Appy-polly-lodgies for being so erratic with reviews lately,I've been pulling it all together for the upcoming Halloween party this weekend(and partying to prepare,of course),flirting with chicks,pulling up ridiculous YouTube videos,and haven't set aside enough time for the site.I'll try to wedge a few quality entries in before All Hallows Eve is finally upon us.After covering some quality Voorhees when last we met,tonight we'll move on to a bald bastard of a different pedigree.Movie fans-come-lately'll gush praise on actor Tim Roth for his performances in films like Reservoir Dogs and The Cook,The Thief,His Wife,and Her Lover,and justifiably so.I'm willing to wager a guess that the vast majority of these people never wrapped their glassies around his brilliant 1982 debut as Trevor,the xenophobic,aggro-minded skinhead in Alan Clarke's Made in Britain though.Naysayers might slag this performance off as one-dimensional,but those gents will not have noticed Roth's smooth transition into a sociopathic demon who uses his wit to set up each bovver-laden set piece.His is not Ed Norton's sympathetic Derek indoctrinated into a world of intolerance by his calloused father,nor is it Gary Oldman's goofy prankster Cocksey, who bumbles through life in the tower blocks like a loveable cartoon,Trevor has no regard for much of anything,not even his own future,instead choosing to violently lash out at anyone in his path.Tonight's British teleplay reads like an exaggerated warning to the decent middle class members of society,against an undercurrent of glue-sniffing dropout working class footsoldiers for the far right.As we all know,sensationalism sells,but who's buying?If the authoritarian twats in borstal weren't bigger fascist cunts than the bootboys themselves,they might have come away with their intended message driven home,instead of the opposite.But,if you must 'ave it,'ave it then...
Tucker's ruckers ain't no suckers,motherfucker.
Amidst strains of Wattie and Scottish oi outfit,The Exploited,we're introduced to sixteen year old Trevor(Roth),who is in court for bricking out a certain Paki named Shahnawaz's(Shahnawanker,according to Trev) window,and facing more charges at a later date for nicking some cassettes from Harrod's.Solid Gold NF Disco Classics,methinks.Trev gives the judge some two-fingers-in-the-air attitude,feeling no remorse for his crimes or victims.Harry Parker(Eric Richard) is Trev's social worker,who sends his client off to be assessed by Peter Clive(Bill Stewart) at Hooper Street,somehow still believing he can be reached.At the Centre,Clive assigns Trevor a room that he shares with Errol,a tinted young chappie.Errol marvels at Trev's forehead-stika,and quickly surrenders his bed to the new bootboy.The next morning,Trevor steals a car(or "touches the dog's arse{takes and drives away}" in the slang of the day)and hits the job centre with Errol,stopping on the way to pick up some glue for huffing and a packet of fags with his pocket money.He leaves his unlikely black accomplice huffing in the car while he's quickly discouraged inside the centre.He shows his displeasure by cinderblocking out the front window,recovering some carjacking tools from an abandoned public swimming pool afterwards which he uses to steal another car that he forces Errol out of,and drives off to see some mates.Back at the assessment centre,Clive notices Trevor sitting outside in the stolen vehicle eating a sandwich.After getting rid of the car,Trev turns up the bastard-ometer,booting the chef in the minerals when he's refused lunch(at 3pm).He's locked in a room and visited by the superintendant(Geoffrey Hutchings)whose condescending chalkboard evaluation of his life seems to quiet the raging youth,at least until the aloof authoritarian vacates the room.
Sniffing glue,meh.We used to huff butane.
When it seems that their efforts are fruitless,Clive suggests he can fix it so that Trevor drives in the local bang up derby,which is effective until his car shits out on the track,causing the skin to regress back into the anarchic bastard we've grown used to.He steals Clive's keys,breaking into the filing cabinets with Errol,and reads his illiterate bunkmate his own grim record,which states he'll be in care for the rest of his life,due to his mother's selfish wishes.Both boys shit and piss on their files,then steal the centre's van,driving to the Paki neighbourhood,where they smash windows and shout racial slurs at the Indians before Trevor drives away and crashes into a police car right outside the station,knocking Errol unconscious.He flees the wreck,leaving Errol to be aprehended by an angry member of the constabulary,who drags him into the station,calling him a little black bastard.On the long walk to his social worker's flat,he stops to gaze upon a shop window full of mannekins,arranged into a pricetagged family unit,that sends him running and raging into a tunnel,where he tears off his t-shirt,kicking and screaming at passing WAN-KAAAAAAAAH!s,uhh,errr,passing motorists.Harry,surprised to see Trevor,as he is packing to leave on holiday with his family,tells the hooligan to return to the assesssment centre before they notice he's missing.Trev then confesses all of his recent naughtiness to the social worker,surrendering himself to the authorities.We next see the boy in a jail cell,annoying the officers with the buzzer,but when he cockily suggests they return him to the juvenile assessment centre,they inform him that he's run out of chances,and it's the stripey hole or borstal for him,where upon fingerprinting,the authorities will be able to connect him to local car thefts dating back months.Trevor remains defiant,which earns him a truncheon across the kneecap.Behave,you,or we'll make you do it,won't we?
What 'ave we 'ere? A fascist v. fascist standoff.
Roth stumbled upon the role,looking for a bike pump in a theater he'd worked in prior,that happened to be holding auditions for the project,and the rest,as they say,is history.The late Bill Stewart,who had a role in 101 Dalmations,will probably be remembered best for his role on BBC's A Touch of Frost.Eric Richard has had a long running career in television,most familiarly in ITV's The Bill.The late Alan Clarke went on to do several shorts and tv productions,directing 1989's The Firm,a take on football violence and Thatcherite politics that starred Gary Oldman,before passing away in 1990 at the early age of 54.His films,like 1977's Scum and tonight's entry,were a gritty look in at the side of the British fence where the flowers never came up,and have always been among my favorites.Some of you woprophiles might find Britain a tad harsh on the senses,but then again,if you're in my company to begin with,you'll probably get a well-placed kick out of it.Right in the yarbles.Four wops,and very highly recommended.
Oi,you!Leave it out,the angry skinhead lane doesn't open up 'til six am.
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