A former film critic has chucked it in and now reviews movies before either of you have seen them.
There was a time not so long ago - well, actually, yes, about 20 years ago - when life in England was a simple tapestry of snorkel parkas, 'Love Thy Neighbour', British Bulldog, 10 CC and Wimpy Bar brunches, and the noble game of football was about character and characters such as Nobby Stiles (Stee-les), Peter 'The Cat' Bonetti and Norman 'Bites Yer Legs' Hunter.
These were heydays of Charlie George's preposterous sideburns and Bobby Charlton's gossamer 'swoop'; of The Big Match on lazy Sunday afternoons and Brian Clough's big mouth every other day of the week.
Football then was about heroism and jingoism and beating Germany - but today it is about capitalism and postmodernism and the Soho soccerati. It is also about sponsorship, nostalgia, designer wear, drug abuse (as opposed to good old-fashioned boozing and swanning around town with dolly-bird crumpet), Nick Hornby and A Question of Fucking Sport.
Back in 1979 - and before he took on the mantle of loveable ruffian antiques dealer cum coiffured ponce, Lovejoy - Ian McShane starred in a crap football film called 'Yesterday's Hero'. Of course it was rubbish but at least it was quality, working class aspirational, rise-and-fall-and-rise-type-thing rubbish, not tainted by sociological or cultural subtexts and containing no other message than 'excessive boozing and a successful footballing career do not go hand in hand'.
The other notable British football movie of recent times was 'Escape to Victory' (1981) which was significant in one respect only: the film marked both an ignominious end to Pele's marvellous life in football and an abortive start to Bobby Moore's acting career. It also starred Sylvester Stallone as a goal-keeper, which added a new dimension to the footballing expression 'came off the woodwork'.
Which brings me to 'When Saturday Comes', a film that looks awful enough to have been made in 1973. The 'stars' are Sean Bean - the thinking crumpet's bit o' rough, and Emily Lloyd, the thinking rough's bit o' crumpet and, frankly, both should have known better. Well, Mr Bean at least. Emily Lloyd, by some bizarre twist of fate, is always worse than the films she appears in.
I think the movie is probably about a working class hooligan who sees a way out of his drab life in a Northern town by playing professional football but who blows his one chance of escape by going overboard on the fornication, stroke, boozing front. Or maybe he manages to redeem himself before the ninety minutes are up. Who cares? I suspect that when Saturday does actually come, I shall be watching 'A Week in Politics' or food shopping in the local Budgens. No oranges and an early bath. Nil Nil
A colleague of mine walks her dog on Hampstead Heath with Ralph Fiennes' second cousin. I mention this seemingly useless piece of information because it adds weight to my suspicion that the actor in question has undiluted blue blood. (He is also related to Sir Ranulph Fiennes, the barmy explorer turned barmy author.)
This would be (and probably still is) quite irrelevant but for the fact that Ralph Fiennes' film career to date is based on playing scumbags and low-lifes: a gyppo foundling in 'Wuthering Heights'; an unreconstructed Nazi in 'Schindler's List'; an Aryan cheat in 'Quiz Show'; and a sleazeball peddler of artificial highs in 'Strange Days'. So what? Well, his crappy accents for a start - although such fakery was never a problem for arch-thespian, Jeremy Irons. The point I'm making is that Ralph (Ray-f as in strafe, not Ralph as in Ralph Macchio, 'The Karate Kid' (I -III) or Ralph Malph from 'Happy days') Fiennes playing a down-at-heel LA ex-cop turned dealer, is about as convincing as... Harvey Keitel playing Frank Spencer. Oh well, Branagh got away with it in 'Dead Again'. (He didn't, actually, but nobody apart from me seemed to notice or care.)
Anyway, this film is probably half decent since it is produced and directed by James Cameron and ex-wife Kathryn Bigelow respectively and features the fine actor, Angela Bassett - last seen playing Tina Turner in 'What's Love Got to Do With It'. (This latter performance was especially impressive as Tina Turner is, herself, a mythical concoction of pancake make-up, prosthetics, padding, stilts and wigs - under all of which exists, I believe, an old aged pensioner. A definite case of 'mutton dressed as spam'.)
If you can stomach yet another predictable Gibsonesque vision of dystopia and post-'Blade Runner' urban chaos and degeneration, centring around fin de siecle Los Angeles (where else?), then this movie is for you. If on the other hand, like me, the future looks more like Croydon on a Sunday evening (around the TV God-slot), I would give the film a miss and try 'Loch Ness' instead. Ted Danson's hairpiece? Now that's what I call STRANGE. 0 out of 10
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