Terence not swayed by tinsel town

It's rather reassuring that Terence Davies didn't know who Gillian Anderson was when he cast her in the lead for his exquisite adaptation of Edith Wharton's novel The House of Mirth.

He thought she resembled a John Singer Sargent painting, a look he wanted to achieve for the film. He'd never seen The X-Files, because he doesn't believe in the paranormal, and is rather selective about what he watches on television these days, thinking the violence and bad language that infiltrate popular entertainment rather vulgar. He prefers Radio 3, or the theatre. He probably had no idea who Anderson's co-stars - Dan Aykroyd and Eric Stoltz - were either, but it scarcely seems to matter. For when you meet the 55-year-old film-maker, he seems to have stepped out of another, altogether more innocent era; a delicate, sensitive soul, he revels in words like "By Gads" and gets excited by the plate of cream cakes that have just arrived in front of him.

The House of Mirth, Davies's first film in six years, reinforces his reputation as one of Britain's most elegant film-makers. More majestic than even Martin Scorsese's Wharton effort, The Age of Innocence (which Davies rates highly), The House of Mirth is immaculately crafted, both verbally and visually. It also marks his first step away from autobiographical film-making.

His debut trio of short films (known as the Terence Davies Trilogy) dealt with his homosexuality; then came Distant Voices, Still Lives and The Long Day Closes, which took on his journey through adolescence, past the brutality of his father to his discovery of the cinema. Even removing himself to the southern states of America with his last film, The Neon Bible, didn't fully help him escape his own history.

Perhaps, with the death of his mother just three years ago, he was finally able to let go. Quoting Nietzsche, Davies reminds me "what doesn't kill you, makes you stronger". He's referring to Lily Bart, Wharton's heroine, but he might well mean himself.

He says he was attracted to the modernity of the novel, which traces the demise of the late-19th century New York socialite as she spirals into a loveless debt-ridden existence. "What is it about?" says Davies, his voice almost breathless as he splutters with his words. "It's about what you look like and how much money you have. And what's the present culture about? What you look like and how much money you have. There's no difference. Nothing has changed in the interim. We are the only species interested in ourselves. We're gossips." Davies sees comparisons between Wharton's New York and what he calls "the hermetically-sealed world" of Hollywood. "They [Hollywood] have a set of rules which no one in their right minds would observe. They're grotesque, venal and stupid. It's like 'Who's on an A-list?' Anybody with an IQ above room temperature doesn't care. You want to say to these people, 'Go and live on an estate in Newcastle, be on Valium and see if you can feed three kids on £60 a week.' Then you've got a problem. It wouldn't matter then if you were on an A-list or a Z-list."

He spits out the final words with a venom that seems at odds with his soft, almost untraceable Liverpudlian accent. The youngest of 10, Davies - who began his adult life as an accountant - remains anchored in his work-ing-class roots. He says he wouldn't last five minutes in Hollywood, where protocol is everything. "I can't deal with all that nonsense about speaking to the right people. I would just want to slap their legs and say, 'Grow up!' but that doesn't get you work."

And yet Davies realises just how reliant he is on the American marketplace. He expresses concern that the film might "dive-bomb" over there, explaining that he's more in debt now than he was when he began the film. "You get fed up moving from one set of debts to another," he says. "You can do it when you're young, but I'm knocking on now. I would like it not to be like that."

Aware that his name will only raise a $5 million budget per picture, Davies admits that he is not savvy to the demands of film-making. Despite having spent five years on The House of Mirth, nothing has sprung to mind as to what he might do next.

"I seem to make a film only once every five years. God knows why!" Would he like a higher turnover rate? "You bet! I'm sick of this five-year nonsense. It's worse than being in prison. It's worse when things go wrong, when people pull out or start being awkward. You start thinking it's not mining coal. It's not a cure for cancer. It is only pretend."

The House Of Mirth
Cert: PG