Film Review
What a fun, vibrant, colour-saturated decade the 1960s were, if you
believe the popular myths. Not so, according to Bruce Robinson,
who offers a completely different vision of Swinging Sixties Britain,
one that resembles a Constable landscape that has been left out in the
rain too long and mistaken for a latrine by every passing pigeon.
Withnail & I is an
adaptation of a novel that Robinson hammered out in a state of near
despair in 1969 and subsequently failed to find a publisher for.
It is a small miracle that it was ever made into a film, so offbeat and
unsettlingly weird is its conflation of social commentary, buddy movie
and blacker-than-tar comedy. With George Harrison's company
stumping up most of the finance,
Withnail
& I somehow managed to get made and has justifiably earned
its reputation as one of the all-time classics of British film comedy.
Drawing heavily on his own far-from-pleasant experiences as a drama
student struggling to hold body and soul together at the same time that
the Americans were burning up mountains of cash to send a man to the
moon, Bruce Robinson paints a distinctive portrait of 1960s Britain
that is almost surreal in its dung-caked grimness and pessimism.
A mildew-stench of moral decay and futility infects every frame of the
film, which has as much to say about the 1980s as it does about the
decade in which it is supposedly set. At the time
Withnail & I was made, Britain
was a divided nation, with whole swathes of the country blighted by the
ruthless free-market policies of the Thatcher government. A long
and bitter recession was just around the corner, but already a sense of
hopelessness was in the air, felt most keenly by those living on the
margins, the supposed riff-raff for whom that indomitable beacon of
capitalism, Mrs Thatcher, had no time. It was not a good time to
be young and coming onto the jobs market. It was not a good time
to be a single mum, chronically disabled, an old age pensioner or a
coal miner. Few films made in the 1980s evoke this sense of a
Britain divided by class, age and moral outlook more powerfully than
Withnail & I, particularly its
now legendary tea-shop sequence, a small masterpiece of social
satire. Bruce Robinson followed this up with another
anti-Thatcherite diatribe,
How to
Get Ahead in Advertising (1989), but this had nothing like the
impact and razor-sharp acuity of
Withnail
& I, by far the finest thing he has created.
The casting of Paul McGann and Richard E. Grant for the two lead roles
was daring but inspired, launching both actors on their highly
successful screen careers. McGann had recently come to prominence
through his work on the prestigious television drama
The Monocled Mutineer; Grant was a
complete unknown at the time. The chalk-and-cheese contrast of
the pragmatic working class lad (McGann) and florid public school rake
(Grant) makes for some memorable character interaction and sublime
deadbeat comedy, and the film could easily have functioned as a
two-hander if Robinson had wished it. Richard Griffiths livens
things up just as the humour begins to flag in the final act, playing a
character who was based on the director Franco Zeffirelli (who
attempted to seduce Robinson after giving him a part in his 1968 film
Romeo and Juliet).
Griffiths' career also enjoyed a considerable boost via this film;
he subsequently acquired the status of a national treasure through his
regular appearances in the popular BBC television series
Pie in the Sky.
Great actors certainly help to make a great film but what makes
Withnail & I so special is
Robinson's scintillating screenplay, which positively sizzles with
quotable one-liners. These range from Withnail's "I want
something's flesh!" and "Don't threaten me with a dead fish!" to
Monty's famous chat-up line: "Are you a sponge or a stone?" The
central character's voiceover narration has its own unique poetry, as
expressive, observant and pungent as anything to be found in a work of
modern literature. "We are indeed drifting into the arena of the
unwell. Making an enemy of our own future..." No need to
pollute you body with illegal narcotics and dubious alternatives to
alcohol - you can get high just as easily by shutting your eyes and
imbibing the mesmerising soundtrack of
Withnail & I.
A strange modern fable with an opaque moral, this is a film whose dark
humour seeps into your consciousness like a slow-acting poison creeping
through your veins, reminding us of the value of friendship and the
necessity to face the world as it is, not as we would like it to
be. Like a fine wine,
Withnail
& I has improved with age and just seems to get better the
more times you watch it. Steeped in genius, is it any wonder that
it should be as blisteringly relevant today as it was in the late
1980s? If anything, the film's satirical teeth feel even sharper,
its bitter melange of pathos and cynicism even more eloquent an
expression of the deep-seated divisions and injustices that still
poison our society, Thatcher's most enduring legacy. Nothing
brings home the horrible reality that surrounds us more effectively
than well-judged comedy, and
Withnail
& I does just that, with merciless aplomb.
© James Travers 2013
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