyes.

  ‘Of course, we made the Germans very strict, very militaristic,
with helmets that resembled a little those from the Second World War. The English were also made very British, especially when we translated their phrases into French. It was an idea of Goscinny, who spoke good English and who took these English phrases and translated them into the most astounding French.’

  The nationalities that are so caricatured do not seem to have taken offence. Indeed, in the words of Obelix, these foreigners are mad: the sales of Asterix often appear strongest in the countries that are the most ridiculed. The Germans, for example, have bought almost 100m Asterix albums in total. Belgians and Britons are also big fans, although, curiously, Finland holds the record for the highest number of albums bought per head.

  Asterix is also conquering new markets in India and South America. His publishers are even negotiating a Chinese edition.

  The one market that Asterix has never truly conquered is the US, even though it was American animators, such as Walt Disney, who first inspired Uderzo to become an illustrator. He suggests that this may have something to do with the different formats of cartoons in the US, or a sense of cultural protectionism, or a different way of seeing the world.

  ‘It is not only the Atlantic that separates us,’ he says. ‘The Gauls do not have any relevance to their culture. Someone who wears a helmet like Asterix’s is thought of as a Viking. I think that perhaps it must have something to do with their total ignorance about our history. It is a pity, but tant pis.’

  Neither of us wants dessert, so it is time for coffee. I seize the moment to pull out a copy of his latest album and ask him if he would autograph it for Jamie, my four-year-old son, who has become the latest recruit to Asterix’s fan club. It is cheesy, I know, but one does these things for one’s kids. Uderzo consents immediately and inscribes the book holding his pen between his middle two fingers in a remarkable grip. He then takes an album that his publishers have brought along and kindly autographs a copy for me too.

  ‘There, I’ve written your name into it so I’ll know if you sell it on eBay,’ he smiles.

  Perish the thought. I’d rather be biffed by Obelix than sell my latest treasure.

  19 JULY 2008

  Ronnie Wood

  ‘It’s hard to get old and hard to say no’

  With a domestic earthquake about to hit, the rock star talks about touring with the Rolling Stones, his new exhibition of paintings and a life spent battling the drink

  By Rob Blackhurst

  Keith Richards once said, ‘If you are going to get wasted, then get wasted elegantly.’ At 61, his fellow Stones guitarist, Ronnie Wood, embodies this louche creed. As he arrives in the reception of Dublin’s elegant Shelbourne Hotel for lunch, cutting a path through huddles of overly nourished politicians and businessmen, he’s dressed in the same size of super-skinny jeans, 28 waist, that he’s been wearing for the past 30 years, a pair of space boots that may once have belonged on an alligator’s back and a tight black shirt undone to the chest: the fruits of a trip to Prada before his daughter Leah’s wedding last month.

  But, even from 50 paces, it’s the luxuriant crow-black head of hair, flecked with only the tiniest hint of grey, that really marks him out as a Rolling Stone. As he greets me with a warm handshake and naughty, liquorice eyes, he says, ‘I don’t dye it either.’ Alluding to his equally thin bandmates, he adds, ‘We’re all the same build, as well. It’s a good thing I didn’t join Fleetwood Mac.’

  We take our place in a booth in the newly refurbished Saddle Room, which is all mirrors and velvet and upholstered in a garish shade that might be described as boudoir gold. Wood squints uncomfortably. ‘Christ, it looks like Rod Stewart’s trousers,’ he says.

  The Shelbourne is Wood’s favourite Dublin haunt. ‘I’ve a good old affiliation with this hotel,’ he says. ‘When we played the Point Depot five years ago we were based here. It was like the Stones coming home to my town.’ Wood has lived in Dublin on and off since the early 1990s, when he bought a second home in the southern suburb of Sandymount, searching for a sanctuary for his art and music, and shelter from the British exchequer. He transformed the cow byre into recording studios and the stables into a personal pub called ‘Yer Father’s Yacht’. It seems a dangerous place for a fitfully recovering alcoholic like Wood; there are 20 more pubs within a square mile of his front door.

  He looks at the menu reluctantly: ‘I’m not really hungry at all,’ he says. Eventually we opt for 12 oysters from County Clare followed by the seafood platter to share. Nothing stronger than caffeine is ordered, though Wood is going through another well-publicized bout of heavy drinking. ‘A friend came over last night – I hadn’t seen him for years. We had a few drinks. It ended up being seven in the morning.’

  Though he has been woken up for the interview only an hour earlier, Wood is lucid and charming, especially when an espresso arrives to kick-start the conversation. I mention his latest art exhibition, Ireland Studio, a six-week show at his Scream gallery in Mayfair. The exhibition features paintings and pen-and-inks produced – mostly through the night – at his Irish pile over the past 10 years. Free of tour commitments – this year the Stones are on sabbatical after two and a half years on the road – he has been able to spend more time in Ireland with his two Great Danes.

  Wood’s interest in art dates back to the early 1960s, when he was a student at Ealing Art College, but he took it up commercially for ‘grocery money’ in the mid-1980s when he had blown a considerable portion of his Stones money on a cocktail of drugs and comically disastrous managers. He flicks through a pile of prints of the front garden of the Priory Clinic, where he has been a regular in-patient; moonscapes from the west of Ireland at night; and horses racing on the Irish turf. Sir Peter Blake and Lucian Freud are among fans of his art: ‘He [Freud] told Mick [Jagger] that he loves my landscapes. That’s a compliment, from the greatest living artist.’ Tracey Emin is a friend: ‘She’s like my aunt. She rings me up every day to ask how I’m doing.’ He pauses and confides mischievously: ‘Tracey thinks she can draw.’

  Most of his collectors are Stones fans in the US: ‘The leading cancer-curing doctor in Florida – much to his wife’s chagrin – spends most of his money on my paintings. She says, “Oh, please don’t sell the house and buy another Ronnie painting!” ’ Though his portrait of the Stones in a Jacobean interior, Beggars’ Banquet, sold in 2005 to a private collector for $1m, he is pricing his Irish landscapes at between £10,000 and £50,000. Deals, he makes clear, can be struck.

  Wood has become a kind of official portraitist to the court of celebrity over the past decade – ever since Andrew Lloyd Webber commissioned him to paint the famous patrons of the restaurant The Ivy in the early noughties. Now a Ronnie Wood sitting has become as much a signifier of the upper reaches of stardom as a Hello! wedding deal. His waiting list includes the Stones-mad French president, Nicolas Sarkozy: ‘I met him and Gordon Brown and he was desperately trying to put me on the phone with Carla Bruni. There are all these people like Scorsese, Clinton, Beckham …’ but he trails off, as if bored of the fame whirligig: ‘I’m trying to get away from the commissions so that I can do what I want,’ he says. ‘This new exhibition is more the stuff that I want to do – landscapes, dogs, horses.’

  The plate of oysters arrives. Wood is a fan of their nutritional properties. ‘They’ve got everything you need – all the vitamins and minerals. They keep the zinc up,’ he says with a mock leer. Discussion moves to his other day job. I ask whether age has calmed Richards who, Wood recalled in his autobiography, used to hold an arsenal of guns and knives that would be drawn during band frictions. ‘It’s still on the verge, you know,’ he deadpans. ‘Murder is still quite an easy option. You have to be on your toes all the time.’ Nevertheless, Wood is more appreciated now by his fellow Stones than he was when he left the Faces to join them in 1975. For years, as a latecomer who joined when the band had already made their fortune, he had to negotiate his fee on a rising scale for every tour and album. ‘There was a 17-year apprenticeship,’ he says. ‘Char
lie and Bill stood up for me. Nice of them to do that, because they could have carried on looking the other way. I’m part of the empire, finally.’

  In spite of the Strolling Bones jibes, he thinks the Stones have never sounded better in their 45-year history than they did on the final dates of their tour at the O2 arena last August. He says there’s ‘talk in the air’ of another tour next year.

  It must feel odd, I say, to go from playing in front of a crowd of a million in Rio to sitting at home. He becomes melancholic. ‘I’m more lost when I’m not on tour. I’m in a bit of a muddle at nine o’clock – “Where’s the stage?” On tour there are people directing and supervising you. And then when you finish it’s like, “Sit down and watch TV.” Sometimes I get so bored I think I’ll have a drink. I don’t mean any harm but I just go off the rails.’ He points out, however, that he did manage to catch himself last month when he checked in for treatment ahead of his daughter Leah’s wedding so that he didn’t miss the big day.

  A torrent of alcohol runs through Wood’s life. His account of his upbringing in a council house in Middlesex, the third son of ‘water gypsies’ who had left their barges for dry land, sounds like a preparatory school for a career in rock ’n’ roll. His father, Archie, played in a 24-piece harmonica band that toured the racetracks of England. At home, there were weekend singalongs around the piano that got so boisterous that a crack appeared in the middle of the house. When the family lawn was dug up 1,700 Guinness bottles were discovered. This may sound impossibly romantic, but his relationship with drink turned darker when, while he was still a teenager, his girlfriend was killed travelling to one of his first gigs: ‘When Stephanie got killed I sort of drowned my sorrows,’ he tells me, ‘and I suppose I’ve never looked back since.’