Grab a Pugh

 

© Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer / Film 4

 

When I hear the term ‘feel-good British comedy movie’, I usually want to hide inside a coal bin.  This is especially so when the film credits contain the words ‘Richard’ and ‘Curtis’.  Curtis’s cinematic oeuvre doesn’t leave me feeling good, but leaves me feeling sick: for example, Four Weddings and a Funeral (1994), Notting Hill (1998), the first two Bridget Jones films (2001 and 2004) and the absolutely vomit-inducing Love Actually (2003).

 

I have no intention of ever watching the new Curtis-scripted, Beatles-themed movie Yesterday (2019), even though it’s directed by Danny Boyle.  I suspect exposure to it would cause me to develop spewing, frothing, screaming, running-around symptoms similar to those of the people infected by the virus in Boyle’s 28 Days Later (2002).

 

That said, I did enjoy the recent British comedy-drama Fighting with my Family, which tells the story of Norwich-born World Wrestling Entertainment (WWE) female wrestler Saraya ‘Paige’ Bevis, played by the currently ubiquitous Florence Pugh.  Curtis has no connection with the film but it’s written and directed by another long-term member of Britain’s comedy establishment, Stephen Merchant, the former writing partner of Ricky Gervais.

 

Now Fighting with my Family is no masterpiece and its rags-to-riches tale is a very familiar one.  At the start, when Paige isn’t hurtling, bouncing and thudding around the ring in her family’s wrestling gym / independent wrestling-circuit venue, she’s mooching about the streets of Norwich in black eyeliner, facial piercings and unsunny goth-metal gear.  Then she gets a once-in-a-lifetime break at a WWE try-out at the O2 Arena, is selected and flown to the USA by wrestling promoter / coach Hutch Morgan (Vince Vaughan), is trained in the flashy and razzmatazz-y ways of the WWE and finally wins the WWE Divas Championship.  During the process she encounters hardships: like having to withstand the tough-love training of Morgan, who forces his charges to upend monster-truck tyres all the way along a beach; and the bitchiness of her fellow lady wrestler-trainees, who are ex-models, ex-dancers and ex-cheerleaders, are glammed up to 11 even at moments when they should be shedding sweat like garden sprinklers, and regard poor Paige as a refugee from a Halloween party.

 

The positive, life-affirming ending is never in doubt, though.  It couldn’t be – for Paige is a real wrestler, her remarkable story is well known and it’s already been chronicled in a 2012 Channel 4 documentary.

 

From www.j4jacket.com

 

But Fighting with My Family has some good things going for it, especially when you compare it with the lame British movies I ranted about in the opening paragraph.  For a start, it isn’t populated by poshos who, though they’re disgustingly wealthy – Hugh Grant’s character in Four Weddings hangs out with ‘the eighth richest man in England’ while Bridget Jones owns a massive studio flat in London while flitting off at weekends to her parents’ mansion in the Home Counties – we’re expected to feel sorry for because they can’t get laid and can’t get hitched.  Paige’s wrestling-fixated family – rumbustious multi-tattooed dad Patrick / Rowdy Richard (Nick Frost), rumbustious crimson-haired mum Julia / Sweet Saraya (Lena Headey), and more reflective brother Zac / Zodiac (Jack Lowther) – are a million miles removed from that.  They’re hardly what you’d call ordinary, but they’re definitely non-privileged.  They also interact and behave as a believable family unit.  Compare them with the characters in Four Weddings, who seem to have been thrown together purely for comic effect.  I’m sure that in real life the Hugh Grant character would have run a hundred miles rather than associate with a grizzled old ham like the one played by Simon Callow.

 

It’s nice too to have the British part of the film set outside London and the Home Counties, and set in a provincial centre like Norwich – where, incidentally, I lived in 2008 and 2009.  There’s some scenic shots of the town from Mousehold Heath and Norwich Market is shown in all its variegated glory.  Indeed, while I was watching the film with my better half and during a scene set in the market, I pointed excitedly at a particular market stall and exclaimed: “Look!  That’s where I bought my George A. Romero’s Dawn of the Dead T-shirt!”

 

And I like the fact that even by the end of the film, when Paige enjoys her moment of triumph, she doesn’t renounce her outsider status – she still embraces it.  Admittedly, there was a part earlier on where, in response to the jibes of her more glamorous American wrestling compadres, she dyes her hair blonde and tries to lighten her wardrobe.  I was worried that she was going to be like Ally Sheedy at the end of The Breakfast Club (1985), but thankfully this makeover is only temporary.  Paige’s cultural inclinations also mean that we get some decent music on the film’s soundtrack, including Motorhead’s Born to Raise Hell and Iron Maiden’s Bring Your Daughter to the Slaughter.  (If there’s anything I hate more than a Richard Curtis movie, it’s a Richard Curtis movie musical soundtrack, which consists of artists whom the filmmakers calculatingly consider ‘cool’ and ‘cutting edge’ at the time, like, er, Wet Wet Wet, Robbie Williams and Geri Halliwell, doing cover versions of famous songs by the Troggs, Frank Sinatra and the Weather Girls.  And even though Yesterday is about the Beatles, they’ve somehow managed to shoehorn Ed Sheerin into it.)

 

For all its feel-good fuzziness, there’s also some genuine emotional heft in Fighting with the Family’s storyline.  Paige’s brother Zac wrestles at the O2 Arena try-out too but, unlike her, fails to make the grade, returns to Norwich with his dreams of WWE stardom in flitters and faces an unplanned-for life of fatherhood, domesticity and drudgery.  This will strike a cord with anyone who has a talent and longs to make it big with that talent – but through not having enough talent, or just being unlucky, has to eventually resign themselves to a life of ordinariness.  What makes Zac’s dejection worse is the fact (obvious to everyone but himself) that he’s achieving as much, if not more than Paige, just by being his day-to-day self.  He runs his parents’ gym and gives wrestling lessons to a bunch of local kids who’d otherwise be getting mixed up with drugs and getting into trouble with the law.

 

© Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer / Film 4

 

One thing that stopped me being too cynical whilst watching Fighting with the Family is my inability to resist – try as I might – the crazed showmanship of the professional wrestling world.  When I was a kid, I was obsessed with the old British pro-wrestlers like Giant Haystacks, Mick McManus and Kendo Nagasaki.  Later, when I worked as a teacher in Japan, I discovered that all the Japanese kids were obsessed with Japanese pro-wrestlers – and it didn’t surprise me in the noughties that my nephews, when they were wee lads, were totally into the WWE.  Even today, when I’m in a pub and someone puts the WWE channel on the big TV screen, I try to ignore it but after a few minutes find myself watching it avidly.  It might seem a bombastic, over-the-top joke, but you can understand how Paige and her family are so infatuated by it and why her participation in the WWE is such a big deal for them.

 

Inevitably, Dwayne ‘the Rock’ Johnson (who also co-produced the movie) gets a walk-on part playing himself.  I have no objection to pro-wrestlers like the Rock turning up in films and acting, though I have to say that when it comes to wrestler-actors he (and indeed, Dave Bautista, Hulk Hogan, Jesse Ventura and the rest) isn’t fit to kiss the laced-up boots of the mighty Pat Roach or, indeed, Blood and Porridge-favourite Brian Glover.

 

One other thing – as far as I can determine, this is the second British comedy-sports movie that has featured Vince Vaughan as a hardnosed American promoter who comes to Britain and shakes up a cosy little sporting cottage industry.  He’s already played this type in the forgotten Mel Smith-directed Blackball (2003), also starring Paul Kaye, James Cromwell, Johnny Vegas and Bernard Cribbins, in which he tries to turn the sleepy British sport of lawn bowls into one of WWE-style loudness and brashness whilst repackaging Kaye’s character as ‘the bad boy of bowls’.

 

What next?  Will Vaughan make one more film in this vein and complete the trilogy?  I’d like to see him in a film where he travels to Scotland and tries to turn curling into a brutal and combative sport along the lines of rollerball.

 

© Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer / Film 4

 

Four ways to save the Great British rom-com

 

(c) Working Title Films / StudioCanal / Little Bird / Universal

 

Terrible news, folks.  According to a recent report in The Guardian, both British and global cinema-goers are falling out of love with the movie sub-genre that, for the past two decades, has been a profitable and prestigious staple of the British film industry (well, what’s left of it): the romantic comedy, aka the rom-com.

 

Sad though it is to report, the sub-genre, whose most celebrated British examples – 1994’s Four Weddings and a Funeral, 1999’s Notting Hill, 2001’s Bridget Jones’ Diary and 2003’s Love, Actually, all from the stable of Working Title Films and all with writer / director Richard Curtis at their helm – earned more than a billion dollars worldwide between them, is now out of favour with cinema audiences.  Recent British efforts like 2013’s I Give it a Year and Not Another Happy Ending, 2014’s Love, Rosie and 2015’s Man Up have barely earned a penny at the box office.  Indeed, I don’t think I’d even heard of those four films before I started researching this blog-entry.

 

http://www.theguardian.com/film/2015/jul/02/not-love-actually-british-romcoms-bridget-jones-relationship-go-so-wrong

 

Now regular readers of Blood and Porridge will know what an absolute, devoted fan I am of the Great British rom-com.  I worship at the Temple of Richard Curtis.  (I’ve built one in my back garden.)  And I sincerely believe that Hugh Grant is the greatest actor in world history.  Yes, other actors, like Marlon Brando and Sir Laurence Olivier, won more critical acclaim in their time; but when it comes to playing a posh and floppy-haired, but bumbling, self-deprecating and lovable Englishman, the likes of Brando and Olivier wouldn’t have been fit to kiss Hugh’s Paolo Vandini retro-Mod brogues.

 

And when I venture into a cinema, there is nothing guaranteed to fill me with more delight than a film about a posh, floppy-haired, self-deprecating, etc. Englishman who falls in love with and, in his bumbling way, tries to woo some unobtainable beauty, who’s usually American.  A film that has as its climax a desperate, but hilarious, race across London while the posh Englishman and his posh friends attempt to get to and disrupt a wedding ceremony in the nick of time.  A film that has a hilarious cameo appearance by Rowan Atkinson, who of course is famous around the world for playing that very funny man, Mr Bean.  A film that comes with a musical soundtrack consisting of such thrilling and cutting-edge artists as Geri Halliwell, Robbie Williams and Wet Wet Wet.

 

Therefore, to do my bit to save the Great British rom-com from artistic and financial oblivion, I will offer suggestions for some new British rom-coms – possible new movies that, while sticking to the familiar British rom-com formula that we all know and love, also introduce some fresh elements that might attract new cinema audiences.  I just hope Richard Curtis is reading this.  And making notes.

 

One.  Four Waterboardings and a Funeral

Hugh Grant plays Jack Bauer, a posh and floppy haired, but self-deprecating, bumbling and loveable agent of the Counter Terrorist Unit.  Whilst engaged in a desperate, but hilarious, 24-hour race against time to prevent Islamic terrorists from detonating a nuclear bomb in Los Angeles, he falls in love with and attempts to woo, in his bumbling way, an unobtainable beauty working for the CIA (Andie MacDowell), whom he encounters during four waterboarding-sessions with suspected terrorists in Afghanistan, Iraq, the Balkans and Guantanamo Bay.  It climaxes with a desperate, but hilarious, race across Los Angeles while Hugh and his posh friends in the Counter Terrorist Unit attempt to disarm the nuclear bomb and, more importantly, get to and disrupt Andie’s wedding ceremony in the nick of time.  Watch out for a hilarious cameo appearance by Rowan Atkinson playing that very funny terrorist, Osama Bean Laden.  (Mr Bean Laden’s impromptu burial-at-sea is the ‘funeral’ of the title.)

 

Two.  Rotting Hill

Hugh Grant plays a posh, floppy-haired, self-deprecating, etc. Englishman who falls in love with and, in his bumbling way, tries to woo the corpse of a dead American actress (Julia Roberts) in an upmarket neighbourhood of London.  It climaxes with a desperate, but hilarious, race across London while Hugh and his posh friends attempt to get to the crematorium and disrupt the dead actress’s funeral ceremony in the nick of time.  Watch out for a romantic sequence between Hugh and Julia while Wet Wet Wet sing a cover version of Alice Cooper’s I Love the Dead.

 

Three.  Love, Expendably

Just in time for Christmas!  A heart-warming smorgasbord of separate love stories set during the festive season, involving a variety of elderly 1980s action-movie heroes whose fates prove to be interlinked as the film progresses.  Terrorist mastermind Hans Gruber (Alan Rickman) is cheating on his partner (Bruce Willis) by having an affair with his secretary (Chuck Norris) at the office of his terrorist organisation – will Willis catch him out while he tries to buy from some Chechen arms dealers a jewel-encrusted AK-47 as a Christmas present for his new lover?  A kick-boxing mercenary (Jean Claude Van Damme) retires to a Belgian cottage for some Zen-type meditation where, gradually, he falls in love with his Italian housekeeper (Sylvester Stallone) despite the fact that Stallone can’t speak any English – can’t speak any sort of language, in fact.  And the SAS-trained Prime Minister of Great Britain (Jason Statham) has to stand up to the body-building US President (Arnold Schwarzenegger) after Schwarzenegger, during an official visit, makes some ungentlemanly comments about the flabby body of his aikido-practising tea-lady (Steven Seagal).  Watch out for a hilarious cameo appearance by Dolph Lundgren playing Mr Bean.

 

Four.  The Hu-Grant Centipede

A middle-aged English actor (Hugh Grant), driven insane by being typecast in lame British romantic comedies, hires a disreputable surgeon (Bill Nighy) to carry out an operation that will give vent to all his bitterness against the many British actors who have never suffered the indignity of appearing in such movies.  The surgeon stitches together Benedict Cumberbatch, Eddie Redmayne, James McAvoy, Christian Bale, Daniel Craig, Daniel Radcliffe, Ralph Fiennes, etc., in a human centipede, attached mouth-to-anus so that they have one super-long digestive tract.  Sewn on at the front of the centipede, meanwhile, is Richard Curtis.  This means that Grant’s rivals will have to swallow from Curtis all the crap that he’s had to swallow from Curtis over the years: posh and floppy-haired, but self-deprecating, bumbling and lovable Englishmen; unobtainable American beauties; desperate but hilarious races across London; cameo appearances by Mr Bean; and music by Geri Halliwell, Robbie Williams and Wet Wet Wet.

 

From www.digitalspy.co.uk

 

When songs and films collide

 

There are many reasons why I hate those Richard Curtis / Working Title romantic-comedy movies that over the past two decades have blighted British culture.  Four Weddings and a Funeral?  Bleeeuuurgh!  Notting Hill?  Double-bleeeuuurgh!  Love Actually?  Multi-bleeeuuurgh!  But one of my main reasons for hating them is their musical soundtracks.  More precisely, the calculating, predictable and sterile nature of their soundtracks – music that’s not been chosen with any artistic desire to complement the varying moods of the scenes onscreen, but chosen because it can also go on a lucrative aimed-at-the-lowest-common-denominator soundtrack / compilation album to tie in with the movie’s release.

 

For example, I can imagine Curtis and fellow writers Helen Fielding and Andrew Davies, director Sharon Maguire, producers Tim Bevan, Eric Fellner and Jonathan Cavendish, etc., sitting around discussing the music that they were going to bung onto the soundtrack of Bridget Jones’s Diary back in 2002.  “Okay, so this is about a woman called Bridget Jones.  Jones…  Miss Jones…  Hey, wait a minute!  Why don’t we use that old Frank Sinatra number Have You Met Miss Jones?  But hold on.  Frank Sinatra.  He’s a bit old… and dead.  He’d never appeal to the kids.  So let’s get someone young and cool and vital whom the kids really dig to record a new version of the song.  Someone cutting-edge.  Like…  Yes, Robbie Williams!”

 

And then: “So Bridget Jones is desperate to get hitched but she can’t find Mr Right.  She must wish it was raining men…  Hey, wait a minute!  Why don’t we use that old Weather Girls number It’s Raining Men?  But hold on.  The Weather Girls.  They’re a bit fat… and black.  They’d never appeal to the kids.  So let’s get someone young and cool and vital whom the kids really dig to do a new version of the song.  Someone cutting-edge.  Like…  Yes, Geri Halliwell!”

 

Cue £-signs pinging up inside Richard Curtis and company’s eyeballs.

 

On the other hand, and as somebody who loves both music and films, it’s a pleasure when I watch a movie and suddenly hear a song on the soundtrack that I didn’t expect.  The song isn’t there because it slotted neatly into a money-spinning soundtrack album to be released on the back of the film.  It’s there because someone involved in the film thought that it enhanced – however weirdly – what was happening in the film itself.  The result is a memorable musical / cinematic frisson.  (It helps if the song and the film are good, but occasionally I’ve heard a song I didn’t like turn up in the middle of a film I didn’t like either – and somehow the resulting juxtaposition has been hard to forget too.)

 

Here, then, are seven of my favourite instances when songs and films have collided unexpectedly and strangely – in a manner that’s simply beyond the range of Richard Curtis’s thought processes.

 

From medberths.com

(c) Colombia Pictures 

 

Duran Duran / The Layer Cake (2004)

“Ten years!” screams George Harris’s Morty character during the infamous café scene in the British gangster movie The Layer Cake.  Meanwhile, the strains of Duran Duran’s 1993 opus Ordinary World waft from a radio behind the café-counter.

 

Harris – who’s better known for playing Kingsley Shacklebolt in the Harry Potter movies – is not, as you might think, screaming about the fact that Duran Duran ushered in the New Romantic movement and ruined popular music in Britain for about ten years, i.e. the 1980s.  No, he’s screaming at sleazebag Freddie (Ivan Kaye) who’s just appeared and highlighted the fact that, thanks to him, Morty spent ten years in prison.  Morty proceeds to kick Freddie to a pulp on the café floor before emptying an industrial-sized pot of scalding tea over his head; while, all the time, Simon Le Bon warbles in the background about how he won’t cry for yesterday, about how he has to try to make his way to the ordinary wooo-ooo-ooorld.

 

No wonder the unnamed character played by Daniel Craig can only stand and watch from the side-lines, stunned.

 

Just as Stealer Wheel’s Stuck in the Middle with You has never sounded the same since Quentin Tarantino used it to accompany the ear-slicing scene in Reservoir Dogs in 1993, so the soppy, dreamy vibe of Duran Duran’s last big hit will be ruined forever if you watch The Layer Cake.  Instead of seeming soppy and dreamy, Ordinary World will become synonymous in your mind with excruciating violence, pain and rage.  Here’s the scene on Youtube, but be warned.  It might put you off your food – and your tea.

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k6WEatV1oEc

 

(c) Probe Plus

(c) Blueprint Pictures / Film4 / BFI

 

Half Man Half Biscuit / Seven Psychopaths (2012)

Martin McDonagh’s Seven Psychopaths is a black comedy set in and around Los Angeles.  It’s a phantasmagorical affair, populated by aspiring Hollywood scriptwriters, dog-kidnappers, gangsters, henchmen, molls and, yes, psychopaths.  It takes place against a backdrop of blue skies, wide boulevards, palm trees, swimming pools and – when the action moves out to the Joshua Tree National Park – looming rock formations and vast scrubby plains.

 

So it’s a surprise, in the midst of these sun-drenched Californian cityscapes and landscapes, to hear the chords of 1985’s Trumpton Riots – the first single off the debut album Back in the DHSS by Half Man Half Biscuit, the durable indie band from Birkenhead.  Since the 1980s the Biscuits have sung relentlessly surreal and sarcastic songs about the crapness of British popular culture and the crapness of British life generally.

 

Trumpton Riots tells a tale of violent insurrection in Trumpton, the cosy English village depicted in the much-loved 1967 BBC animated kids’ programme of the same name: “Someone get a message through to Captain Snort / That they’d better start assembling the boys from the Fort / And keep Mrs Honeyman out of sight / ‘Cos there’s going to be a riot down in Trumpton tonight.”  Which is as far away from LA swimming pools and the Joshua Tree National Park as you can get.

 

From gunshyassassin.com

(c) Warner Brothers

 

Cannibal Corpse / Ace Ventura: Pet Detective (1994)

Adam Sandler may be the modern bête noir when it comes to irritating screen presences.  But even Sandler at his worst is small beer compared to the wincing painfulness that was Jim Carrey in his early movie career – he was immensely annoying in supposed comedies like Ace Ventura: Pet Detective, The Mask and Dumber and Dumber (all 1994).  Mind you, he did get better later on, in the likes of The Truman Show (1998) and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (2004).

 

The grimly unfunny (and transphobic) Ace Ventura would have left my consciousness a nanosecond after it’d entered my consciousness if it wasn’t for one curious scene where Carrey / Ventura blunders into a live concert – and the band onstage is none other than the legendary American death metal band Cannibal Corpse, who’re performing a song with the memorable title Hammer Smashed Face.  Carrey, wearing a multi-coloured shirt that’s louder than anything coming from the speakers, goofs around and behaves like a dick for a minute.  Then he gets flung off the premises.  Good.

 

From www.blogs.houstonpress.com

(c) United Artists

 

Sisters of Mercy / Showgirls (1995)

Directed by Paul Verhoeven, written by Joe Eszterhas and regarded as one of the worst films of the 1990s, the tits-crazy Showgirls is, actually, a fitting movie for the city in which most of its action takes place, Las Vegas.  Like Vegas, it’s flashy, shallow, dumb, vulgar, materialistic and soulless.

 

I’m sure that Andrew Eldritch, who depending on your point of view is either the creative genius or the arrogant git in charge of the seminal, operatic and grandiose 1980s / 1990s goth band the Sisters of Mercy, would not care to have the adjectives flashy, shallow, dumb, vulgar, materialistic or soulless applied to his music.  So I often wonder if Andrew ever strolled into his local multiplex in 1995 and settled down in the front row with a bucket of popcorn to watch Showgirls.  And, if he did, how he felt when he discovered that his record company had given United Artists permission to use the 1990 Sisters of Mercy song Vision Thing during Showgirls’ opening scenes, when heroine Elizabeth Berkley is shown hitchhiking to Las Vegas.

 

I’ll bet he wasn’t chuffed.

 

(c) Acid Jazz

(c) DNA Films

 

Matt Berry / Dredd (2012)

The Pete Travis-directed, Alex Garland-scripted Dredd, based on the Judge Dredd strip in the British comic 2000AD, is not a movie you’d take your granny to – unless your granny has a penchant for hyper-violent, grimy, monosyllabic, sleazebag-populated, fascistic, dystopian-future bloodbaths where civilians are blasted apart with cannons and villains burst messily after being dropped off a very high skyscraper.  But what should pop up in the middle of Dredd’s mayhem but the theme song for the short-lived BBC comedy series Snuff Box, sung by the congenial folk / progressive / pop-rock singer (and comic actor) Matt Berry?

 

A jaunty little number, with synthesisers chugging pleasantly in the background, the Snuff Box theme is what big-bad-villainess Lena Headey’s techie henchman (played by Domhnall Gleason) is listening to in her HQ at the top of the skyscraper.  This contrast between the musically winsome and the cinematically brutal is jarring – it’s like having The Clangers make an appearance in the middle of Alien (1979).  But it’s also rather sweet.

 

From www.freeradio.co.uk

(c) BFI / Film4

 

Deacon Blue / Under the Skin (2014)

It may not be fashionable to say so now, but once upon a time I liked the poppy Glaswegian soul band Deacon Blue.  At least, I liked their debut album, 1986’s Raintown.  Unfortunately, it was a song off their less-good second album in 1989, one called Real Gone Kid, that became the template for their sound – i.e. clodhopping keyboards and vocalist Lorraine McIntosh going “Whooh-whooh-whooh!” like a stuttering factory whistle.  That Boots-the-Chemist has used Real Gone Kid as the jingle for its ubiquitous TV adverts over the past year or so hasn’t helped Deacon Blue’s reputation, either.

 

And last year, Real Gone Kid was heard on the soundtrack of the dark, unsettling, Scottish-set science fiction thriller Under the Skin, starring Scarlet Johansson.  This is especially weird considering that the rest of the film’s soundtrack consists of the flesh-crawling work of Mica Levi, with violin-strings squirming and seething like a pit full of snakes and scorpions.

 

Even more weirdly, the film suggests that exposure to Real Gone Kid helps Johansson’s character – a murderous alien who’s beginning to rebel against her programming – become a little more human.  When she hears the song on a radio, it kindles homo-sapiens emotions in her and she starts tapping her fingers in time to it in a homo-sapiens way.  To be honest, that part of Under the Skin seemed less like science fiction and more like fantasy.

 

From thequietus.com

(c) Studiocanal / Film4 / Rook Pictures

 

Frankie Goes to Hollywood / Sightseers (2012)

After dominating the British charts in 1984 with Relax – spending five weeks at number one after the BBC refused to give it airplay – and Two Tribes – a whopping nine weeks at number one – Frankie Goes to Hollywood blew everything by releasing saccharine ballad The Power of Love at Christmas-time.  It reached number one again, briefly, but it wrecked the band’s credibility.  Particularly problematic was the accompanying video, which consisted of Nativity scenes.  These scenes had zero to do with the lyrics and was obviously designed to sell it as a ‘festive’ song.

 

Having always regarded The Power of Love as crass and clunking, then, I was surprised when it turned up at the end of Ben Wheatley’s 2012 black comedy Sightseers – an eccentric and beguiling film that’s best described as a cross between Alan Bennett and Natural Born Killers (1994).  Shorn of the nonsensical Christmas-y imagery and transposed into a very different context, The Power of Love is actually affecting.  It even inspires a lump in the throat while it plays out over the fate of the film’s hero and heroine, played by Steve Oram and Alice Lowe, two north-of-England oddballs in love with caravanning, hillwalking, dog-walking, wearing woolly hats, visiting National Trust properties and serial killing.