Patrick Harkins 2002 UK
Starring: Peter O’Toole, Aidan Gillen, Adrian Lester, Julia Sawalha, Patrick Malahide, Ralph Brown, Sally Dexter, Ian McNeice, Charles Simon, Mark Williams
As an actor Peter O'Toole is remembered for many things - desperate intensity, messianic fury, the ability to transcend even the poorest of material - but his capacity for fast-paced, waspish repartee would probably not be that high up the list. Born a generation too late for the screwball era he didn't get to put it into practice very often but on the rare occasions that he did he appeared to relish it. So it seems natural somehow to see him play a Bruce Forsyth-style entertainer who in actuality is a vicious, acid-tongued bastard. His name is James Jeremiah 'J.J' Curtis and, via hyperactive direction that veers between the main narrative, after-the-fact documentary and created stock footage, his origins are quickly revealed. After unspectacular stints as the backend of a pantomime horse and the third Black And White Minstrel from the left he got his big break in variety, stepping in to steal the show when the original headliner met with an unfortunate accident. His success makes it clear that he obviously had some talent but his career mostly advanced through luck and sheer bloody persistence. As the film starts he's viewed as everyone's favourite uncle, presiding over a game show best described as "a potent mix of family values and rampant materialism" with parents and children ("anally retentive, prissy, middle class wankers") on either side of his throne (what else?). Still fatally ambitious though, the megalomania of celebrity spews forth whenever he's off camera and he will stoop to any level and step on any number of people to get what he wants. At one point the makers dispense with any doubt about his morals (not to mention delicacy) and frame his face twisted with glee and bathed in the flames of a fireplace to the strains of Verdi's Dies Irae. Unfortunately his young rival, Dave Turner ("a mixture of Sid Vicious and Pee-wee Herman, genetically modified horseshit"), is every bit as unflinchingly cruel, hosting a Japanese-style programme in which contestants electrocute their significant other for varying periods of time - the higher the voltage, the bigger the prize - and setting new standards for obnoxious, coke-fuelled worthlessness. Also unfortunately the actor playing him, Aidan Gillen, chews the scenery with such vehemence that its only possible future use will be to build subtlety's highly flammable coffin. Indeed his performance is so howlingly bad that even when a deeper reason for Turner's hatred of JJ is revealed he's incapable of eliciting any sympathy. O'Toole fairs better with credible glimmers of grief, kindness and, in a cracking scene with a boy in search of an autograph, genuine gratitude towards his fans. As a result his JJ is a far more well-rounded and believable character than Turner the caricature ever is. The sole force for good (although not for long) is Jonathan Stitch, a novelist and unreliable narrator, talked into penning JJ's biography, telling himself and everyone else that he's not doing it for the money, and blackmailed into sticking around, although quite why is a mystery because the pair spend precious little time actually writing said book. As Stitch Adrian Lester is decent but carries a distinct air of constantly having to fight against John Hodge's increasingly unlikely Greek tragedy with passages torn out (the murderous finale even takes place inside a maze). O'Toole merely rises above it effortlessly. The film's largest and most disturbing failing however lays in its deplorable portrayal of women (all whores and doormats apparently) and particularly the character of Karen Willet, played by the underrated Julia Sawalha. Turner's assistant/pimp/pusher/slave, she's treated appallingly, exploited sexually and repeatedly pushed into criminality but no reason is ever given to explain why she puts up with it. She doesn't seek to improve her employer and she certainly isn't in love with him (Hodge mercifully spares us that), instead she simply accepts each indignity and does as she is told before being forgotten about altogether, seemingly not important enough to be allowed any form of revenge, redemption or even an end to her story. Thankfully this wasn't O'Toole's final curtain and he carried on for another decade, in the process making arguably the best film of his later years, 2006's Venus. It was a sensible choice because it made a significantly finer epitaph than this ever could have.PETER O'TOOLE
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