I always had a soft spot for this film for reasons rather intangible. It possesses that unmistakable 80's energy visible of a pre-ADHD era and a colour & style palate that not only screams at you but effectively bludgeons you over the head for extra measure. If you want to know what this film is about, it's all up there on screen.
Unfortunately the visual vivacity does not extend to the script. In fact it outpaces the script, literally teasing it to catch up, and in the rare moments it does you're reminded exactly why it doesn't work. Somewhere in there is a story of young love torn apart, set against a background of rising fascism engineered by opportunistic property developers seeking to gentrify what's more or less a somewhat idealised version of a 50's London working class multicultural neighbourhood where everyone is poor but still able to dress stylishly and emanate urban cool. In other words "Slum chic". Temple just doesn't have the talent to manage it properly and at times it feels like one is watching two or three completely separate films. This feeling is most jarring during the complete lack of transition between the supposedly intertwining film plots. Instead of flow you get the abrupt introduction of a musical number and one that usually doesn't feel like it bears any resemblance to the scene you watched 5 seconds before. It feels like papering over the cracks primarily due to a complete lack of ideas as to how to properly hang it all together.
That said some of the musical interludes are fantastic. Particularly enjoyable is Ray Davies lamenting his home life in the middle of a superb three level set from the bottom floor kitchen to the top floor attic, complete with nagging unfaithful wife (played by Mandy Rice Davies, there are many great cameos for film, music and history nerds to enjoy spotting), a lothario boarder and a energetically masturbating sex obsessed teenage boy.
The performances are generally fine. I liked Eddie O'Connell tho it appears the complete box office failure put paid to any chance of a burgeoning film career as, other than the odd British TV series episode over the years, his place in the acting universe has become that of a rather minor character actor. Patsy Kensit does what she can but her role is tossed about on the confused whims of the director and screenplay more than any other, so it's no wonder that she comes across as emotionally unstable and I'm not entirely sure it's all down to her acting. Btw her name in the film is Crepe Suzette and that's far too easy to belittle so I won't.
I've always been a big fan of the greatly underrated late Anita Morris and she does a role she can do in her sleep more than adequately. I'm also a big fan of 80's era Bowie (my formative teenage years) but his American accent is like a forced pastiche of every movie trailer voice-over guy you've ever heard. It's pretty awful.
My favourite part of the film is the opening scene which is a wonder of marvellous choreography set amongst a magnificent urban set (obviously constructed inside a studio). The camera tracks our narrator and main character as he weaves in and out of streets, stores and alleyways, surrounded by the activity of probably a couple of hundred actors, musicians and dancers interspersed with moving vehicles of multiple types. It lasts for a good couple of minutes and it's a wonderful sequence. The The problem is it raises the viewer expectation level for the rest of the movie, something it simply fails to achieve.
It's a film that seems like it's trying very hard to be an inner London West Side Story, set in an 80's ideal of what the 50's "should have been like". In that respect it almost feels like a companion piece to Streets of Fire, a mythical mostly recognisable land that isn't really here, especially given both films share a vaguely similar musical backbone (tho Streets does it better). Despite this it's still a remarkable curiosity that in the hands of a better filmmaker could have been a pleasant memory for many more than the few who bought a ticket to see it. As it is it's a colourful gaudy confused mess with the energy to power 10 films.
Unfortunately the visual vivacity does not extend to the script. In fact it outpaces the script, literally teasing it to catch up, and in the rare moments it does you're reminded exactly why it doesn't work. Somewhere in there is a story of young love torn apart, set against a background of rising fascism engineered by opportunistic property developers seeking to gentrify what's more or less a somewhat idealised version of a 50's London working class multicultural neighbourhood where everyone is poor but still able to dress stylishly and emanate urban cool. In other words "Slum chic". Temple just doesn't have the talent to manage it properly and at times it feels like one is watching two or three completely separate films. This feeling is most jarring during the complete lack of transition between the supposedly intertwining film plots. Instead of flow you get the abrupt introduction of a musical number and one that usually doesn't feel like it bears any resemblance to the scene you watched 5 seconds before. It feels like papering over the cracks primarily due to a complete lack of ideas as to how to properly hang it all together.
That said some of the musical interludes are fantastic. Particularly enjoyable is Ray Davies lamenting his home life in the middle of a superb three level set from the bottom floor kitchen to the top floor attic, complete with nagging unfaithful wife (played by Mandy Rice Davies, there are many great cameos for film, music and history nerds to enjoy spotting), a lothario boarder and a energetically masturbating sex obsessed teenage boy.
The performances are generally fine. I liked Eddie O'Connell tho it appears the complete box office failure put paid to any chance of a burgeoning film career as, other than the odd British TV series episode over the years, his place in the acting universe has become that of a rather minor character actor. Patsy Kensit does what she can but her role is tossed about on the confused whims of the director and screenplay more than any other, so it's no wonder that she comes across as emotionally unstable and I'm not entirely sure it's all down to her acting. Btw her name in the film is Crepe Suzette and that's far too easy to belittle so I won't.
I've always been a big fan of the greatly underrated late Anita Morris and she does a role she can do in her sleep more than adequately. I'm also a big fan of 80's era Bowie (my formative teenage years) but his American accent is like a forced pastiche of every movie trailer voice-over guy you've ever heard. It's pretty awful.
My favourite part of the film is the opening scene which is a wonder of marvellous choreography set amongst a magnificent urban set (obviously constructed inside a studio). The camera tracks our narrator and main character as he weaves in and out of streets, stores and alleyways, surrounded by the activity of probably a couple of hundred actors, musicians and dancers interspersed with moving vehicles of multiple types. It lasts for a good couple of minutes and it's a wonderful sequence. The The problem is it raises the viewer expectation level for the rest of the movie, something it simply fails to achieve.
It's a film that seems like it's trying very hard to be an inner London West Side Story, set in an 80's ideal of what the 50's "should have been like". In that respect it almost feels like a companion piece to Streets of Fire, a mythical mostly recognisable land that isn't really here, especially given both films share a vaguely similar musical backbone (tho Streets does it better). Despite this it's still a remarkable curiosity that in the hands of a better filmmaker could have been a pleasant memory for many more than the few who bought a ticket to see it. As it is it's a colourful gaudy confused mess with the energy to power 10 films.