Reflected glory at the Oscars

Plus: folk-rockers growing old ungratingly and Lee Anderson finding his latest political home

Film publicists don’t win Oscars. But amid all the acclaim for Oppenheimer, let me trumpet one woman’s part in spreading the word about the 20 Days in Mariupol, winner of the award for best documentary.

The film has already collected a Bafta in the same category and these Salut! Life pages have an interest to declare when highlighting the role of that publicist: she is my elder daughter, Christelle.

As a freelance running her own small publicity consultancy, Christelle couldn’t justify the cost of being in Los Angeles for the ceremony. But along with lots of others who laboured behind the scene of this extraordinary work, she deserves a lot of credit for the success enjoyed by this chronicle of death-defying journalism and irresistible if harrowing film-making.

Christelle with 20 Days in Mariupol's maker Mstyslav Chernov after an earlier victory, best documentary in the London Film Critics’ awards

Publicists like Christelle have the task of drumming up and organising press, broadcasting and online coverage of films. Sometimes doors open readily, sometimes they need a kick. I have a father’s certainty that any kicking was done elegantly.

But if you happened to catch interviews by, for example, Channel 4’s Matt Frei or LBC’s James O’Brien with Mstyslav Chernov, the brave, determined Associated Press journalist who made the documentary, be assured it was Christelle who set them up. She has earned her reflected glory, and mentions on her cv, of seeing 20 Days gain such mighty recognition.

And it doesn’t end there. Just before jetting off with her mum for a few days in Tenerife, she let it be known The Last Repair Shop - on which she also worked - had won an Oscar for best short documentary. That’s some double.

Oppenheimer now joins the parade of Oscar-winning films unseen by me at the time of the Academy awards being made. Its board-sweeping seven Oscars, including best film, best director (Christopher Nolan) and best male lead (Cillian Murphy) mean I shall be putting that right soonish. I will also see The Last Repair Shop, which tells in just 39 minutes the story of a magnificent project to repair and maintain 80,000 musical instruments for pupils at LA’s state schools.

As for 20 Days I need only repeat what I said after Bafta: this searing depiction of cruelty, suffering and forbearance needs to be watched by every last apologist for the tyranny and Hitleresque aggression of Vladimir Putin. Chernov and his colleagues merit nothing less.

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Four elderly gentlemen, along with a hairy nipper of barely 67, strutted their hour or two upon a London stage and seemed to shave decades off their aggregate age of 362 years. Among an army of greying fans in the sell-out audience, there was even a light sprinkling of people younger than them.

Far from signifying nothing, in case I do not already have William Shakespeare rotating angrily in his grave, Fairport Convention managed in the penultimate concert of a long tour to show they still matter.

Fifty-seven years after Simon Nicol and Richard Thompson formed the band, the setting for a minor musical triumph was one of the capital’s loveliest venues, the Union Chapel across the road from Highbury and Islington tube station.

The heights of Fairport glory were reached during the late Sandy Denny’s two short stints, 1968-69 and 1974-75, but declining interest in the folk-rock genre led to the band being sidelined - though its musicians remained active - in the first half of the 1980s. Somehow, not least because of the annual Cropredy Fairport reunion festival (book for 2024 at this link) , they have remained a fixture of (part of) the national consciousness. Not always with admiration; I recall chancing upon an episode of The Archers in which parental possession of Fairport albums was roundly mocked.

Nicol, now 73, is still in the band - he had a break in the 1970s - and long ago developed into a compelling lead singer whose guitar playing is also exemplary.

Dave Pegg, at 76 the senior member of the band, still provides the solid bass work that underpins a tight, vibrant sound combining pulsating drumming (Dave Mattacks back in the group at 75), exquisite fiddle playing by 71-year-old Ric Sanders, 67-year-old Chris Leslie’s multi-instrumental flair and 73-year-old Nicol’s adaptable rhythm guitar (he describes his style as percussive).

The repertoire included almost plenty of Fairport standards: Walk Awhile, Sloth, Crazy Man Michael, Genesis Hall and - with further deference to Macbeth’s soliloquy - all the sound and fury of Matty Groves. Nothing fell short of accomplished performance, reaffirming folk-rock’s status as a special genre, and I wouldn’t be surprised if some of those seated along the Union Chapel’s pews sensed the approving, ghostly presence of departed Fairporters Denny, Dave Swarbrick, Judy Dyble, Trevor Lucas, Martin Lamble, Bruce Rowland, Maartin Allcock and David Rea (RIP one and all and please give me a shout if I’ve missed someone).

It was all preceded by an excellent husband-and-wife support duo, Plumhall, with superior songwriting and robust accompaniment. If I am not among those concert-goers who hog the bar until the main act is about to appear, truly memorable supports are rare indeed; only Lindisfarne (for Ralph McTell), Damien Dempsey (for Sinead O’Connor) and Show of Hands (for Fairport at the Cropredy festival that re-created each track of the renowned Liege and Lief album) spring instantly to mind,

One glaring omission from Fairport’s two generous sets was Denny’s best-known composition. Who Knows Where That Song Went? Nicol hinted at a curfew, so maybe the band simply ran out of permitted time.

In a splendid finale, however, Plumhall - alias Michelle Plum and Nick Hall - were summoned back on stage for a loud, lingering rendition of the anthemic Meet on the Ledge, helpfully bringing down the average age on stage. Keep strutting, Fairport.

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What political party, I wondered aloud here, could possibly accommodate the buffoon-life but rather nasty qualities of Lee Anderson, whose self-styled political journey has now taken him from Labour to about as far right as can be travelled without hooking up with Genghis Khan?

Step forward Reform, the voice of unrestrained populism created by Nigel Farage, a proud past recipient of NME’s Villain of the Year award. No other party that wishes to be considered respectable would touch with a bargepole Anderson, a man whose most recent affront to decency was to accuse another Khan, Sadiq, the Labour Mayor of London, of being under the control of Islamists.

Perhaps Anderson’s arrival will put back Farage’s return to the Tory fold. To his eternal shame, Rishi Sunak - ever wary of the remaining hard right tupthumpers in his diminishing parliamentary party - refuses to rule out welcoming him back as a member.